“Me, too,” said Cousin Egbert. “I didn’t know how to say it in French.”
“The Reverend held me down,” continued the Tuttle person. “‘A glass of native wine,’ he says, ‘may perhaps be taken now and then without harm.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘leave us have ales, wines, liquors, and cigars,’ I says, but not him. I’d get a thimbleful of elderberry wine or something about every second Friday, except when I’d duck out the side door of a church and find some caffy. Here, George, foomer, foomer—bring us some seegars, and then stay on that spot—I may want you.”
“Well, well!” said Cousin Egbert again, as if the meeting were still incredible.
“You old stinging-lizard!” responded the other affectionately. The cigars were brought and I felt constrained to light one.
“The State of Washington needn’t ever get nervous over the prospect of losing me,” said the Tuttle person, biting off the end of his cigar.
I gathered at once that the Americans have actually named one of our colonies “Washington” after the rebel George Washington, though one would have thought that the indelicacy of this would have been only too apparent. But, then, I recalled, as well, the city where their so-called parliament assembles, Washington, D. C. Doubtless the initials indicate that it was named in “honour” of another member of this notorious family. I could not but reflect how shocked our King would be to learn of this effrontery.
Cousin Egbert, who had been for some moments moving his lips without sound, here spoke:
“I’m going to try it myself,” he said. “Here, Charley, veesky-soda! He made me right off,” he continued as the waiter disappeared. “Say, Jeff, I bet I could have learned a lot of this language if I’d had some one like you around.”
“Well, it took me some time to get the accent,” replied the other with a modesty which I could detect was assumed. More acutely than ever was I conscious of a psychic warning to separate these two, and I resolved to act upon it with the utmost diplomacy. The third whiskey and soda was served us.
“Three rousing cheers!” said Cousin Egbert.
“Here’s looking at you!” said the other, and I drank. When my glass was drained I arose briskly and said:
“I think we should be getting along now, sir, if Mr. Tuttle will be good enough to excuse us.” They both stared at me.
“Yes, sir—I fancy not, sir,” said Cousin Egbert.
“Stop your kidding, you fat rascal!” said the other.
“Old Bill means all right,” said Cousin Egbert, “so don’t let him irritate you. Bill’s our new hired man. He’s all right—just let him talk along.”
“Can’t he talk setting down?” asked the other. “Does he have to stand up every time he talks? Ain’t that a good chair?” he demanded of me. “Here, take mine,” and to my great embarrassment he arose and offered me his chair in such a manner that I felt moved to accept it. Thereupon he took the chair I had vacated and beamed upon us, “Now that we’re all home-folks, together once more, I would suggest a bit of refreshment. Boy, veesky-soda!”
“I fancy so, sir,” said Cousin Egbert, dreamily contemplating me as the order was served. I was conscious even then that he seemed to be studying my attire with a critical eye, and indeed he remarked as if to himself: “What a coat!” I was rather shocked by this, for my suit was quite a decent lounge-suit that had become too snug for the Honourable George some two years before. Yet something warned me to ignore the comment.
“Three rousing cheers!” he said as the drink was served.
“Here’s looking at you!” said the Tuttle person.
And again I drank with them, against my better judgment, wondering if I might escape long enough to be put through to Mrs. Floud on the telephone. Too plainly the situation was rapidly getting out of hand, and yet I hesitated. The Tuttle person under an exterior geniality was rather abrupt. And, moreover, I now recalled having observed a person much like him in manner and attire in a certain cinema drama of the far Wild West. He had been a constable or sheriff in the piece and had subdued a band of armed border ruffians with only a small pocket pistol. I thought it as well not to cross him.
When they had drunk, each one again said, “Well! well!”
“You old maverick!” said Cousin Egbert.
“You—dashed—old horned toad!” responded his friend.
“What’s the matter with a little snack?”
“Not a thing on earth. My appetite ain’t been so powerful craving since Heck was a pup.”
These were their actual words, though it may not be believed. The Tuttle person now approached his cabman, who had waited beside the curb.
“Say, Frank,” he began, “Ally restorong,” and this he supplemented with a crude but informing pantomime of one eating. Cousin Egbert was already seated in the cab, and I could do nothing but follow. “Ally restorong!” commanded our new friend in a louder tone, and the cabman with an explosion of understanding drove rapidly off.
“It’s a genuine wonder to me how you learned the language so quick,” said Cousin Egbert.
“It’s all in the accent,” protested the other. I occupied a narrow seat in the front. Facing me in the back seat, they lolled easily and smoked their cigars. Down the thronged boulevard we proceeded at a rapid pace and were passing presently before an immense gray edifice which I recognized as the so-called Louvre from its illustration on the cover of Cousin Egbert’s art book. He himself regarded it with interest, though I fancy he did not recognize it, for, waving his cigar toward it, he announced to his friend:
“The Public Library.” His friend surveyed the building with every sign of approval.
“That Carnegie is a hot sport, all right,” he declared warmly. “I’ll bet that shack set him back some.”
“Three rousing cheers!” said Cousin Egbert, without point that I could detect.
We now crossed their Thames over what would have been Westminster Bridge, I fancy, and were presently bowling through a sort of Battersea part of the city. The streets grew quite narrow and the shops smaller, and I found myself wondering not without alarm what sort of restaurant our abrupt friend had chosen.
“Three rousing cheers!” said Cousin Egbert from time to time, with almost childish delight.
Debouching from a narrow street again into what the French term a boulevard, we halted before what was indeed a restaurant, for several tables were laid on the pavement before the door, but I saw at once that it was anything but a nice place. “Au Rendezvous des Cochers Fideles,” read the announcement on the flap of the awning, and truly enough it was a low resort frequented by cabbies—“The meeting-place of faithful coachmen.” Along the curb half a score of horses were eating from their bags, while their drivers lounged before the place, eating, drinking, and conversing excitedly in their grotesque jargon.
We descended, in spite of the repellent aspect of the place, and our driver went to the foot of the line, where he fed his own horse. Cousin Egbert, already at one of the open-air tables, was rapping smartly for a waiter.
“What’s the matter with having just one little one before grub?” asked the Tuttle person as we joined him. He had a most curious fashion of speech. I mean to say, when he suggested anything whatsoever he invariably wished to know what might be the matter with it.
“Veesky-soda!” demanded Cousin Egbert of the serving person who now appeared, “and ask your driver to have one,” he then urged his friend.
The latter hereupon addressed the cabman who had now come up.
“Vooley-voos