“Oh, I suppose you'd like to hear me string out a lot of damns.”
“Well, it might help. I wouldn't feel quite so lonely. But don't violate—”
“I'd do it if I thought it would really increase your comfort, though I know I'd feel like an infernal ass. I've got new light upon this 'damning' business. I've come to regard it as the refuge of the mentally inert, not to say imbecile, who have lost the capacity for originality and force in speech. For me, I am cured.”
“Ah!” said Linklater. “Dunn again, I suppose.”
“Not a bit! Clear case of psychological reaction. After listening to the Canongate experts I was immediately conscious of an overwhelming and mortifying sense of inadequacy, of amateurishness; hence I quit. Besides, of course, the chief is making rather a point of uplifting the Canongate forms of speech.”
Linklater gazed steadily at this friend, then said with mournful deliberation, “You don't drink, you don't swear, you don't smoke—”
“Oh, that's your grouch, is it?” cried Martin. “Forgive me; here's my pouch, old chap; or wait, here's something altogether finer than anything you've been accustomed to. I was at old Kingston's last night, and the old boy would have me load up with his finest. You know I've been working with him this summer. Awfully fine for me! Dunn got me on; or rather, his governor. There you are now! Smoke that with reverence.”
“Ah,” sighed Linklater, as he drew in his first whiff, “there is still something left to live for. Now tell me, what about Cameron?”
“Oh, Cameron! Cameron's all up a tree. The last time I saw him, by Jove, I was glad it was in the open daylight and on a frequented street. His face and manner suggested Roderick Dhu, The Black Douglas, and all the rest of that interesting gang of cutthroats. I can't bring myself to talk of Cameron. He's been the old chief's relaxation during dog-days. It makes me hot to see Dunn with that chap.”
“Why, what's the trouble?”