Part 21 (1/2)
”It sounds to me,” said Freddie, ”dashed silly.”
”Oh, no!” cried Nelly reproachfully.
”Well, what I mean is, there's no sense in it, don't you know.”
”It is a n.o.ble pursuit,” said Uncle Chris firmly. ”Worthy of the great nation that has produced it. No doubt, when I return to America, I shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill.”
”You aren't returning to America,” said Jill. ”You're going to stay safe at home like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have you running wild all over the world at your age.”
”Age?” declaimed Uncle Chris. ”What is my age? At the present moment I feel in the neighbourhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping me on the shoulder and whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years are slipping away from me, my dear Jill--slipping so quickly that in a few minutes you will be wondering why my nurse does not come to fetch me.
The wanderl.u.s.t is upon me. I gaze around me at all this prosperity in which I am lapped,” said Uncle Chris, eyeing the arm-chair severely, ”all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me, and I feel staggered.
I want activity. I want to be braced!”
”You would hate it,” said Jill composedly. ”You know you're the laziest old darling in the world.”
”Exactly what I am endeavouring to point out. I _am_ lazy. Or, I was till this morning.”
”Something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. I can see that.”
”I wallowed in gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat and greasy citizen'!”
”Please, Uncle Chris!” protested Jill. ”Not while I'm eating b.u.t.tered toast!”
”But now I am myself again.”
”That's splendid.”
”I have heard the beat of the off-sh.o.r.e wind,” chanted Uncle Chris, ”and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--How long!
how long! Pull out on the trail again!”
”He can also recite 'Gunga Din,'” said Jill to Nelly. ”I really must apologize for all this. He's usually as good as gold.”
”I believe I know how he feels,” said Nelly softly.
”Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of the world. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here.”
”Eh, what?” said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had been watching Nelly's face. Its wistfulness attracted him.
”We are only happy,” proceeded Uncle Chris, ”when we are wandering.”
”You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning,” said Jill. ”He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely defying fatigue.”
”That,” said Uncle Chris, ”is a perfectly justified slur. I shudder at the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink.” He expanded his chest. ”I shall be a different man in America. America would make a different man of _you_, Freddie.”
”I'm all right, thanks!” said that easily satisfied young man.
Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.
”Young woman, go West! Return to your bracing home, and leave this enervating London! You....”