Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [62]
“I like driving with you, Bones,” said Hamilton, when they reached the office, and he had recovered something of his self-possession. “Next to stalking bushmen in the wild, wild woods, I know of nothing more soothing to the nerves.”
“Thank you,” said Bones gratefully “I’m not a bad driver, am I?”
“‘Bad’ is not the word I should use alone,” said Hamilton pointedly.
In view of the comments which followed, he was surprised and pained to receive on the following day an invitation, couched in such terms as left him a little breathless, to spend the Sunday exploiting the beauties of rural England.
“Now, I won’t take a ‘No,’” said Bones, wagging his bony forefinger. “We’ll start at eleven o’clock, dear old Ham, and we’ll lunch at what-you-may-call-it, dash along the thingummy road, and heigho! for the beautiful sea-breezes.”
“Thanks,” said Hamilton curtly. “You may dash anywhere you like, but I’m dashed if I dash with you. I have too high a regard for my life.”
“Naughty, naughty!” said Bones, “I’ve a good mind not to tell you what I was going to say. Let me tell you the rest. Now, suppose,” he said mysteriously, “that there’s a certain lady – a jolly old girl named Vera – ha – ha!”
Hamilton went red.
“Now, listen, Bones,” he said; “we’ll not discuss any other person than ourselves.”
“What do you say to a day in the country? Suppose you asked Miss Vera–”
“Miss Vera Sackwell,” replied Hamilton a little haughtily, “if she is the lady you mean, is certainly a friend of mine, but I have no control over her movements. And let me tell you, Bones, that you annoy me when–”
“Hoity, toity!” said Bones. “Heaven bless my heart and soul! Can’t you trust your old Bones? Why practise this deception, old thing? I suppose,” he went on reflectively, ignoring the approaching apoplexy of his partner, “I suppose I’m one of the most confided-in persons in London. A gay old father confessor, Ham, lad. Everybody tells me their troubles. Why, the lift-girl told me this morning that she’d had measles twice! Now, out with it, Ham!”
If Hamilton had any tender feeling for Miss Vera Sackwell, he was not disposed to unburden himself at that moment. In some mysterious fashion Bones, for the first time in his life, had succeeded in reducing him to incoherence.
“You’re an ass, Bones!” he said angrily and hotly. “You’re not only an ass, but an indelicate ass! Just oblige me by shutting up.”
Bones closed his eyes, smiled, and put out his hand.
“Whatever doubts I had, dear old Ham,” he murmured, “are dispelled. Congratulations!”
That night Hamilton dined with a fair lady. She was fair literally and figuratively, and as he addressed her as Vera, it was probably her name. In the course of the dinner he mentioned Bones and his suggestion. He did not tell all that Bones had said.
The suggestion of a day’s motoring was not received unfavourably.
“But he can’t drive,” wailed Hamilton. “He’s only just learnt.”
“I want to meet Bones,” said the girl, “and I think it a most excellent opportunity.”
“But, my dear, suppose the beggar upsets us in a ditch? I really can’t risk your life.”
“Tell Bones that I accept,” she said decisively, and that ended the matter.
The next morning Hamilton broke the news.
“Miss Sackwell thanks you for your invitation, Bones.”
“And accepts, of course?” said Bones complacently. “Jolly old Vera.”
“And I say, old man,” said Hamilton severely, “will you be kind enough to remember not to call this lady Vera until she asks you to?”
“Don’t be peevish, old boy, don’t be jealous, dear old thing. Brother-officer and all that. Believe me, you can trust your old Bones.”
“I’d rather trust the lady’s good taste,” said Hamilton with some acerbity. “But won’t it be a bit lonely for you, Bones?”
“But what do you mean, my Othello?”
“I mean three is a pretty rotten sort of party,” said Hamilton. “Couldn’t you dig up somebody to go along and make the fourth?”
Bones coughed