  “Vell, Bonker, vat show to-day?” said the Baron. Mr Bunker sipped his coffee and smiled back at his friend. “What would you like?” said he. They were sitting in the Baron’s private room finishing one of the renowned HÔtel Mayonaise breakfasts. Out of the windows they could see the bright curving river, the bare tops of the Embankment trees, a file of barges drifting with the tide, and cold-looking clouds hurrying over the chaos of brick on the opposite shore. It was a bright breezy morning, and the Baron felt in high good-humour with his surroundings. On maturer consideration, the entertaining experience of the night before had greatly raised Mr Bunker in his estimation. He had chuckled his way through a substantial breakfast, and in such good company felt ready for any adventure that might turn up. He lit a cigar, pushed back his chair, and replied blandly, “I am in your hands. I am ready to enjoy anyzing.” “Do you wish instruction or entertainment?” “Mix zem, Bonker. Entertain by instrogtion; instrogt by entertaining.” “You are epigrammatic, Baron, but devilish vague. I presume, however, that you wish entertaining experience [pg 81] “Ha, ha!” laughed the Baron. “Excellent! You provide ze experiences—I draw ze moral.” “And we share the entertainment. The theory is perfect, but I’m afraid we need a programme. Now, on my own first visit to London I remember being taken—by the hand—to Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks, the Tower, St Paul’s Cathedral, the fishmarket at Billingsgate, the British Museum, and a number of other damnably edifying spectacles. You might naturally suppose that after such a round it would be quite superfluous for me ever to come up to town again. Yet, surprising as it may appear, most of the knowledge of London I hope to put at your disposal has been gained in the course of subsequent visits.” “Bot zese places—Tousaud, Tower, Paul’s—are zey not instrogtif?” “If you wish to learn that a great number of years ago a vast quantity of inconsequent events occurred, or that in an otherwise amusing enough world there are here and there collected so many roomfuls of cheerless articles, I can strongly recommend a visit to the Tower of London or the British Museum.” “In mine own gontry,” said the Baron, thoughtfully, “I can lairn zo moch.” “Then, my dear Baron, while you are here forget it all.” “And yet,” said the Baron, still thoughtfully, “somzing I should lairn here.” [pg 82]“Certainly; you will learn something of what goes on underneath a waistcoat and a little of the contents of a corset and petticoat. Also of the strange customs of this city and the excellence of British institutions.” “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Baron, who thought that if his friend had not actually made a jest, it was at least time for one to occur. “I see, I see. I draw ze moral, ha, ha!” “This morning,” Mr Bunker continued, reflectively, “we might—let me see—well, we might do a little shopping. To tell you the truth, Baron, my South African experiences have somewhat exhausted my wardrobe.” “Ach, zo. Cairtainly ve vill shop. Bot, Bonker, Soud Africa? Vas it not Soud America?” “Did I say Africa? America of course I meant. Well, let us shop if you have no objections: then we might have a little lunch, and afterwards visit the Park. For the evening, what do you say to a theatre?” “Goot!” cried the Baron. “Make it tzos.” Mr Bunker’s shopping turned out to be a pretty extensive operation. “Loan vat you please of money,” said his friend. “A gentleman should be dressed in agreement.” With now and then an apology for his extravagance, he took full advantage of the Baron’s generosity, and ordered such an assortment of garments that his tailor could hardly bow low enough to express his gratification. After an excellent lunch in the most expensive restaurant to be found, they walked arm-in-arm westwards along [pg 83] “And now we come to the Park,” said Mr Bunker. “Guard your heart, Baron.” “Ha, ha, ha!” replied the Baron. “Zo instrogtion is feenished, and now goms entertainment, ha?” “With the moral always running through it, remember.” “I shall not forget.” The sunshine had brought out a great many carriages and a sprinkling of walkers along the railings. The two friends strolled among them, eyeing the women and stopping now and then to look back at a carriage. “I suppose,” said the Baron, “zat vile you haf been avay your frients have forgot you.” As he spoke a young man looked hard at Mr Bunker, and even made a movement as though he would stop and speak to him. Mr Bunker looked blandly through him and walked on. “Do you not know zat gentleman?” “Which gentleman?” “Ze young man zat looked so at you.” “Some young men have a way of staring here, Baron.” A few minutes later a lady in a passing carriage looked round sharply at them with an air of great surprise, and half bowed. “Surely,” exclaimed the Baron, “zat vas a frient of yours!” “I am not a friend of hers, then,” Mr Bunker replied [pg 84] The Baron shook his head, and seemed to be drawing a moral. “Baron,” his friend exclaimed, suddenly, “let us go back; here comes one of our most popular phenomena, a London fog. We need not stay in the Park to observe it.” The sun was already obscured; there stole a most insidious chill through the air; like the changing of a scene on the stage they found themselves in a few minutes walking in a little ring of trees and road and iron railings instead of a wide sunny park; the roar of the streets came from behind a wall of mist that opened mysteriously to let a phantom carriage in and out, and closed silently behind it again. “I like not zis,” said the Baron, with a shiver. By the time they had found Piccadilly again there was nothing at all to be seen but the light of the nearest lamp, as large and far away as a struggling sun, and the shadowy people who flitted by. Their talk ceased. The Baron turned up his collar and sucked his cigar lugubriously, and Mr Bunker seemed unusually thoughtful. They had walked nearly as far as Piccadilly Circus when they were pulled up by a cab turning down a side-street. There was a lamp-post at the corner, and under it stood a burly man, his red face quite visible as they came up to his shoulder. In an instant Mr Bunker seized the Baron by the arm, pulled him round, and began to walk hastily back again. [pg 85]“Vat for zis?” said the Baron, in great astonishment. “We have come too far, thanks to this infernal fog. We must cross the street and take the first turning on the other side. I must apologise, Baron, for my absence of mind.” * * * * * The cab passed by and the red-faced man strolled on. “Like lookin’ for a needle in a bloomin’ haystack,” he said to himself. “I might as well go back to Clankwood. ’E’s a good riddance, I say.” |
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