CHAPTER VI
THE WASTER'S REFUGE
“I say, you blessed Colonial, what's come over you?” Linklater was obviously disturbed. He had just returned from a summer's yachting through the Norway fjords, brown and bursting with life. The last half-hour he had been pouring forth his experiences to his friend Martin. These experiences were some of them exciting, some of them of doubtful ethical quality, but all of them to Linklater at least interesting. During the recital it was gradually borne in upon him that his friend Martin was changed. Linklater, as the consciousness of the change in his friend grew upon him, was prepared to resent it. “What the deuce is the matter with you?” he enquired. “Are you ill?”
“Never better. I could at this present moment sit upon your fat and florid carcass.”
“Well, what then is wrong? I say, you haven't—it isn't a girl, is it?”
“Nothing so lucky for a bloomin' Colonial in this land of wealth and culture. If I only dared!”
“There's something,” insisted Linklater; “but I've no doubt it will develop. Meantime let us go out, and, in your own picturesque vocabulary, let us 'hit the flowing bowl.'”
“No, Sir!” cried Martin emphatically. “No more! I am on the water wagon, and have been all summer.”
“I knew it was something,” replied Linklater gloomily, “but I didn't think it was quite so bad as that. No wonder you've had a hard summer!”