Giant’s Bread · Book V · I · Chapter 5 1 1

I

In the yard of the County Hotel in Wiltsbury two chauffeurs were busy with cars. George Green finished his work on the interior of the big Daimler, wiped his hands on a bit of oily rag and stood upright with a sigh of satisfaction. He was a cheerful young fellow and was smiling now because he was pleased with himself for locating the trouble and dealing with it. He strolled along to where his fellow chauffeur was completing the toilet of a Minerva.

The latter looked up.

“Hullo, George⁠—you through? Your boss is a Yank, isn’t he? What’s he like?”

“He’s all right. Fussy, though. Won’t go more than forty.”

“Well, thank your stars you don’t drive for a woman,” said the other. His name was Evans. “Always changing their minds. And no idea of the proper times for meals. Picnic lunches as often as not⁠—and you know what that means, a hard-boiled egg and a leaf of lettuce.”

Green sat down on an adjacent barrel.

“Why don’t you chuck it?”

“Not so easy to get another job, these days,” said Evans.

“No, that’s true,” said Green. He looked thoughtful.

“And I’ve got a missus and two kids,” went on the other. “What’s the rot that was talked about a country fit for heroes? No, if you’ve got a job⁠—any kind of a job⁠—it’s better to freeze on to it in 1920.”

He was silent for a minute, and then went on.

“Funny business⁠—the war. I was hit twice⁠—shrapnel. Makes you go a bit queer afterwards. My missus says I frighten her⁠—go quite batty sometimes. Wake up in the middle of the night hollering and not knowing where I am.”

“I know,” said Green. “I’m the same. When my guvnor picked me up⁠—in Holland that was⁠—I couldn’t remember a thing about myself except my name.”

“When was that? After the war?”

“Six months after the armistice. I was working in a garage there. Some chaps who were drunk ran me down one night in a lorry. Fairly scared ’em sober. They picked me up and took me along with them. I’d got a whacking great bash on the head. They looked after me and got me a job. Good chaps they were. I’d been working there two years when Mr. Bleibner came along. He hired a car from our place once or twice and I drove him. He talked to me a good bit and finally he offered to take me on as chauffeur.”

“Mean to say you never thought of getting back home before that?”

“No⁠—I didn’t want to somehow. I’d no folks there as far as I could remember and I’ve an idea I’d had a bit of trouble there of some kind.”

“I shouldn’t associate trouble with you, mate,” said Evans with a laugh.

George Green laughed too. He was indeed a most cheerful-looking young man, tall and dark with broad shoulders and an ever ready smile.

“Nothing much ever worries me,” he boasted. “I was born the happy-go-lucky kind, I guess.”

He moved away, smiling happily. A few minutes later he was reporting to his employer that the Daimler was ready for the road.

Mr. Bleibner was a tall thin dyspeptic-looking American with pure speech.

“Very good. Now, Green, I am going to Lord Datchet’s for luncheon. Abingworth Friars. It’s about six miles from here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After luncheon I am going to a place called Abbots Puissants. Abbotsford is the village. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it, I think, sir. But I don’t know exactly where it is. I’ll look it up on the map.”

“Yes, please do so. It cannot, I think, be more than twenty miles⁠—in the direction of Ringwood, I fancy.”

“Very good, sir.”

Green touched his cap and withdrew.