Besides, Peters is an old man. It's a dirty bloody shame,
that's what it is. A bloody shame that all of us here should be forced to
live like pigs with this scum!
"I tell you what, Mr. Cummings," he said, with something like fierceness,
his weary eyes flashing, "I'm getting out of here shortly, and when I do
get out (I'm just waiting for my papers to be sent on by the French
consul) I'll not forget my friends. We've lived together and suffered
together and I'm not a man to forget it. This hideous mistake is nearly
cleared up, and when I go free I'll do anything for you and your chum.
Anything I can do for you I'd be only too glad to do it. If you want me
to buy you paints when I'm in Paris, nothing would give me more pleasure.
I know French as well as I know my own language" (he most certainly did)
"and whereas you might be cheated, I'll get you everything you need _a
bon marche_. Because you see they know me there, and I know just where to
go. Just give me the money for what you need and I'll get you the best
there is in Paris for it. You needn't worry"--I was protesting that it
would be too much trouble--"my dear fellow, it's no trouble to do a
favour for a friend."
And to B. and myself _ensemble_ he declared, with tears in his eyes, "I
have some marmalade at my house in Paris, real marmalade, not the sort of
stuff you buy these days.
Pages:
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264