fitting that they gave his figure a comical air of having been loosely and inaccurately strung together from a selection of stuffed bags of cloth. He wore a discolored Panama hat of weird and wonderful architecture, and carried an incongruous green umbrella furled, but still flapping in a bedraggled and forlorn sort of way, under his left arm; his face was rubicund and bulbous like his body, looking as if it had been carelessly slapped together out of a few odd lumps of pink plasticine.
As Simon moved to the left, the elderly gent duplicated the manoeuvre. Simon turned his feet and swerved politely to the right. The elderly gent did exactly the same, as if he were Simon’s own reflection in a distorting mirror. Simon stopped altogether and decided to economize energy by letting the elderly gent make the next move in the ballet on his own.
Whereupon he discovered that the game of undignified dodging in which he had just prepared to surrender his part was caused by some dimly discernible ambition of the elderly gent’s to hold converse with him. Standing in front of him and blinking short-sightedly upwards from his lower altitude to the Saint’s six foot two, with his mouth hanging vacantly open like an inverted “U” and three long yellow teeth hanging down like stalactites from the top, the elderly gent tapped him on the chest and said, very earnestly and distinctly: “Hig fwmgn glugl phnihklu hgrm skhlglgl?”
“I beg your pardon?” said the Saint vaguely.
“Hig fwmgn,” repeated the elderly gent, “glugl phnihklu hgrm skhlglgl?” Simon considered the point. “If you ask me,” he replied at length, “I should say sixteen.”
The elderly gent’s knobbly face seemed to take on a brighter shade of pink. He clutched the lapels of the Saint’s coat, shaking him slightly in a positive passion of anguish.
“Flogh ghoglu sk,” he pleaded, “klngnt hu ughl-gstghnd?”
Simon shook his head.
“No,” he said judiciously, “you’re thinking of weevils.”
The little man bounced about like a rubber doll. His eyes squinted with a kind of frantic despair.
“Ogmighogho,” he almost screamed, “klngt hu ughglstghnd ? Ik ghln ngmnpp sktlghko 1 Klugt hu hgr ? Ik wgnt hlg phnihkln hgrm skhlglgl!”
The Saint sighed. He was by nature a kindly man to those whom the Gods had afflicted, but time was passing and he was thinking of Jacqueline Laine.
“I’m afraid not, dear old bird,” he murmured regretfully. “There used to be one, but it died. Sorry, I’m sure.”
He patted the elderly gent apologetically upon the shoulder, steered his way around him, and passed on out of earshot of the frenzied sputtering noises that continued to honk despairingly through the dusk behind him. Two minutes later he was with Jacqueline.
Jacqueline Laine was twenty-three; she was tall and slender; she had grey eyes that twinkled and a demoralizing mouth. Both of these temptations were in play as she came towards him; but he was still slightly shaken by his recent encounter.
“Have you got any more village idiots hidden around?” he asked warily, as he took her hands; and she was puzzled.
“We used to have several, but they’ve all got into Congress. Did you want one to take home?”
“My God, no,” said the Saint fervently. “The one I met at the gate was bad enough. Is he your latest boy friend?”
Her brow cleared.
“Oh, you mean the old boy with the cleft palate? Isn’t he marvellous? I think he’s got a screw loose or something. He’s been hanging around all day—he keeps ringing the bell and bleating at me. I’d just sent him away for the third time. Did he try to talk to you?”
“He did sort of wag his adenoids at me,” Simon admitted, “but I don’t think we actually got on to common ground. I felt quite jealous of him for a bit, until I realized that he couldn’t possibly kiss you nearly as well as I can, with that set of teeth.”
He proceeded to demonstrate this.
“I’m still in a
As Simon moved to the left, the elderly gent duplicated the manoeuvre. Simon turned his feet and swerved politely to the right. The elderly gent did exactly the same, as if he were Simon’s own reflection in a distorting mirror. Simon stopped altogether and decided to economize energy by letting the elderly gent make the next move in the ballet on his own.
Whereupon he discovered that the game of undignified dodging in which he had just prepared to surrender his part was caused by some dimly discernible ambition of the elderly gent’s to hold converse with him. Standing in front of him and blinking short-sightedly upwards from his lower altitude to the Saint’s six foot two, with his mouth hanging vacantly open like an inverted “U” and three long yellow teeth hanging down like stalactites from the top, the elderly gent tapped him on the chest and said, very earnestly and distinctly: “Hig fwmgn glugl phnihklu hgrm skhlglgl?”
“I beg your pardon?” said the Saint vaguely.
“Hig fwmgn,” repeated the elderly gent, “glugl phnihklu hgrm skhlglgl?” Simon considered the point. “If you ask me,” he replied at length, “I should say sixteen.”
The elderly gent’s knobbly face seemed to take on a brighter shade of pink. He clutched the lapels of the Saint’s coat, shaking him slightly in a positive passion of anguish.
“Flogh ghoglu sk,” he pleaded, “klngnt hu ughl-gstghnd?”
Simon shook his head.
“No,” he said judiciously, “you’re thinking of weevils.”
The little man bounced about like a rubber doll. His eyes squinted with a kind of frantic despair.
“Ogmighogho,” he almost screamed, “klngt hu ughglstghnd ? Ik ghln ngmnpp sktlghko 1 Klugt hu hgr ? Ik wgnt hlg phnihkln hgrm skhlglgl!”
The Saint sighed. He was by nature a kindly man to those whom the Gods had afflicted, but time was passing and he was thinking of Jacqueline Laine.
“I’m afraid not, dear old bird,” he murmured regretfully. “There used to be one, but it died. Sorry, I’m sure.”
He patted the elderly gent apologetically upon the shoulder, steered his way around him, and passed on out of earshot of the frenzied sputtering noises that continued to honk despairingly through the dusk behind him. Two minutes later he was with Jacqueline.
Jacqueline Laine was twenty-three; she was tall and slender; she had grey eyes that twinkled and a demoralizing mouth. Both of these temptations were in play as she came towards him; but he was still slightly shaken by his recent encounter.
“Have you got any more village idiots hidden around?” he asked warily, as he took her hands; and she was puzzled.
“We used to have several, but they’ve all got into Congress. Did you want one to take home?”
“My God, no,” said the Saint fervently. “The one I met at the gate was bad enough. Is he your latest boy friend?”
Her brow cleared.
“Oh, you mean the old boy with the cleft palate? Isn’t he marvellous? I think he’s got a screw loose or something. He’s been hanging around all day—he keeps ringing the bell and bleating at me. I’d just sent him away for the third time. Did he try to talk to you?”
“He did sort of wag his adenoids at me,” Simon admitted, “but I don’t think we actually got on to common ground. I felt quite jealous of him for a bit, until I realized that he couldn’t possibly kiss you nearly as well as I can, with that set of teeth.”
He proceeded to demonstrate this.
“I’m still in a
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