“Confound it, no! I’d never get them on again!”
“Okay. If you get hungry ask for room service.” I knelt to go to work on another niche, and made it long enough to stow the knapsacks at my head. When I was in and had myself arranged, facing outward, I called to Wolfe, “There’s a faint pink glow in the east across the valley, ten miles away, above the Albanian Alps. Swell scenery.” No reply. I shut my eyes. Birds were singing.
VII
My first daylight view of Montenegro, some eight hours later, when I rolled out of the niche and stepped to the corner of the haystack, had various points of interest. Some ten miles off my port bow as I stood, a sharp peak rose high above the others. It had to be Mount Lovchen, the Black Mountain, so that was northwest, and the sun agreed. To the east was the wide green valley, and beyond it more mountains, in Albania. To the south, some two hundred yards off, was a clump of trees with a house partly showing. To the southwest was Nero Wolfe. He was in his niche, motionless, his eyes wide open, glaring at me.
“Good morning,” I told him.
“What time is it?” he demanded. He sounded hoarse.
I looked at my wrist. “I should have said afternoon. Twenty to two. I’m hungry and thirsty.”
“No doubt.” He closed his eyes and in a moment opened them again. “Archie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is not a question of muscles. My legs ache, of course, and my back; indeed, I ache all over; but that was to be expected and can be borne. What concerns me is my feet. They carry nearly a hundredweight more than yours; they have been pampered for years; and I may have abused them beyond tolerance. They must be rubbed, but I dare not take off my shoes. They are dead. My legs end at my knees. I doubt if I can stand, and I couldn’t possibly walk. Do you know anything about gangrene?”