The Beckoning of Boston
Gloucestershire—Lincolnshire! And afterwards?
While Richard was revolving this new move in his mind, Diggs, having waited patiently outside, poked his head in at the window.
“Well, sir, what’s it now?” he inquired. “’Ome?”
Richard studied the good-natured, lined face, wondering how much farther the good-nature could be taxed. Diggs had already proved himself better than one had any right to expect, but there must be a limit to his tolerance. Still, no useful purpose would be served by deciding in advance that this limit had been reached; with tact, one must play for an extension.
“Yes, home for you, I expect,” he answered, beginning at once to exercise the tact, “but I’m afraid not for us.”
His observations produced two effects, and he was conscious of both. Relief on the part of Sylvia Wynne, for the word “us” confirmed his allegiance, and uneasy surprise on the part of Ted Diggs.
“Eh? Not for you?” the driver blinked. Richard shook his head. “Where are you goin’, then, if you ain’t goin’ ’ome—if I may ask?” But before Richard could inform him, Diggs got a brain-wave. “Oh—police station!” he exclaimed. “That’s the idea, is it?”
“Not even a police station,” replied Richard. “We want you as a final service, to drop us at a garage where they sit up all night.”
“What for?” demanded Diggs.
If the question sounded rude, there was no rudeness in the questioner’s heart. He wanted to get to bed, and he thought it was time these two young people got to bed, too, even if they required a little bullying to drive them there. Unconsciously, Richard replied with an argument that had been used to him by Sylvia only a minute or two earlier.
“That’s our business,” he remarked, pleasantly, “unless, of course, you care to make it yours.”
“Make it mine, eh?”
“No, don’t worry,” said Richard, recanting subtly. “We really mustn’t keep you out any longer.”
Diggs thought about it.
“Where do you want to go?” he inquired, cautiously.
Richard felt a sudden nudge at his side. He nudged back, to imply that he had received the signal, and that he hadn’t needed it. “Oh, a long way,” he said.
“’Ow long?”
“All night session.”
“Eh?”
“Session. Meaning, in this case, an all night drive.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s why we want a garage where they sit up all night.”
“Oh.”
“Do you know of one?”
“Not nearer’n Bristol.”
“How far is that?”
“About—twelve mile.”
“That’s a nuisance,” sighed Richard. “By the way, have you any idea what it will cost us to go a hundred and fifty miles?”
“Shilling a mile, that’s the rate,” answered Diggs, thinking very hard.
“Shilling a mile. Hundred and fifty miles, hundred and fifty shillings. Seven pounds ten. Have to pay both ways, I expect, so twice seven pounds ten makes it fifteen pounds. And an extra fiver for luck makes it twenty. Now, do you suppose, Mr. Diggs, I’ll be able to find any one to do this journey for us for twenty pounds?”
Once upon a time, Ted Diggs had had a dog. It had died an unnatural death on the road, and he had always wanted another. In his opinion, a dog was better company than a woman. Just say, “Shut up,” and it did. Albert Bowes had a dog that he wanted three pounds ten for, and that Harry Poynter had said could be worked down to three pounds five.
“Where’s the place?” asked Diggs.
“Nonsense! You don’t mean you’ll take us there?” exclaimed Richard, feigning incredulity.
It wasn’t only the dog. There might be a pound over for his mother. She was worrying over that dentist’s bill. Pity she’d been rude to the panel chap.
“Where is it?” he repeated.
Richard turned his head from the window, and glanced at Sylvia. She pursed her lips at him—he could just distinguish them in the dimness, and for an instant he forgot all about Ted Diggs.…
“I’ll give you the address when I know you’re going to take us there,” he said.
It wasn’t only the dog and the dentist bill. It was these two silly young people themselves, too. Pleasant young feller, for all his nonsense. And, of course, you didn’t meet a young lady like this twice a month.
“It’s a go,” he said. “And now let’s ’ave it!”
“Good news!” beamed Richard. “I knew you were a sport, from the first moment I clapped eyes on you. And hasn’t he proved it?” he added, turning to Sylvia. She nodded confirmation. Then turning back, he asked, “Tell me, do you know Boston?”
Did Diggs know Boston? Once he had been top of his geography class!
“Lummy!” he exclaimed, aghast. “Are you askin’ me to drive you to Ameriky?”