"We were strollin' on the beach." The monster blushed and nodded. He
filled up one side of the van when he sat down.
"And this is my friend, Mr. Pyecroft," I added to Hooper, already busy
with the extra beer which my prophetic soul had bought from the Greeks.
"_Moi aussi_" quoth Pyecroft, and drew out beneath his coat a labelled
quart bottle.
"Why, it's Bass," cried Hooper.
"It was Pritchard," said Pyecroft. "They can't resist him."
"That's not so," said Pritchard, mildly.
"Not _verbatim_ per'aps, but the look in the eye came to the same thing."
"Where was it?" I demanded.
"Just on beyond here--at Kalk Bay. She was slappin' a rug in a back
verandah. Pritch hadn't more than brought his batteries to bear, before
she stepped indoors an' sent it flyin' over the wall."
Pyecroft patted the warm bottle.
"It was all a mistake," said Pritchard. "I shouldn't wonder if she mistook
me for Maclean. We're about of a size."
I had heard householders of Muizenburg, St. James's, and Kalk Bay complain
of the difficulty of keeping beer or good servants at the seaside, and I
began to see the reason. None the less, it was excellent Bass, and I too
drank to the health of that large-minded maid.
"It's the uniform that fetches 'em, an' they fetch it," said Pyecroft. "My
simple navy blue is respectable, but not fascinatin'. Now Pritch in 'is
Number One rig is always 'purr Mary, on the terrace'--_ex officio_ as you
might say.
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