| Author: | Sapper | ISBN: | 1230002268361 |
| Publisher: | BookLife | Publication: | April 13, 2018 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Sapper |
| ISBN: | 1230002268361 |
| Publisher: | BookLife |
| Publication: | April 13, 2018 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
THE Maid of Orleans drew slowly away from the side. Leaning over the rail was the usual row of cross–Channel passengers calling out final good–byes to their friends on the quay. An odd Customs man or two drifted back to their respective offices: the R.A.C. representative raised protesting hands to High Heaven because one of his charges had departed without his triptyque. In fact, the usual scene on the departure of the Boulogne boat, and mentioned only because you must start a story somewhere, and Folkestone harbour is as good a locality as any.
Standing side by side on the quay were two men, who had been waving their hands in that shame–faced manner which immediately descends on the male sex when it indulges in that fatuous pursuit. The targets of their innocent pastime were two women, whose handkerchiefs had fluttered in response from the upper deck. And since these two charming ladies do not come into the matter again it might be as well to dispose of them forthwith. They were, in short, the wives of the two men, departing on their lawful occasions to Le Touquet, there to play a little golf and lose some money in the Casino. Which is really all that needs to be said about them, except possibly their last remark chanted in unison as the ship began to move:
"Now mind you're both good while we're away."
"Of course," answered the two men, also in unison.
And here and now let us be quite clear about this matter. Before ordering a dinner the average man consults the menu. If his mouth is set for underdone beef with horse–radish sauce it is as gall and wormwood to him to be given mutton and red–currant jelly. Similarly, before reading a book the average reader likes to have a pointer as to what it is about. Does it concern the Sheik of Fiction carrying off a beautiful white woman on his thoroughbred Arab; or does it concern the Sheik of Reality riding a donkey and picking fleas out of his burnous? Does it concern a Bolshevist plot to blow up the policeman on point duty at Dover Street; or does it concern the meditations of an evangelical Bishop on the revised Prayer–Book? And honesty compels me to state that it concerns none of these things, which is just as well for all concerned.
THE Maid of Orleans drew slowly away from the side. Leaning over the rail was the usual row of cross–Channel passengers calling out final good–byes to their friends on the quay. An odd Customs man or two drifted back to their respective offices: the R.A.C. representative raised protesting hands to High Heaven because one of his charges had departed without his triptyque. In fact, the usual scene on the departure of the Boulogne boat, and mentioned only because you must start a story somewhere, and Folkestone harbour is as good a locality as any.
Standing side by side on the quay were two men, who had been waving their hands in that shame–faced manner which immediately descends on the male sex when it indulges in that fatuous pursuit. The targets of their innocent pastime were two women, whose handkerchiefs had fluttered in response from the upper deck. And since these two charming ladies do not come into the matter again it might be as well to dispose of them forthwith. They were, in short, the wives of the two men, departing on their lawful occasions to Le Touquet, there to play a little golf and lose some money in the Casino. Which is really all that needs to be said about them, except possibly their last remark chanted in unison as the ship began to move:
"Now mind you're both good while we're away."
"Of course," answered the two men, also in unison.
And here and now let us be quite clear about this matter. Before ordering a dinner the average man consults the menu. If his mouth is set for underdone beef with horse–radish sauce it is as gall and wormwood to him to be given mutton and red–currant jelly. Similarly, before reading a book the average reader likes to have a pointer as to what it is about. Does it concern the Sheik of Fiction carrying off a beautiful white woman on his thoroughbred Arab; or does it concern the Sheik of Reality riding a donkey and picking fleas out of his burnous? Does it concern a Bolshevist plot to blow up the policeman on point duty at Dover Street; or does it concern the meditations of an evangelical Bishop on the revised Prayer–Book? And honesty compels me to state that it concerns none of these things, which is just as well for all concerned.
