Pelican Pool: A Novel

by Sydney Loch

"Hey?" cried the old man in a sudden excitement. He was beating his stick at the distance.

. . . . . . .

The five goose-rumped horses, in a lather of sweat, and chastened with a great following of flies and dust clouds, had lumbered the coach to the top of the last rise, and the first tents of Surprise, and the poppet heads of the mine were marching into view, as Mrs. Selwyn stated for the third time on the journey that she did not know whether she was on her crown or her toes. From the box seat, Joe Gantley, mailman, steered his team with bored fingers, jerking his head to the right now and then to clear his throat, and spitting the flies from his lips on occasion in an every-day sort of way. Selwyn and Mrs. Selwyn were packed beside him, where the sun leaned down, the dust climbed up, and there was perpetual prospect of heaving flanks and clicking hoofs.

Mrs. Selwyn had come to the struggle in a dust coat and a veil of many folds; and in face of a hundred difficulties that massive woman had lost no jot of dignity, remaining to the end a most inspiring spectacle.

Selwyn had made the best of a bad place at the end of the row. By a judicious play of elbow and hip he had widened his share of matters, and now could lean a little easier and find a bit of support for the hollow of his back. He had grown shabby from the funnel of dust rising from the top of the wheel, but he was not a man to be put about by small matters, as he was always very ready to let you know.

Hilton Selwyn, a director of the Surprise Copper Mining Company, and gentleman of no other special business, was at this time between fifty and fifty-five, but lean and active in spite of middle age. Cleancut in feature, upright in carriage, he suggested the military man, and his youthful step would have passed him as any age. It was only on discovery of the thinned grey hair and close-clipped tobacco-stained moustache that one understood half a century had gone over his head.

Half a century had gone over his head and health had become treacherous. He could crawl through a swamp at dawn on the chance of an odd teal, and come home to a thumping breakfast; but two minutes weeding in the garden brought on sciatica. Similarly he could stand all day in a drizzle of rain persuading a trout to rise, and more than one biting July breakfast-time had found him half naked worming a way across the lawn of his country place to a flock of pigeon feeding in the timber; but indoors his only seat was right over the fire, where he took the warmth from everybody—as Mrs. Selwyn was often good enough to tell him.

It was to get himself into better fettle that he sought the present change of scene. He woke up one evening of last winter from his after-dinner sleep in the best arm-chair. The waking up was a delicate matter. He gave two long drawn-out yawns. He shot a fist into the air and stretched slowly, rolled himself into a sitting position, blinked once or twice, screwed up his face as though he had a bad taste in the mouth, caught hold of the mantelpiece and pulled himself on to his legs. He rocked about a little, screwed up his face again, and at last quite woke up. His hair was like a storm at sea, his tie was crooked, his dress clothes were creased.

In the manner of a man announcing news of deep interest he spoke:

"I feel a little better now. I think I deserve a cigarette." He felt in his pockets for his cigarette case. He looked on the floor, in the fender, and under the cushions of the arm-chair. "Dear me! Where's my cigarette case?"