Part 8 (2/2)
”It wouldn't be right,” replied Cousin Egbert, ”not in his condition.
Let's see if we can't find something gentle for him. Not the roan--I found she ain't bridle-wise. How about that pheasant?”
”It's an ostrich, sir,” I corrected him, as indeed it most distinctly was, though at my words they both indulged in loud laughter, affecting to consider that I had misnamed the creature.
”Ostrich!” they shouted. ”Poor old Bill--he thinks it's an ostrich!”
”Quite so, sir,” I said, pleasantly but firmly, determining not to be hoaxed again.
”Don't drivel that way,” said the Tuttle person.
”Leave it to the driver, Jeff--maybe he'll believe _him_,” said Cousin Egbert almost sadly, whereupon the other addressed the cabby:
”Hey, Frank,” he began, and continued with some French words, among which I caught ”vooley-vous, ally caffy, foomer”; and something that sounded much like ”kafoozleum,” at which the cabby spoke at some length in his native language concerning the ostrich. When he had done, the Tuttle person turned to me with a superior frown.
”Now I guess you're satisfied,” he remarked. ”You heard what Frank said--it's an Arabian m.u.f.fin bird.” Of course I was perfectly certain that the chap had said nothing of the sort, but I resolved to enter into the spirit of the thing, so I merely said: ”Yes, sir; my error; it was only at first glance that it seemed to be an ostrich.”
”Come along,” said Cousin Egbert. ”I won't let him ride anything he can't guess the name of. It wouldn't be right to his folks.”
”Well, what's that, then?” demanded the other, pointing full at the giraffe.
”It's a bally ant-eater, sir,” I replied, divining that I should be wise not to seem too obvious in naming the beast.
”Well, well, so it is!” exclaimed the Tuttle person delightedly.
”He's got the eye with him this time,” said Cousin Egbert admiringly.
”He's sure a wonder,” said the other. ”That thing had me fooled; I thought at first it was a Russian mouse hound.”
”Well, let him ride it, then,” said Cousin Egbert, and I was practically lifted into the saddle by the pair of them.
”One moment,” said Cousin Egbert. ”Can't you see the poor thing has a sore throat? Wait till I fix him.” And forthwith he removed his spats and in another moment had buckled them securely high about the throat of the giraffe. It will be seen that I was not myself when I say that this performance did not shock me as it should have done, though I was, of course, less entertained by it than were the remainder of our party and a circle of the French lower cla.s.ses that had formed about us.
”Give him his head! Let's see what time you can make!” shouted Cousin Egbert as the affair began once more to revolve. I saw that both my companions held opened watches in their hands.
It here becomes difficult for me to be lucid about the succeeding events of the day. I was conscious of a mounting exhilaration as my beast swept me around the circle, and of a marked impatience with many of the proprieties of behaviour that ordinarily with me matter enormously. I swung my cap and joyously urged my strange steed to a faster pace, being conscious of loud applause each time I pa.s.sed my companions. For certain lapses of memory thereafter I must wholly blame this insidious motion.
For example, though I believed myself to be still mounted and whirling (indeed I was strongly aware of the motion), I found myself seated again at the corner public house and rapping smartly for drink, which I paid for. I was feeling remarkably fit, and suffered only a mild wonder that I should have left the carrousel without observing it.
Having drained my gla.s.s, I then remember asking Cousin Egbert if he would consent to change hats with the cabby, which he willingly did.
It was a top-hat of some strange, hard material brightly glazed.
Although many unjust things were said of me later, this is the sole incident of the day which causes me to admit that I might have taken a gla.s.s too much, especially as I undoubtedly praised Cousin Egbert's appearance when the exchange had been made, and was heard to wish that we might all have hats so smart.
It was directly after this that young Mr. Elmer, the art student, invited us to his studio, though I had not before remarked his presence, and cannot recall now where we met him. The occurrence in the studio, however, was entirely natural. I wished to please my friends and made no demur whatever when asked to don the things--a trouserish affair, of sheep's wool, which they called ”chapps,” a flannel s.h.i.+rt of blue (they knotted a scarlet handkerchief around my neck), and a wide-brimmed white hat with four indentations in the crown, such as one may see worn in the cinema dramas by cow-persons and other western-coast desperadoes. When they had strapped around my waist a large pistol in a leather jacket, I considered the effect picturesque in the extreme, and my friends were loud in their approval of it.
I repeat, it was an occasion when it would have been boorish in me to refuse to meet them halfway. I even told them an excellent wheeze I had long known, which I thought they might not, have heard. It runs: ”Why is Charing Cross? Because the Strand runs into it.” I mean to say, this is comic providing one enters wholly into the spirit of it, as there is required a certain nimbleness of mind to get the point, as one might say. In the present instance some needed element was lacking, for they actually drew aloof from me and conversed in low tones among themselves, pointedly ignoring me. I repeated the thing to make sure they should see it, whereat I heard Cousin Egbert say.
”Better not irritate him--he'll get mad if we don't laugh,” after which they burst into laughter so extravagant that I knew it to be feigned. Hereupon, feeling quite drowsy, I resolved to have forty winks, and with due apologies reclined upon the couch, where I drifted into a refres.h.i.+ng slumber.
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