Volume VII - Modernist Magazines Project

By Hubert Crackanthorpe 253only excuse accepted. So when we reached the wayside inn Ipulled up." What's up ? " called a voice through the glass." Shoe loose, doctor," I answered.The next moment he was on the road beside the team." Where's the buffy ? " he asked.I pointed with the whip to the house, and soon some half-dozenof us were sitting in the kitchen, and they were standing mecoffee and cognac all round.8 a.m.—The shipping of the Havre was in sight—a delicatetracery against the sky, like a distant winter forest. Beyond,across the river, wrapped in pale blue haze, stretched the clifrs otHonfleur, and the offing, all shimmering in the sunlight, laystudded with snow-white sails. . . .With the skid on, we swung down the long hill into the city.And as we pushed our way through the streets, tight-packedwith a staring crowd, and bawled unceremoniously at the localpolice, and forced the irate tram-drivers to retreat till there wasspace for us to pass them, and searched at every turning to theright and to the left for the square where we were to camp, Irealised more than ever the exhilarating charm of this reckless,adventurous life.** *Havre^ 9.30 a.m.—He was a little French cabin-boy. He haddeserted his ship, and had followed the show from Dieppe. He usedto explain to us with pride how, if he were caught, he would getforty-eight.days' imprisonment. His clothes were a mass of filthyrags. I gave him a pair of trousers, and he stole my cigarettes.He