However, not a moment is to be lost. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. Still unconscious of anything he did physically. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. “It isn’t a joke,” she said. Now I do.
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