Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. Blasted mind useless as a broken sieve—straining but not straining, as it were. What was the name of that chap with the silver salver, near the pavilion, the one dressed like a penguin? Penguins put him in mind of the North Pole. Polish person? No, red, perhaps—not commie, but cardinal, not the bird. Catholic chap. Cardinal Pole, was it? Archbishop back in . . . somewhere. Anyway, Reginald Pole, that was it. “I say, Reggie,” he mumbled. Now, if he could only remember what it was that he wanted. Some other chap’s name . . . Eddie, no, more like a woman’s undergarment, one of those filmy, a . . . . teddie. No, sod it – no wait! Toddie! “Reginald,” he called, drawing himself up to full height in his chair and taking care to speak slowly and not slur his words. “’Nother toddie over here, old suitcase.” And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
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-- Frank
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