The Little Warrior | Page 6

porter sixpence. Sixpence is ample."
"Yes, m'lady."
The little maid, grasping the jewel-case, trotted off beside the now
pessimistic porter, who had started on this job under the impression that
there was at least a bob's-worth in it. The remark about the sixpence
had jarred the porter's faith in his species.
Derek approached, acutely conscious of Freddie, Ronny, and Algy,
who were skirmishing about his flank. He had enough to worry him

without them. He had listened with growing apprehension to the
catalogue of his mother's possessions. Plainly this was no flying visit.
You do not pop over to London for a day or two with a steamer trunk,
another trunk, a black box, a suit-case, and a small brown bag. Lady
Underhill had evidently come prepared to stay; and the fact seemed to
presage trouble.
"Well, mother! So there you are at last!"
"Well, Derek!"
Derek kissed his mother. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer, like
leopards. Freddie, with the expression of one who leads a forlorn hope,
moved his Adam's apple briskly up and down several times, and spoke.
"How do you do, Lady Underhill?"
"How do you do, Mr Rooke?"
Lady Underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fond of
the Last of the Rookes. She supposed the Almighty had had some wise
purpose in creating Freddie, but it had always been inscrutable to her.
"Like you," mumbled Freddie, "to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. Mr
Devereux."
"Charmed," said Ronny affably.
"Mr Martyn."
"Delighted," said Algy with old-world courtesy.
Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.
"How do you do?" she said. "Have you come to meet somebody?"
"I-er-we-er-why-er--" This woman always made Freddie feel as if he
were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that he
had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug

rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business by
himself. "I-er-we-er-came to meet you, don't you know!"
"Indeed! That was very kind of you!"
"Oh, not at all."
"Thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said Ronny,
beaming.
"What could be sweeter?" said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and
extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling
delightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why Freddie had made
such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "Don't mind if I smoke, do
you? Air's a bit raw today. Gets into the lungs."
Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making a difficult
situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observer than young
Mr Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother's mouth and knew
them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavoring to distract her with
light conversation, he selected a subject which was a little unfortunate.
"What sort of crossing did you have, mother?"
Lady Underhill winced. A current of air had sent the perfume of Algy's
cigar playing about her nostrils. She closed her eyes, and her face
turned a shade paler. Freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry for the
poor old thing. She was a pest and a pot of poison, of course, but all the
same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame that she should look so
green about the gills. He came to the conclusion that she must be
hungry. The thing to do was to take her mind off it till she could be
conducted to a restaurant and dumped down in front of a bowl of soup.
"Bit choppy, I suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran up and
down Lady Underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "I was
afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when I read the
forecast in the paper. The good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?"

Lady Underhill uttered a faint moan. Freddie noticed that she was
looking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago.
"It's an extraordinary thing about that Channel crossing," said Algy
Martyn meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. "I've known
fellows who could travel quite happily everywhere else in the
world--round the Horn in sailing-ships and all that sort of thing--yield
up their immortal soul crossing the Channel! Absolutely yield up their
immortal soul! Don't know why. Rummy, but there it is!"
"I'm like that myself," assented Ronny Devereux. "That dashed trip
from Calais gets me every time. Bowls me right over. I go aboard,
stoked to the eyebrows with seasick remedies, swearing that this time
I'll fool 'em, but down I go ten minutes after we've started and the next
thing I know is somebody saying, 'Well, well! So this is Dover!'"
"It's exactly the same with me," said Freddie, delighted with the smooth,
easy way the conversation was flowing. "Whether it's the hot, greasy
smell of