I sat there for
nearly half an hour, waiting for him to make his entrance, until I
suddenly discovered he had been on from the start. He was, in fact, the
rummy-looking plug-ugly who was now leaning against a potted palm a
couple of feet from the O.P. side, trying to appear intelligent while
the heroine sang a song about Love being like something which for the
moment has slipped my memory. After the second refrain he began to
dance in company with a dozen other equally weird birds. A painful
spectacle for one who could see a vision of Aunt Agatha reaching for
the hatchet and old Bassington-Bassington senior putting on his
strongest pair of hob-nailed boots. Absolutely!
The dance had just finished, and Cyril and his pals had shuffled off
into the wings when a voice spoke from the darkness on my right.
"Pop!"
Old Blumenfield clapped his hands, and the hero, who had just been
about to get the next line off his diaphragm, cheesed it. I peered into
the shadows. Who should it be but Jeeves's little playmate with the
freckles! He was now strolling down the aisle with his hands in his
pockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of respectful attention
seemed to pervade the building.
"Pop," said the stripling, "that number's no good.
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