332 A CUB-HUNTING INVITATION 



" Don't mind going a little out of our way, do you ? " 

 says Pownceby, " must just run into the butcher's 

 and the grocer's to take a few things home with 

 me." We diverge into dimly-lit street. Pownceby 

 disappears into shop, leaving me standing outside. 

 Seems to be at least an hour in grocer's ; another 

 ten minutes in butcher's. My teeth chattering 

 now. Start again, and walk on and on. Ask, 

 " Where's your place, are we anywhere near it ? " 

 " Oh, close by," says Pownceby, cheerily. Trudge 

 on again ; wet through by this time. Am seriously 

 marshalling supply of cuss-words into their places 

 for use in the near future, when Pownceby suddenly 

 grips my arm, dropping pound of sausages from 

 under his own at same moment. They fall into 

 puddle. " There's my little place, old chap." 

 Wish he wouldn't " old chap " me. Hardly know 

 the fellow, and begin to hate him now. He picks 

 up sausages, and repeats, " there's my little place ; 

 jolly little crib, ain't it ? " Fear Pownceby is 

 vulgar, never noticed it before. Can just see 

 feeble light in cottage window, apparently miles 

 off. Murmur, faintly, " Oh, I see," and struggle 

 along again. My boots like wet paper, now, and 

 trying to imitate suction pump. Do rest of journey 

 silently. Cottage at last. Pownceby lifts latch, 

 and we enter. Smell of lamp-oil overpowering. 



