"Arthur C. Doyle - The Poison Belt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur C)

I turned away to pay off my taxi, the driver of which was very
cantankerous and abusive over his fare. As I came back to
Professor Summerlee, he was having a furious altercation with
the men who had carried down the oxygen, his little white goat's
beard jerking with indignation. One of the fellows called him,
I remember, "a silly old bleached cockatoo," which so enraged
his chauffeur that he bounded out of his seat to take the part
of his insulted master, and it was all we could do to prevent a
riot in the street.

These little things may seem trivial to relate, and passed as
mere incidents at the time. It is only now, as I look back, that
I see their relation to the whole story which I have to unfold.

The chauffeur must, as it seemed to me, have been a novice or
else have lost his nerve in this disturbance, for he drove
vilely on the way to the station. Twice we nearly had collisions
with other equally erratic vehicles, and I remember remarking
to Summerlee that the standard of driving in London
had very much declined. Once we brushed the very edge of a
great crowd which was watching a fight at the corner of the
Mall. The people, who were much excited, raised cries of
anger at the clumsy driving, and one fellow sprang upon the
step and waved a stick above our heads. I pushed him off, but
we were glad when we had got clear of them and safe out of
the park. These little events, coming one after the other,
left me very jangled in my nerves, and I could see from my
companion's petulant manner that his own patience had got to
a low ebb.

But our good humour was restored when we saw Lord John Roxton
waiting for us upon the platform, his tall, thin figure clad
in a yellow tweed shooting-suit. His keen face, with those
unforgettable eyes, so fierce and yet so humorous, flushed
with pleasure at the sight of us. His ruddy hair was shot
with grey, and the furrows upon his brow had been cut a
little deeper by Time's chisel, but in all else he was the
Lord John who had been our good comrade in the past.

"Hullo, Herr Professor! Hullo, young fella!" he shouted as
he came toward us.

He roared with amusement when he saw the oxygen cylinders
upon the porter's trolly behind us. "So you've got them
too!" he cried. "Mine is in the van. Whatever can the old
dear be after?"

"Have you seen his letter in the _Times_?" I asked.