Lost trumpet

CHAPTER THE FOURTH
* “There are many slaveries,” I said. “Those of the
lash and those of the liquor ; and the little men who
are slaves of hope, and the bond-serfs of a creed of
hate.” ’
Subchapter i
NEXT morning, to counter-balance my early
stirrings on the Sunday, I overslept. Nor
did Annie Marie awake me until necessity beat with
urgency upon her door. In dream I heard the sound
and imagined myself back again in Crimea, watching
the bombardment of Perekop Fortress across the
Sivash Boloto. Presently, however, half-awake, 1
was aware that the barrage against Perekop had ceased
and that someone shook me ungently by the shoulder.
So I awoke to find my room filled by the dazzle
of Egyptian sunshine and the heated presence of my
landlady.
“ ’Ere, kurnel, two blokes in a car lookin’ f’r yew.
’Mericans.”
“Americans ?”
“Yers. Fat un an’ a thin. ’Ere’s yer breakfast. I
told ’em yew’d be down in a quarter of an hour.”
She peered at me anxiously, concernedly, knowing
that these were probably clients who awaited me.
“Yew will, won’t yew ?”
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