Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [83]
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“I don’t like the look of Bones,” said Hamilton, glowering under the rim of his topee at the figure which was approaching the residency with long strides.
Sanders knocked the ash from his cheroot and smiled.
“The impression I have is that you never have been enamoured of Bones’ personal appearance,” he said.
“I’m not referring to his general homeliness,” said Hamilton. “My concentrated antipathy is directed to the particular Bones who is at present visible to the naked eye. I dislike Bones when he struts,” he growled, “because when he struts he is pleased with himself, and when Bones is pleased with himself it is time for all modest men to take cover. Good morning, Bones. Why the smirk?”
Bones saluted jerkily. He had a habit of bringing up his hand and allowing it to quiver – no other word describes the motion – within half an inch of the helmet.
“I wish to heaven you’d learn to salute properly,” snapped Hamilton. “I’d give you two hours’ saluting drill for two pins!”
“But, dear old officer, this is the very latest,” said Bones calmly, and repeated the action. “I saw a stunning old sergeant of the Guards do it. What is good enough for the jolly old Grenadiers is good enough for poor old Bones. I think you said ‘smirk’?”
He put his hand up to his ear as though he was anxious not to lose a word.
“Stand to attention, you insubordinate hound,” said Hamilton. “And if you’re deaf you’d better report and see a – a–”
“Oculist is the word you want, dear old Ham – oculist, from the word ‘hark,’ sometimes pronounced ‘harkulist.’”
“You seem pleased with yourself, Bones,” interposed Sanders hastily.
“Not so much pleased, dear old excellency,” said Bones, “as what you might describe as grateified.”
“You mean gratified,” said Hamilton.
“Great, grateful, grateified,” retorted Bones reproachfully. “Dear old thing, you’re all wrong this morning. What’s the matter with you? Jolly old liver out of condition?”
He pulled up a chair, sat down, and, resting his chin on his palms, glared across to him.
“Have you ever thought, dear old officer,” he asked in the hollow voice he invariably assumed when he became profound, “that here we are, living in this strange and almost wild country! We know this place, we know the river – it is water; we know the land – it is land; we know the dinky old flora and the jolly old fauna, and yet we are perhaps ignorant of the very longitude and latitude of, so to speak, our jolly old native home!”
He stopped, inserted his monocle, and glared triumphantly at the dazed Hamilton.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Has it occurred to you, dear old thing, that we should not be here if it were not for the brave and intrepid souls who, so to speak, have blazed a path through the jolly old wilderness?”
Hamilton looked at Sanders in alarm. “Have you any quinine, sir?” he asked.
“No, no, dear old medical one, I am not suffering from fever; I am, in fact, non compos mentis, to employ a Latin phrase.”
“That is what I’m suggesting,” said Hamilton.
“Has it ever occurred to you – ?” Bones went on, but Hamilton stopped him.
“The thing that is occurring to me at the moment is that you’ve been drinking, Bones.”
“Me, sir?” said the indignant Bones. “That’s an actionable statement, dear old officer. As a scientist, I–”
“Oh, you’re a scientist, are you? Knew there was something queer about you. What branch of science is suffering from your malignant association?”
Bones smiled tolerantly. “I was merely pointing out, dear old member of the jolly old public, that if it hadn’t been for our explorers – Livingstone, Stanley – in fact, dear old thing, I’ve been elected a Member of the Royal Geographical Society.”
He drew back in his chair to watch the effect.
“That is fine, Bones,” said Sanders. “I congratulate you. How did you become a member?”
“By paying a guinea or two,” said the scornful Hamilton. “Anybody can become a member if he pays his subscription.