Fancy a
brig in the channel at this time of year, if it blows southwest!"
"I dessay you'd have shoved it, George. Still you know, George.... I
believe in him."
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I believe in him, too. In a way. Still--"
We took up a telegram that was lying on his desk and opened it. His
face became a livid yellow. He put the flimsy paper down with a slow,
reluctant movement and took off his glasses.
"George," he said, "the luck's against us."
"What?"
He grimaced with his mouth--in the queerest way at the telegram.
"That."
I took it up and read:
"Motor smash compound fracture of the leg gordon nasmyth what price
mordet now"
For a moment neither of us spoke.
"That's all right," I said at last.
"Eh?" said my uncle.
"I'M going. I'll get that quap or bust."
II
I had a ridiculous persuasion that I was "saving the situation."
"I'm going," I said quite consciously and dramatically. I saw the whole
affair--how shall I put it?--in American colours.
I sat down beside him. "Give me all the data you've got," I said, "and
I'll pull this thing off.
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