"Very," he replied, taking it from the floor and handing it to me.
"Won't you read it?"
I had been careful to throw into my voice an aggressive cheeriness
which I had calculated would vex him, but his manner remained that
of a man who is simply bored. I argued with him politely
concerning the paper; but he insisted, still with the same weary
air, that he had done with it. I thanked him effusively. I judged
that he hated effusiveness.
"They say that to read a Times leader," I persisted, "is a lesson
in English composition."
"So I've been told," he answered tranquilly. "Personally I don't
take them."
The Times, I could see, was not going to be of much assistance to
me. I lit a cigarette, and remarked that he was not shooting. He
admitted the fact. Under the circumstances, it would have taxed
him to deny it, but the necessity for confession aroused him.
"To myself," he said, "a tramp through miles of mud, in company
with four gloomy men in black velveteen, a couple of depressed-
looking dogs, and a heavy gun, the entire cavalcade being organised
for the purpose of killing some twelve-and-sixpence worth of
poultry, suggests the disproportionate.
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