and that, if by any chance he failed to show up at a cabaret, the management said: “What’s the use?” and put up the shutters.
The next two nights I didn’t come across them, but the night after that I was sitting by myself at the Maison Pierre when somebody tapped me on the shoulder-blade, and I found Rocky standing beside me, with a sort of mixed expression of wistfulness and apoplexy on his face.
How the chappie had contrived to wear my evening clothes so many times without disaster was a mystery to me. He confided later that early in the proceedings he had slit the waistcoat up the back and that that had helped a bit.
For a moment I had the idea that he had managed to get away from his aunt for the evening; but, looking past him, I saw that she was in again.
She was at a table over by the wall, looking at me as if I were something the management ought to be complained to about.
“Bertie, old scout,” said Rocky, in a quiet, sort of crushed voice, “we’ve always been pals, haven’t we? I mean, you know I’d do you a good turn if you asked me?”
“My dear old lad,” I said. The man had moved me.
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, come over and sit at our table for the rest of the evening.”
Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
“My dear chap,” I said, “you know I’d do anything in reason; but—”
“You must come,