Radclyffe Hall by Radclyffe Hall

Author:Radclyffe Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pandora's Box
Published: 2018-09-10T00:00:00+00:00

3

Gian-Luca fell in with a tramp the next morning who was going in his direction, a dusty fellow with a hole in his shoe, and the restless eyes and shuffling gait that belong to the Brothers of the Road. Gian-Luca himself looked scarcely less dusty, and he too was shuffling a little, for those who walk far must economize force — they very soon drop their goose-step. A two days’ growth was on Gian-Luca’s chin, for he had not troubled to shave.

‘I will let my beard grow,’ he had said to himself, and now it was obviously growing.

But this unkempt appearance did not deceive the tramp, who had taken in Gian-Luca’s clothes. ‘A toff,’ thought the tramp, ‘and ‘e’s tryin’ to look shabby. Lordy, ain’t people amazin’!’

‘Good morning!’ said Gian-Luca on a sudden impulse; ‘it looks like being a fine day.’

‘Yus,’ grunted the tramp noncommittally, and proceeded to scratch his head.

After that there was silence for several minutes while he eyed Gian-Luca with suspicion; he had certainly met this type before, he decided — swells, and loonies, and suchlike, doing the simple; they generally tried to find out all about you, then wrote a lot of rubbish to the papers.

‘Are you going very far?’ inquired Gian-Luca, breaking the awkward pause.

‘Middlin’,’ he was told, and again there was silence as they trudged along side by side.

‘This road leads to Basingstoke, I think,’ remarked Gian-Luca.

“Ook comes fust,’ growled his Brother.

‘Oh, does it?’ said Gian-Luca.

‘Yus, it do,’ snapped the tramp; ‘ain’t yer looked at the sign-posts? Don’t yer know where yer goin’?’

Gian-Luca smiled at him: ‘Well, no, not exactly, but every road must lead somewhere in the end.’

And now the tramp felt thoroughly suspicious: ‘I suppose yer’ve come walkin’ out ‘ere for fun; yer one of them crack-brains wot wants ter live simple. Blimey! you try it! It ain’t so darned simple to live no’ow, to my way of thinkin’.’ Then he added quickly: ‘Or maybe yer a writer, one of them as writes for the papers.’

But Gian-Luca informed him that he had once been a waiter, and at this his companion looked a little more friendly: ‘A waiter, was yer? That sounds all right ter me — so nice and ‘andy to the food.’

‘I suppose so. I have thrown up my job quite lately. I used to be at the Doric.’

‘Gawd!’ muttered the tramp, ‘that swell plyce in Piccadilly? Yer spoilt, that’s wot you are; some folks never knows their blessin’s, not till they’ve lost ‘em.’

Gian-Luca examined the man’s face more closely, noticing the restless eyes. He said: ‘You would never tolerate four walls—’

‘Now then, wotch’yer gettin’ at!’ scowled the tramp, glancing at Gian-Luca with annoyance.

At Hook the tramp bethought him of food, and he paused beside a shop window. The window was full of cold meats and pork pies, interlarded with rock cakes and apples.

But the tramp shook his head: ‘No, thanks,’ he remarked. ‘I ain’t got the price of the Doric terdye, nor yet of the Berkeley neither—’

‘You may choose!’ said Gian-Luca.

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