“I got a sensitive skin!”

“This is no time to talk about your skin⁠—”

“Somebody put a beetle down my back!”

“Absurd!”

“I felt it wriggling⁠—”

“Nonsense!”

“Sounds pretty thin, doesn’t it?” said someone at my side.

It was Steggles, dash him. Clad in a snowy surplice or cassock, or whatever they call it, and wearing an expression of grave concern, the blighter had the cold, cynical crust to look me in the eyeball without a blink.

“Did you put a beetle down his neck?” I cried.

“Me!” said Steggles. “Me!”