Seated at the table were a
depressed-looking cove who might have been a valet or something, and a
boy in a Norfolk suit. The valet-chappie was drinking a whisky and
soda, and the boy was being tolerably rough with some jam and cake.
"Oh, I say, Jeeves!" I said. "Sorry to interrupt the feast of reason
and flow of soul and so forth, but----"
At this juncture the small boy's eye hit me like a bullet and stopped
me in my tracks. It was one of those cold, clammy, accusing sort of
eyes--the kind that makes you reach up to see if your tie is straight:
and he looked at me as if I were some sort of unnecessary product which
Cuthbert the Cat had brought in after a ramble among the local ash-cans.
He was a stoutish infant with a lot of freckles and a good deal of jam
on his face.
"Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" I said. "What?" There didn't seem much else to
say.
The stripling stared at me in a nasty sort of way through the jam. He
may have loved me at first sight, but the impression he gave me was
that he didn't think a lot of me and wasn't betting much that I would
improve a great deal on acquaintance. I had a kind of feeling that I
was about as popular with him as a cold Welsh rabbit.
"What's your name?" he asked.
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