Brock had gone to
the Chatham for years just because Charles was a fixture there. Charles
spoke the most execrably picturesque English, served with a
punctiliousness that savoured almost of the overbearing, and boasted
that he had acquired the art of making American cocktails in the Waldorf
during a five weeks' residence in the United States.
It was a lazy morning. Brock was happy. He was even interested when a
porter came forth and unravelled a long roll of garden hose, with which
he abruptly began to splash water upon the concrete surface of the court
without regard for distance or direction. Moreover, he proceeded to
water the palms at Brock's elbow, operating from a spot no less than
twenty feet away. He likewise was casting inquiring glances at divers
windows--few if any at the plants--until the faithful Charles restored
him to earth by means of certain subdued injunctions and less moderate
gesticulations, from which it could be readily gathered that "M'sieur
was eating, not bathing." Whereupon the utterly uncrushed porter
splashed water at right angles, much to Brock's relief, while all his
fellow porters, free or engaged, took up the quarrel with rare disregard
for cause or justice. A _femme de chambre_, from a convenient window,
joined in the hubbub without in the least knowing what it was all
about. Monsieur's comfort must be preserved: that seemed to be the issue
in which, at once, all were united.
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