He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. —'They have,' says he.
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