No hurry, no hurry."
While we were examining our bedroom and finding it all that could be
desired, I heard a car draw up before the hotel, and the sound of
voices in conversation. A few minutes later, on going downstairs, I
made the acquaintance of the boots. He was obviously awaiting me by my
car, and touched his forelock in a manner rarely seen off the stage. He
wore khaki cord breeches with leather leggings, a striped shirt open at
the neck, and chewed a straw desperately. In no other respect did he
resemble the boots of an out-of-the-way hotel.
"Garage round this way, sir," he said, guiding me to my destination,
which, I found, already contained a two-seater of the same make as my
own.
"Ripping little car, eh?" said the boots, chewing vigorously at his
straw as he stood, his hands deep in what are graphically known as
"go-to-hell" pockets and his legs well straddled. "Hop over anything,
what? Topping weather we're having--been like this for weeks. If you
don't mind, old chap, you might wiggle her over this way a bit.
Something else might blow in, eh?"
I looked at this latest manifestation with undisguised astonishment,
but he was imperturbable, and merely chewed his straw with renewed
energy.
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