He was dark and well dressed in a
light holiday fashion, and Fisher recognized him at once as a young
man named James Bullen, called, for some unknown reason, Bunker. He
was the nephew of Sir Isaac; but, what was much more important at
the moment, he was also the private secretary of the Prime Minister.
"Hullo, Bunker!" observed Horne Fisher. "You're the sort of man I
wanted to see. Has your chief come down yet?"
"He's only staying for dinner," replied Bullen, with his eye on the
yellow ball. "He's got a great speech to-morrow at Birmingham and
he's going straight through to-night. He's motoring himself there;
driving the car, I mean. It's the one thing he's really proud of."
"You mean you're staying here with your uncle, like a good boy?"
replied Fisher. "But what will the Chief do at Birmingham without
the epigrams whispered to him by his brilliant secretary?"
"Don't you start ragging me," said the young man called Bunker.
"I'm only too glad not to go trailing after him. He doesn't know a
thing about maps or money or hotels or anything, and I have to dance
about like a courier. As for my uncle, as I'm supposed to come into
the estate, it's only decent to be here sometimes."
"Very proper," replied the other. "Well, I shall see you later on,"
and, crossing the lawn, he passed out through a gap in the hedge.
Pages:
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128