That is, I suppose, properly the end of the story; but I cannot
refrain from the opportunity to record a curious incident that
has just befallen me. Some twenty minutes ago, as I was writing
the last paragraph--I am seated in the library before a massive
mahogany table, close to a window through which the September sun
sends its golden rays--twenty minutes ago, as I say, Harry
sauntered into the room and threw himself lazily into a large
armchair on the other side of the table.
I looked up with a nod of greeting, while he sat and eyed me
impatiently for some seconds.
"Aren't you coming with me down to Southampton?" he asked
finally.
"What time do you leave?" I inquired, without looking up.
"Eleven-thirty."
"What's on?"
"Freddie Marston's Crocodiles and the Blues. It's going to be
some polo."
I considered a moment. "Why, I guess I'll run down with you. I'm
about through here."
"Good enough!" Harry arose to his feet and began idly fingering
some of the sheets on the table before me. "What is all this
silly rot, anyway?"
"My dear boy," I smiled, "you'll be sorry you called it silly rot
when I tell you that it is a plain and honest tale of our own
experiences.
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