about Australia.”

 

At my words the cares of the ages slipped from his shoulders, and he was

rapturous in his thanks. He lent me a big driving coat—and never troubled to ask

why I had started on a motor tour without possessing an ulster—and, as we

slipped down the dusty roads, poured into my ears the simple facts of his

history. He was an orphan, and his uncle had brought him up—I’ve forgotten the

uncle’s name, but he was in the Cabinet, and you can read his speeches in the

papers. He had gone round the world after leaving Cambridge, and then, being

short of a job, his uncle had advised politics. I gathered that he had no

preference in parties. “Good chaps in both,” he said cheerfully, “and plenty of

blighters, too. I’m Liberal, because my family have always been Whigs.” But if

he was lukewarm politically he had strong views on other things.

 

He found out I knew a bit about horses, and jawed away about the Derby entries;

and he was full of plans for improving his shooting.

 

Altogether, a very clean, decent, callow young man.

 

As we passed through a little town two policemen signalled us to stop, and

flashed their lanterns on us.

 

“Beg pardon, Sir Harry,” said one. “We’ve got instructions to look out for a

car, and the description’s no unlike yours.”