Rogue Male by Geoffrey Household

particular. They dismounted, looked at me with surprise, then at baby, then at the back-wheel.
    ‘Sorry to stop you,’ I said. ‘But might I ask you where you bought that thing? Just what I want for me and the missus and the young ’un!’
    I thought that struck the right note.
    ‘I made it,’ said pa proudly.
    He was a boy of about twenty-three or -four. He had the perfect self-possession and merry eyes of a craftsman. One can usually spot them, this new generation of craftsmen. They know the world is theirs, and are equally contemptuous of the professed radical and the genteel. They definitely belong in Class X, though I suppose they must learn to speak the part before being recognized by so conservative a nation.
    ‘Are you in the cycle trade?’
    ‘Not me!’ he answered with marked scorn for his present method of transport. ‘Aircraft!’
    I should have guessed it. The aluminium plating and the curved, beautifully tooled ribs had the professional touch; and two projections at the front of the side-car, which at first glance I had taken for lamps, were obviously model machine-guns. I hope they were for pa’s amusement rather than for the infant’s.
    ‘He looks pretty comfortable,’ I said to the wife.
    She was a sturdy wench in corduroy shorts no longer than bum-bags, and with legs so red that the golden hairs showed as continuous fur. Not my taste at all. But my taste is far from eugenic.
    ‘’E loves it, don’t you, duck?’
    She drew him from the side-car as if uncorking a fat puppy from a riding-boot. I take it that she did not get hold of him by the scruff of the neck, but my memory insists that she did. The baby chortled with joy, and made a grab for my dark glasses.
    ‘Now, Rodney, leave the poor gentleman alone!’ said his mother.
    That was fine. There was a note of Pity the Blind about her voice. Mr Vaner’s glasses had no delicate tints. They turned the world dark blue.
    ‘You wouldn’t like to sell it, I suppose?’ I asked, handing pa a cigarette.
    ‘I might when we get home,’ he answered cautiously. ‘But my home’s Leicester.’
    I said I was ready to make him an offer for bicycle and side-car then and there.
    ‘And give up my holiday?’ he laughed. ‘Not likely, mister!’
    ‘Well, what would it cost?’
    ‘I wouldn’t let it go a penny under fifteen quid!’
    ‘I might go to twelve pounds ten,’ I offered—I’d have gladly offered him fifty for it, but I had to avoid suspicion. ‘I expect I could buy the whole thing new for that, but I like your side-car and the way it’s fixed. My wife is a bit nervous, you see, and she’d never put the nipper in anything that didn’t look strong.’
    ‘It is strong,’ he said. ‘And fifteen quid would be my last word. But I can’t sell it you, because what would we do?’
    He hesitated and seemed to be summing up me and the bargain. A fine, quick-witted mind he had. Most people would be far too conservative to consider changing a holiday in the middle.
    ‘Haven’t anything you’d like to swap?’ he asked. ‘An old car or rooms at the seaside? We’d like a bit of beach to sit on, but what with doctor’s bills and the missus so extravagant …’
    He gave me a broad wink, but the missus wasn’t to be drawn.
    ‘He’s one for kidding!’ she informed me happily.
    ‘I’ve got a beach hut near Weymouth,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you have it free for a fortnight, and ten quid for the combination.’
    The missus gave a squeal of joy, and was sternly frowned upon by her husband.
    ‘I don’t know as I want a beach hut,’ he said, ‘and it would be twelve quid. Now we’re going to Weymouth tonight. Now suppose we did a swap, could we move in right away?’
    I told him he certainly could, so long as I could get there ahead of him to fix things up and have the place ready. I said I would see if there were a train.
    ‘Oh, ask for a lift!’ he said, as if it were the obvious way of travelling any short distance. ‘I’ll