Mr. Zanti thought it a tremendous joke. He roared, shouted with riotous
laughter. "Oh, ze boy--he will be the death of me--'I will write
stories'--Oh yes, so easy, so very simple. 'I will write stories'--Oh yes."
But Peter was very solemn. He did not like his great intention to be
laughed at.
"I mean it," he said rather gruffly.
"Oh yes, that's of course--but that is enough. Oh dear, yes ... well, my
friend, I like you. You are very strong, you are brave I can see--you have
a fine spirit. One thing you lack--with all you English it is the same."
He paused interrogatively but Peter did not seem to wish to know what this
quality was.
"Yes, it is ze Humour--you do not see how funny life is--always--always
funny. Death, murder, robberies, violences--always funny--you are. Oh!
so solemn and per'aps you will be annoyed, think it tiresome, because I
laugh--"
"No," said Peter gravely, "I like your laughing."
"Ah! That is well." Suddenly he jerked his body forward and stared into
Peter's face.
"Well!... Will you come?"
Peter hung back, his face white. He was only conscious that Zachary, quiet
and smiling in the background, watched him intently.
"What!... with you ... to London!"
"Yes ... wiz me--what of your father? Will he be furious, hey?"
"He won't like it--" Peter continued slowly. "But I don't care.
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