“Don’t mention it, old chap! They don’t cotton much to cards out here, I notice.”
He wrung Phil’s hand heartily.
A little cord was hanging round Percival Hannington’s neck and led to a top pocket of his vest. Phil felt positive it terminated in a monocle and, as the stranger’s fingers wandered down the cord, Phil, in his dread 69 of what was about to happen, laid his hand restrainingly over the travelling fingers.
“Don’t!” he pleaded. “They don’t cotton to that, either, out here.”
The stranger flushed a little.
“By jove,––you’re right. Thanks! Habits are beastly things, you know. Better rid myself of all my old ties if I’m to start afresh, eh!”
He pulled out the monocle, jerked the cord from his neck, snapped the glass between his fingers and tossed the lot into the roadway.
Something in the spontaneous act went to Phil’s heart and he felt from that moment that here was a man he could like despite his strange exterior.
They passed through the bar of the Kenora, which was the only way one could get admittance to that hotel unless by the back door among empty cans and kitchen garbage. The strange apparition of the Englishman reduced everyone in the saloon to funereal silence. Phil bravely led the way, however, without mishap, except for a distant shout of laughter which reached them at the dining-room.
Phil spoke to the hotel clerk, who shouted for the bell boy.