The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

masculine needs, and Jolly had placed the day’s news-papers as well as the latest Time and Playboy on the bedside table.

Loman appeared to take all this in at a glance, then turned and looked down at Rollison from his great height and demanded in an unbelieving voice:

“Did you call him Jolly, Rolly ?”

He stood there determinedly bewildered. His mouth opened half an inch and the expression in his eyes reminded Rollison of Pamela Brown’s. There was some-thing so helpless-seeming about him that, whether it was deceptive or not, Rollison felt the kind of sympathy he would feel for a young calf which had strayed from its mother. The spontaneous chuckle which had overtaken him several times today bubbled up and over, but not until he had said:

“Yes. Yes and — it’s not supposed to be funny.” He gave a snort of laughter but won only bafflement from Tom Loman. “He — he has been with me since before I was your age,” he managed to say.

“You mean he’s a family retainer?”

“You could say that,” Rollison agreed.

“Family retainers and jet aircraft, airport bombings and a man who doesn’t turn a hair at any kind of danger. Are you sure this is England, Rolly? Not Alice-inWonderland or something out of Hogarth?”

“Not Alice nor the eighteenth century,” Rollison assured him. “The bathroom’s through that doorway. Can you be ready in five minutes?”

“Sure can,” Loman assured him. He studied Rollison deliberately then shot out his long arms and dropped his hands on Rollison’s shoulders with the now familiar powerful grip, and went on in a deeper voice: “And after we’ve eaten we just have to talk. And I mean talk.”

“We shall talk,” Rollison promised, faintly.

Five minutes later, Loman entered the big room by the rear passage, a little ahead of Rollison. He went straight to the fireplace, just then screened, and surveyed the Trophy Wall. In fact he did not move until Rollison appeared; even then, he only moved his eyes.

“Will you have a drink?” asked Rollison.

“I guess not,” answered Loman. “Mr. Rollison, am I correct in believing that collection is unique?”

“I think it probably is,” Rollison said.

“I’m darned sure it is,” said Loman, with a surge of vigour. “I read about that, somewhere. I don’t remember much about it but I remember reading about that wall.” He saw Jolly appear from the other direction, carrying a steaming dish, and was soon at the hotplate near the table, helping himself to stewed beef which had been cooked very slowly in a red wine and flavoured with delicate spices that gave it a rare aroma and delicious savour. He finished long before the Toff, who jumped up, took his plate, and said:

“Let me get you some more.”

Loman took a second helping, ate somewhat more slowly, and shook his head sorrowfully when offered a third. As Jolly was bringing in a crisp-looking open apple tart and some whipped cream, he said:

“Did you cook that, Mr. Jolly?”

“That was my pleasure, sir.”

“You want to know something?” Loman asked. “At any hotel or restaurant in Tucson, you could make a fortune.”

Jolly kept a wholly straight face.

“That is very gracious of you, sir, but I am very happy where I am.”

“In London?” asked Loman.

“Yes indeed, sir. Will you have —?”

“It’s always warm in Tucson.”

“I am sure it is a delightful place, sir, but when one is getting on in years one moves from the familiar only with great reluctance.”

“Mr. Jolly,” announced Loman. “Tucson is just the place for you. It’s full of senior citizens.”

“Of what, sir?”

“Senior citizens. Old folk who —”

“You must forgive me, sir,” said Jolly, very firmly, “but I am doubtful whether I should like Tucson.”

“Not like Tucson!”

“No, sir. I —”

“Everybody likes Tucson!”

“Sir,” said Jolly, standing with the tart in one hand and a silver slice in the other, “with the greatest respect, I do not believe that I would enjoy a temperature of a hundred and five to a hundred and fifteen, which I understand is common in summer. Moreover I like some humidity, and I understand that the humidity in Tucson except during the summer heat is not high. I am moreover allergic to certain pollens and dust irritates the membranes of my nose and throat. Further, with a few exceptions the buildings are of one or two storeys only, I understand, and I enjoy heights. Moreover —”

“Roily,” said Loman, in a sharp voice, “how come your man knows so much about Tucson?”

“He knows much more than I do,” Rollison conceded.