The Lonely Skier by Hammond Innes

of him as 'a fat, sluggish ape' was cruel, but not inappropriate. He had heavy features. The skin below the sockets of his eyes was dragged down by great pouches. His cheeks swept in ample folds to his splendid chins and flapped like dewlaps as he talked. He weighed, I should guess, over fifteen stone. He was, in fact, one of the most impressive figures I have ever seen and to watch him fitting himself into his sleeping berth was as good as a visit to the panda's cage at the London Zoo. He was in a furious temper when he joined me on the platform at Victoria. He had a hangover and obviously hated travel. 'You're Neil Blair, are you?' he said. He was panting, but for all that he was quick enough on his feet. 'I'm Joe Wesson. We've been had for a couple of mugs, blast Engles' God-damned soul! Why couldn't he convince the Studios himself without sending us to shiver on a Dolomite, taking pictures and writing scripts?' He heaved his gear on to the rack. 'The Studios will do what he says anyway. He could just as well talk them into it. He's got a tongue, and 'tisn't as though it's rusty. But he must have the whole circus running around full of the same idea.' He fitted himself into a corner seat facing the engine and, as though to bear out Engles' theories, brought out a stack of Westerns, picked up the top one and settled himself to read. He worked his way steadily down through that pile of Westerns as we crossed the Channel and the train rattled across France and through Switzer