Colour Scheme by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page B

stood glaring at Questing.
    “Oh, James,” Mrs. Claire murmured, “there you are, old man. You haven’t met Mr. Bell. My brother, Dr. Ackrington.”
    As they shook hands, Dikon saw that Barbara had moved close to her uncle.
    “Have a good run up?” asked Dr. Ackrington, throwing a needle-sharp glance at Dikon. “Ever see anything more disgraceful than the roads? I’ve been fishing.”
    Startled by this
non sequitur
, Dikon murmured politely: “Indeed?”
    “If you can call it fishing. Hope you and Gaunt aren’t counting on catching any trout. What with native reserves and the damned infamous behaviour of white poaching cads, there’s not a fish to be had in twenty miles.”
    “Now, now, now, Doctor,” said Questing in a great hurry. “We can’t let you get away with that. Why, the greatest little trout streams in New Zealand…”
    “D’you enjoy being called ‘Mister’?” Dr. Ackrington demanded, so loudly that Dikon gave a nervous jump. Questing said uneasily: “Not much.”
    “Then don’t call me ‘Doctor,’ ” commanded Dr. Ackrington. Questing laughed uproariously. “That’s just too bad,” he said.
    Dr. Ackrington looked round the room. “Good God,” he said, “what are you doing with the place?”
    “Mr. Questing,” began Mrs. Claire, “has very kindly…”
    “I might have recognized the authentic touch,” said her brother, turning his back on the room. “Staying here tonight are you, Bell? I’d like a word with you. Come along to my room when you’ve a moment.”
    “Thank you, sir,” said Dikon.
    Dr. Ackrington looked through the doorway. “The star boarder,” he said, “is returning in his usual condition. Mr. Bell is to be treated to a comprehensive view of our amenities.”
    They all looked through the doorway. Dikon saw a shambling figure cross the pumice sweep and approach the verandah.
    “Oh dear!” said Mrs. Claire. “I’m afraid… James, dear, could you…?”
    Dr. Ackrington limped out to the verandah. The newcomer saw, stumbled to a halt, and dragged a bottle from the pocket of his raincoat.
    To Dikon, watching through the window, the intrusion of a drunken white figure into the native landscape was at once preposterous and rather pathetic. A clear light, reflected from the pumice track, rimmed the folds of his shabby garments. He stood there, drooping and lonely, and turned the whisky bottle in his hand, staring at it as if it were the focal point for some fuddled meditation. Presently he raised his head and looked at Dr. Ackrington.
    “Well, Smith,” said Dr. Ackrington.
    “You’re a sport, Doc,” said Smith. “There’s a couple of snifters left. Come on and have one.”
    “You’ll do better to keep it,” said Dr. Ackrington quite mildly.
    Smith peered beyond him into the room. His eyes narrowed. He lurched forward to the verandah. “I’ll deal with this,” said Questing importantly, and strode out to meet him. They confronted each other. Questing, planted squarely on the verandah edge, made much of his cigar; Smith clung to the post and stared up at him.
    “You clear out of this, Smith,” said Questing.
    “You get to hell yourself,” said Smith distinctly. He looked past Questing to the group in the doorway, and very solemnly took off his hat. “Present company excepted,” he added.
    “Did you hear what I said?”
    “Is that the visitor?” Smith asked loudly, and pointed at Dikon. “Is that the reason why we’re all sweating our guts up? That? Let’s have a better look at it. Gawd, what a sissy.”
    Dikon wondered confusedly which of the party felt most embarrassed. Dr. Ackrington made a loud barking noise, Barbara broke into agonized laughter, Mrs. Claire rushed into a spate of apologies, Dikon himself attempted to suggest by gay inquiring glances that he had not understood the tenor of Smith’s remarks. He might have spared himself the trouble. Smith made a plunge at the verandah step shouting: “Look at the little bastard.”