"Nevertheless, I prefer even that to the loneliness of this place. Besides, I might perhaps manage to conceal the difference in my form from those of men."
The stable-valet shook his head doubtfully. "Too much handicapped!" he murmured.
"I might adopt a false name!" cried the Centaur, with a sudden inspiration.
The idea took the stable-valet unawares. "Ah! there's something in that tip!" he said, half persuaded.
"I will—I'll find one at once: and that'll break the neck of the whole difficulty! I have it—I'll call myself Hay—Andrew P. Hay. See?—Hay retains enough of my ancestral name; the Philip I'll retain as a reminder of my duty toward my race; while the Andrew will assert the manhood of part of me—eh?"
"Ye—es," said Raiboskeles, reflecting, "I think I'll befriend that dodge at commanding prices." This Rhodochroon Hen phraseology was oppressive at times; but his heart was in the right place.
"Let us hail a steamer somehow," cried the Centaur (whom we will henceforth call Andrew P. Hay).
The valet stood for a moment plunged in thought, smacking his bare leg with an olive-twig; then he said:—
"You'll have to travel as a gee. Half a sec!"
