Читать книгу Some Do Not... онлайн

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The man with the black oily hair said:

'If Budapest's the place for the girls you say it is, old pal, with the Turkish baths and all, we'll paint the old town red all right next month,' and he winked at Tietjens. His friend, with his head down, seemed to make internal rumblings, looking apprehensively beneath his blotched forehead at the General.

'Not,' the other continued argumentatively, 'that I don't love my old woman. She's all right. And then there's Gertie. 'Ot stuff, but the real thing. But I say a man wants...' He ejaculated, 'Oh!'

The General, his hands in his pockets, very tall, thin, red-cheeked, his white hair combed forward in a fringe, sauntered towards the other table. It was not two yards, but it seemed a long saunter. He stood right over them, they looking up, open-eyed, like schoolboys at a balloon. He said:

'I'm glad you're enjoying our links, gentlemen.'

The bald man said: 'We are! We are! First-class. A treat!'

'But,' the General said, 'it isn't wise to discuss one's...eh...domestic circumstances...at...at mess, you know, or in a golf house. People might hear.'