Down he sat.
“Doctor and me we saw the most puttiful case taday,” said she. “Man was I mean to tell you jist all cruppled up; soon’s he heard who Doctor was, well of course he wanned a git a nadjustmunt; but Doctor he hadda uxplain a him that he is not lie-sinced to practice down here; oh how he dud plead and carry on. Have the chucken chow mein, Muster Limekuller.”
Doctor Duckerson paused with a forkful of what was, presumably the chicken chow mein, although very often even The Third Eye could not disclose the mysteries of what one ate at the Grand Shanghai regardless of what one had ordered. “Subluxation of your third vertebrar,” said Doctor Duckerson. “I say that subluxations of your third vertebrar cause more of your so-called civilized ills and ailments than any single subluxation of any of your other vertebrar; now
“Eatcher dunner, Daddy,” said Mrs. Duckerson, who had perhaps heard more about your third vertebra and its subluxations back in Cowpat, Kansas, or Buffalo Bleep, B.C., than had been required by marriage ceremony.
Doctor’s question, slightly filtered through his forkful or Good Enough For Round Eyes, seemed to say something like Now what about our little trip Mr. Limeskinner; but he was for the moment over-ruled. “Lettum eat hus dunner, Daddy,” said Mrs. Duckerson.
One of the reasons why Limekiller had been avoiding close and frequent contact with Mrs. and Dr. Duckerson was the matter of what she (echoed through Doctor’s/Daddy’s shredded yard-fowl and whatever Mesoamerican substitutes for Chinese vegetables was most recently found most economical by the management of the Grand Shanghai) had been referring to on and off as “Our luttle trup” — the destination of our luttle trap was Limekiller’s little piece of land at Flower Bight. And he hadn’t been wanting to make it.
Not since he had made the close acquaintance of Bathsheba. Anyway.
On the one hand, Jack would have wished to prolong his meal in hopes that perhaps the Duckersons might tire of waiting and so depart without his having to make any statement positive or negative. And on the one hand, the nature of his meal was not such as to encourage him to prolong it at all. Although not precisely a feinshmecker, or gourmet — a tour of duty out of the Royal Canadian Naval base at Esquimault had cured him of any tendency towards finickly eating, as what tour of duty out of what naval base wouldn’t? — he was not invariably averse to complaining about some dish particularly deficient in edibility: wherever. But tonight’s waiter on-duty at the Grand Shanghai bore upon his very scrutable countenance such a look of deepest melancholy, reflective perhaps of a time there was e’er China’s woes began (say, about the 3rd century before the Christian Era) that Limekiller’s heart, not the very hardest article at all times, smote and prevented him.
So, by and by, and after the final cup of tea (the nature of which might well have caused riots and/or wall posters in either China), he shoved away his dinnerware and faced The Question.
“Now what about our luttle trup, Mr. Limekuller?”
“Momma nye been lookin forward to it oh ever since we heard aboutcher piece a propitty fer sale down there, Mr. Limeskinner.” ‘
“Flower Bight,’ now I think that’s ever such a nice lul name, whut kine da flowers would they be, Mr. Limekuller.”
Jack indicated vaguely they’d be all kinds of flowers such as one finds in these parts (“In season, of course,” he added); he did not feel up to explaining that the Bight was supposedly named for one Flowers, perhaps originally Flores, perhaps not, who had either hanged someone for piracy there long long ago, or had been hanged by someone there for the same crime, or even perhaps both, though probably not simultaneously: then again, considering the Hidalgoan Method of Historical Construction, Flowers (or Flores: names had a way of changing here as they crossed the Spanish River in either direction) had merely perhaps complained of being charged sixpence more for a bag of nails than he considered right, Mahn be no better nor a pirate! the complaint may have gone; what time he or someone next to he in a dram shop or punch house at that moment may have echoed, Mahn should be honed, dom pirate! and someone else, hearing or likelier half-hearing may have lurched away home, via a longish sea-voyage and replied at its end to What News? with Flowers, he hong one pirate, or even, for by that time all details would have become mazy and muzzy, One pirate, he hong Flowers. there were enough men named Flowers to go around; and by the time the story had been told either way and not even very often, it would have become fact. If I tell you three times, it is true, was a basic principle of the Hidalgoan Method of Historical Construction. - And, very often, If I tell me three times… or maybe only one or two times would have done. It often did; and not only in Hidalgo.
“Momma nye we been looking fra nice place to build us a place to spend the real cold months —” Jack knew those months and winters.
“Oh them cold wunters, they wuill kull us if we don’t git away and put a locum in charge from anyway December through March —" And Doctor added, gloomily, Not that finding a good locums was a very easy thing nowadays. (Particularly, Jack thought, one who was fully aware of everything involved by your subluxations of your third vertebrar: suddenly he could stand no more of it.)
“Folks, I have some particular business to attend to in a half an hour or so, and after that it will be too late to get in touch with you. Can I talk to you again in the morning? The, ah,” he hastily took a quick peek into his private life, “later morning?
Doctor gave a sort of affirmative confirmatory grunt and Mrs. Doctor looked at him with birdy-bright eyes; Jack suddenly had a sort of satori that neither one of them was as ding-dong dumb as he had taken for granted: they might, in fact, know all about him and. there being very few secrets in British Hidalgo. Bathsheba. they might, satori succeeding satori, even be able to figure it out for themselves: even the Mrs. and Doctor Duckersons of this world have by now learned about That.; for all he knew, they might even be just as good at it; furthermore Jack, with a rush and a flush and a flash back to the days when he stealthily examined the palms of his hands, plus a flash and a rush to a future he did not much anticipate, but still, had a fairly clear scene of some wheat farmer and/or timber-topper confiding an Intimate Problem to Doctor and being informed, “Your subluxation of your third vertebrar is a particular source of common difficulties in your sectial activities; take yer shirt off and git up on that table…”
“Why of course, Mr. Limekuller,” said Mrs. Doctor: “We retire on the dot of mudnight and we do not retire untull the dot of mudnight. You kin call us tull then, or, like you say, later on in the morning. We are stopping at the Ruwer View Hotel, any time.”
Jack, hasting along with long strides towards the Pelican, observed that the clock on one of the cathedrals stood at ten to ten; he would just make it; there was luckily no chance of the Swing Bridge doing any Swinging at this hour: not even Governor Sir Joshua Cummings, were he suddenly to decide on a moonlight cruise, would be able to bring the bridge captains back to the capstan at this hour, and would either have to unstep his mast or forget about it: common sense suddenly told him that the Governor’s boat must be moored by Government House, downriver from the Bridge, anyway. Anyway, what was his hurry? Either Bathsheba would be late, and full of explanations involving her aunties, or, if on time, she would, if he were late, instantly involve herself in some conversation with, well, anyone: and wait for him.