The man’s wide sombrero was battered, his stock around his neck was dirty, the brass buttons on his robin-redbreast waistcoat were dull and tarnished, his riding breeches and leggings seemed sworn enemies of brush and polish. But despite all this, one could not get away from the fact that everything the man wore was of the very best and most expensive materials.
He stepped up in front of Phil apologetically. His voice was attractively musical and exceedingly English.
“Excuse me, old chap! I’m a stranger here. I’m deuced dirty and devilish hungry. Do you mind directing me to a good hotel where I could get a wash and a jolly good tuck in?”
“Certainly,” said Phil. “I think the Kenora’s all right. I’m going that way myself for a snack, if you care to come along.”
“Thanks! Jolly decent! Don’t mind if I do!”
He turned with Phil, and as they went on together he took a little silver case from his pocket and handed a card to Phil.
“My name! What’s yours?”
Phil scanned the card and smiled.
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Percival DeRue Hannington The Oaks Mount Raeburn Hants |
“Sorry I haven’t a card,” he said. “My name’s Ralston, Phil Ralston.”