DON'T mind saying that if I'd only known the kind of garbage they cooked and called food at this hotel, I'd never have risked my digestion by coming here for a holiday,” complained the Honorable John Brass as he sat with his partner, Colonel Clumber, one morning, on the terrace of the very large and very new hotel which had just been opened at Harromouth, that said-to-be-rising seaside resort on the south coast. The Colonel did not answer—he seemed sullen.
“Those red mullet tasted more like bad bloaters painted pale pink,” continued Mr. Brass. Then, as though pleased and slightly surprised at the pat alliteration, he repeated it. “That's it—like bad bloaters painted pale pink,” he said.
Colonel Clumber stirred impatiently.
“The soles were carrion—cooked carrion,” he remarked antagonistically, obviously believing himself as much injured as his partner—who nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes, they looked carriony,” he agreed. “It seems to me that we can't do better than to take that little furnished place down by the cliff end for a month. We shall either starve, get poisoned or have to make a habit of ordering a liqueur of antiseptic fluid after every meal if we stop here.”
The Colonel nodded, and rose.
“You're right, Brass,” he said.
The Honorable John rang for a waiter, and ordered the motor round. But as the man went to ring up the garage at the back, a look of doubt suddenly crept into Mr. Brass' eyes.
“After all,” he said, “hadn't we better walk it? Donald sent us here for exercise—and it's only about a quarter of a mile.”
The Colonel nodded, and they left the terrace.
It was the old trouble—weight—that had brought them to Harromouth. Vaguely disturbed by the rather noticeable increase of adipose tissue which had obtruded itself upon them during the past winter, they had consulted Sir Donald MacRee, the expensive specialist, who, recognizing after a short conversation that the age of miracles was past and that therefore it was folly to suggest their maintaining a more frugal table, had recommended the burly partners to go to Harromouth for a month, there to play golf and otherwise take exercise. Carefully ascertaining that the golf-links were flat, without any of the miniature cliff-climbing which is a feature of so many courses, the partners had followed the advice—with sad results.
So they decided—rather reluctantly—to walk out and inspect a furnished house which the day before they had noticed was offered to be let.
“If I didn't feel pretty sure that Sir Donald knows his job, and when he said, 'Harromouth for you two,' he meant Harromouth for some good reason of his own, I'd sooner have put in my month's cure at Brighton,” said the Colonel frankly, as they strolled along. “This place is too much like a half-built beehive for me. Look at 'em. Like a lot of cockroaches in corduroys—swarms of 'em!” He pointed with his stick to the long strip of beach where hundreds of stalwart British workingmen were building a new esplanade and pier in that quiet, old-fashioned, leisurely style for which the British workman is so justly renowned.
Mr. Brass regarded the toiling multitude with an air of mild benevolence.
“Yes,” he said at last, “there's a lot of 'em there.” He paused thoughtfully. “They represent a pretty tidy sum in wages every week. What would they draw, do you reckon? A pound a head?”
HE COLONEL laughed—a hard laugh, for in his day he had employed the British workingman in large quantities.
“A pound!” he said. “You're thinking of Indian coolies! Those gents with the pickaxes over there would despise anything under the average of about three pounds a week, eight-hour day, double for overtime, if not more, and so on. This esplanade and pier and breakwater business is a 'rush' business too, I've heard. somewhere, and I expect they charge extra for that.”
The Honorable John surveyed them musingly.
“You surprise me, Squire,” he said. “Why, their wages-bill all told must add up to—what? Four thousand a week, paid out in ready money, I suppose.”
“Quite that,” replied the Colonel.
Mr. Brass sighed.
“Seems a lot of money,” he said. “It's a pity we couldn't get it one week.”
The Colonel nodded. “True,” he said. “So it is.”
Mr. Brass smiled pleasantly and continued to watch the corduroyed crowd.
“It wouldn't interfere with our holiday to any extent,” he remarked presently. “Let's talk it over.”