“And, if you feel you’ve got to discuss me, kindly keep it to yourself. Don’t come and tell me what your damned friends said to each other and to you and what you said to them, because it bores me. I’m not interested. I don’t value their opinions as much as you seem to.” Derek paused, to battle in silence with the imperious agony within him. “It was good of you to put me up here,” he went on, “but I think I won’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. Perhaps you’ll ask Parker to pack my things tomorrow.” Derek moved, as majestically as an ex-guest of the Worshipful Company of Dry-Salters may, in the direction of the door. “I shall go to the Savoy.”
“Oh, I say, old man! No need to do that.”
“Good night.”
“But, I say —”
“And you can tell your friend Devereux that, if he doesn’t stop poking his nose into my private business, I’ll pull it off.”
“Well,” said Freddie doubtfully, “of course I don’t suppose you know, but — Ronny’s a pretty hefty bird. He boxed for Cambridge in the light-weights the last year he was up, you know. He —”
Derek slammed the door. Freddie was alone. He stood rubbing his legs for some minutes, a rueful expression on his usually cheerful face. Freddie hated rows. He liked everything to jog along smoothly. What a rotten place the world was these days! Just one thing after another. First, poor old Jill takes the knock and disappears. He would miss her badly. What a good sort! What a pal! And now—gone. Biffed off. Next, Derek. Together, more or less, ever since Winchester, and now—bing!—
Freddie heaved a sigh, and reached out for the Sporting Times, his never-failing comfort in times of depression. He lit another cigar and curled up in one of the arm-chairs. He was feeling tired. He had been playing squash all the afternoon, a game at which he was exceedingly expert and to which he was much addicted.
Time passed. The paper slipped to the floor. A cold cigar followed it. From the depths of the chair came a faint snore —
* * *
A hand on his shoulder brought Freddie with a jerk troubled dreams. Derek was standing beside him. A tousled Derek, apparently in pain.
“Freddie!”
“Hullo!”
A spasm twisted Derek’s face.
“Have you got any pepsin?”
Derek uttered a groan. What a mocker of our petty human dignity is this dyspepsia, bringing low the haughtiest of us, less than love itself a respecter of persons. This was a different Derek from the man who had stalked stiffly from the room two hours before. His pride had been humbled upon the rack.
“Pepsin?”
Freddie blinked, the mists of sleep floating gently before his eyes. He could not quite understand what his friend was asking for. It had sounded just like pepsin, and he didn’t believe there was such a word.
“Yes. I’ve got the most damned attack of indigestion.”
The mists of sleep rolled away from Freddie. He was awake again, and became immediately helpful. These were the occasions when the Last of the Rookes was a good man to have at your side. It was Freddie who suggested that Derek should recline in the arm-chair which he had vacated; Freddie who nipped round the corner to the all-night chemist’s and returned with a magic bottle guaranteed to relieve an ostrich after a surfeit of soda-water bottles; Freddie who mixed and administered the dose.
His ministrations were rewarded. Presently the agony seemed to pass. Derek recovered.
One would say that Derek became himself again, but that the mood of gentle remorse which came upon him as he lay in the arm-chair was one so foreign to his nature. Freddie had never seen him so subdued. He was like a convalescent child. Between them, the all-night chemist and the Dry-Salters seemed to have wrought a sort of miracle. These temporary softenings of personality frequently follow city dinners. The time to catch your Dry-Salter in angelic mood is the day after the semi-annual banquet. Go to him then and he will give you his watch and chain.
“Freddie,” said Derek.