Flashman And The Tiger

"The Prince is with her highness tonight," says she, with an arch look. Is he, by God! thinks I, and for a moment was seized with an impulse to stride in and drag him off her by the nape of h i s cuckolded neck—or her off him, more like, the arrogant bitch. Countess Grosbrusts was watching to see what I made of it, so I looked her over thoughtful-like, and she smiled, and I grinned at her, and she shrugged, and I laughed, and she laughed in turn which set ’em shaking, and as she turned into her room, casting a backward glance, I sauntered after, thinking what a capital change for my last night in Austria.

It was the custom at the lodge for the whole troop to gather for a late breakfast in the main salon, so I waited until all had assembled, despatched a lackey to Kralta’s quarters with orders to pack my traps and send ’em to the station, strolled down with Lady Bountiful on my arm, and announced to the company that I was desolated to have to leave them that day, as urgent affairs in London demanded my attention (which was prophetic, if you like).

Kralta, seated in state by the fire with her toads clustered round stirring her chocolate for her, went pale; she was looking deuced fetching, I have to say, in a white fur robe which prompted happy memories of the Orient Express. I made my apologies, and her eyes were diamond-hard as she glanced from me to my buxom companion and then to the Prince (who was looking a shade worn, I thought), but she would not have been Kralta if she hadn’t responded with icy composure, regretting my departure without expression on that proud horse face. I kissed her hand, made my bow to the Prince, advised him to stick at it, saluted the company, and departed, with a last smile at the splendid white figure seated in state, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, inclining her head with the regal condescension she’d used at our first meeting. By and large I like to leave ’em happy, but I doubt if she was.

•   •   •

Three days later I was at Charing Cross Station on one of those damp, dismal evenings when the fog rolls inside the buildings and the heart of the returning traveller is gladdened by the sight and smell of it all, London with its grime and bustle and raucous inhabitants, and there ain’t a "Ja, mein Herr," to be heard, or a sullen Frog face, and not a plate of sauerkraut in sight. I could even listen with fair good humour to the harassed excuses of the Cockney porter carrying my valise as he protested that he didn’t knaow nuffink abaht the trunk, guv', ’cos ’Erbert ’ad gorn ter the guard’s van for it, and where the ’ell ’e’d got ter, Gawd ownly knew. Sid and Fred were appealed to, search parties were despatched, and ’Erbert was discovered in the left-luggage office, reclining on a lower shelf in a state of merry inebriation. My porter gave tongue blasphemously.

"I knoo the barstid was ’arf-seas over when ’e come on! Din' I say? Din' I? Well, ’e can pick up ’is money if the super sees ’im, an' chance it! Serve the bleeder right, an' all! I’m sorry, guv'! Look, I’ll whistle a cab for yer, and Sid an' Fred’ll ’ave yer trunk run dahn in no toime!"

It was music to my ears, and I dawdled patiently, drinking in the sights and sounds of home, and even chuckling at the sight of the semi-comatose ’Erbert leaving off his rendition of "Fifteen men onna dead man’s chest, yow-ow-ow an' a bottlarum" to assure my porter, whose name was Ginger, that ’e was a blurry good mate an' a jolly ole pal, before subsiding among the piled baggage.

"Stoopid sod!" cried Ginger. "Gawd knaows w’ere ’e’s put it! Doan’t worry, guv', we’ll foind it! ’Ere, Sid, wot trains is goin' aht jus' naow? Can’t ’ave the gen’man’s trunk bein' sent orf by mistake, can we?"

"Eight o’clock’s leavin' shortly f’m Platform Free!" said Sid.

"Jeesus wept, that’s the bleedin' boat train! Naow, ’e wouldn’t, would ’e? ’Ere, Fred, be a toff an' nip dahn to Free, jus' ter mike shore, an' we’ll ferret abaht rahnd the cab-stands an' that—jus' you wait, guv'! We’ll ’ave it in arf a tick!"

I continued to loiter as Fred set off for Platform Three, and just then a neat little bottom tripped past, making for the tea-room, and I sauntered idly after it, curious to see if the front view lived up to the trim ankles and waist. No more than that, but it changed my life, for as I strolled along my eye caught sight of "3" above a ticket gate, and I changed course to see how Fred was doing in his quest for my trunk. The train was within a few minutes of leaving, heavy bags were going into the guard’s van, and Fred was emerging, shaking his head—and at that moment I caught sight of a familiar face down the platform, and strolled along to make sure. He was carrying a bag, and making for a group of fellows standing by a carriage door. I hove up by him, grinning.

"Hollo, Joe!" says I. "Taken up portering, have you?"

He wheeled round, and absolutely almost dropped the bag in astonishment. "Good God—Flashman!" cries he. "Why—they’ve found you, then!"