'The Idea only needs to be co-ordinated to Imperial scale' he began.
'But it means that the pub. will be crowded,' I went on.
'What's the matter with lunching by the roadside here?' said Penfentenyou. 'We've got the lunch-basket.'
'Haven't you ever heard of Sumtner Barton ales?' I demanded, and he became the administrator at once, saying, 'I see! Lingnam can drive us in and we'll get some, while Holford'—this was the hireling chauffeur, whose views on beer we knew not—'lays out lunch here. That'll be better than eating at the pub. We can take in the Foresters' Fête as well, and perhaps I can buy some newspapers at the station.'
'True,' I answered. 'The railway station is just under that bridge, and we'll come back and lunch here.'
I indicated a terrace of cool clean shade beneath kindly beeches at the head of Sumtner Rise. As Holford got out the lunch-basket, a detachment of Regular troops on manœuvres swung down the baking road.
'Ah!' said Mr. Lingnam, the monthly-magazine roll in his voice. 'All Europe is an armed camp, groaning, as I remember I once wrote, under the weight of its accoutrements.'
'Oh, hop in and drive,' cried Penfentenyou. 'We want that beer!'
It made no difference. Mr. Lingnam could have federated the Empire from a tight rope. He continued his oration at the wheel as we trundled.
