CHITTERLOW
room. Kipps was so much interested by these things that for the time he forgot his injuries altogether.
An interval and Kipps was dazzled by a pink-shaded kerosene lamp. "You go in," said the red-haired man, "and I'll bring in the bike," and for a moment Kipps was alone in the lamp-lit room. He took in rather vaguely the shabby ensemble of the little apartment, the round table covered with a torn, red, glass-stained cover on which the lamp stood, a mottled looking-glass over the fireplace reflecting this, a disused gas bracket, an extinct fire, a number of aged postcards and memoranda stuck round the glass, a dusty paper-rack on the mantel crowded with a number of cabinet photographs, a side table littered with papers and cigarette ash and a syphon of soda water. Then the cyclist reappeared and Kipps saw his blue-shaved, rather animated face and bright, reddish-brown eyes for the first time. He was a man perhaps ten years older than Kipps, but his beardless face made them in a way contemporary.
"You behaved all right about that policeman—anyhow," he repeated as he came forward.
"I don't see 'ow else I could 'ave done," said Kipps quite modestly. The cyclist scanned his guest for the first time and decided upon hospitable details.
"We'd better let that mud dry a bit before we brush it. Whiskey there is, good old Methusaleh, Canadian Rye, and there's some brandy that's all right. Which'll you have?"
"I dunno," said Kipps, taken by surprise, and then seeing no other course but acceptance, "well—whiskey, then."
89
