“This is not the place to preach the theory of direct inspiration,” said the Nilghai, returning Torpenhow's large and workmanlike bellows to their nail on the wall. “We believe in cobblers' wax. La!—where you sit down.”
“If you weren't so big and fat,” said Dick, looking round for a weapon, “I'd——”
“No skylarking in my rooms. You two smashed half my furniture last time you threw the cushions about. You might have the decency to say How d'you do? to Binkie. Look at him.”
Binkie had jumped down from the sofa and was fawning round Dick's knee, and scratching at his boots.
“Dear man!” said Dick, snatching him up, and kissing him on the black patch above his right eye. “Did ums was, Binks? Did that ugly Nilghai turn you off the sofa? Bite him, Mr. Binkie.” He pitched him on the Nilghai's stomach, as the big man lay at ease, and Binkie pretended to destroy the Nilghai inch by inch, till a sofa cushion extinguished him, and panting he stuck out his tongue at the company.
“The Binkie-boy went for a walk this morning before you were up, Torp. I saw him making love to the butcher at the corner when the shutters were being taken down—just as if he hadn't enough to eat in his own proper house,” said Dick.
“Binks, is that a true bill?” said Torpenhow, severely. The little dog retreated under the sofa cushion, and showed by the fat white back of him that he really had no further interest in the discussion.
“Strikes me that another disreputable dog went for a walk, too,” said the Nilghai. “What made you get up so early? Torp said you might be buying a horse.”
“He knows it would need three of us for a serious business like that. No, I felt lonesome and unhappy, so I went out to look at the sea, and watch the pretty ships go by.”
“Where did you go?”