desideratum, but one does not like one’s efforts to be—I can only say pushed away in a back corner among advertisements of bespoke tailors and places of amusement.” He paused, and a nasty gleam came into his eyes. “You will bear this in mind, Sipperley?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sippy.
“I am greatly obliged, my dear fellow,” said the cove, becoming genial again. “You must forgive my mentioning it. I would be the last person to attempt to dictate the—ha!—editorial policy, but—Well, good afternoon, Sipperley. I will call for your decision at three o’clock tomorrow.”
He withdrew, leaving a gap in the atmosphere about ten feet by six. When this had closed in, I sat up.
“What was that?” I said.
I was startled to observe poor old Sippy apparently go off his onion. He raised his hands over his head, clutched his hair, wrenched it about for a while, kicked a table with great violence, and then flung himself into his chair.
“Curse him!” said Sippy. “May he tread on a banana-skin on his way to chapel and sprain both ankles!”
“Who was he?”
“May he get frog-in-the-throat and be unable to deliver the end-of-term sermon!”
“Yes, but who was he?”
“My old head master, Bertie,” said Sippy.
“Yes, but, my dear old soul—”