are these hounds of hell?” I asked sympathetically.
“Some people named Pringle. I haven’t seen them since I was ten, but I remember them at that time striking me as England’s premier warts.”
“Tough luck. No wonder you’ve lost your morale.”
“The world,” said Sippy, “is very grey. How can I shake off this awful depression?”
It was then that I got one of those bright ideas one does get round about eleven-thirty on Boat-Race night.
“What you want, old man,” I said, “is a policeman’s helmet.”
“Do I, Bertie?”
“If I were you, I’d just step straight across the street and get that one over there.”
“But there’s a policeman inside it. You can see him distinctly.”
“What