“It was entirely my fault. We were strolling along on Boat Race Night, and I advised him to pinch a policeman’s helmet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, he seemed depressed, don’t you know, and rightly or wrongly I thought it might cheer him up if he stepped across the street and collared a policeman’s helmet. He thought it a good idea, too, so he started doing it, and the man made a fuss, and Oliver sloshed him.”

“Sloshed him?”

“Biffed him⁠—smote him a blow⁠—in the stomach.”

“My nephew Oliver hit a policeman in the stomach?”

“Absolutely in the stomach. And next morning the beak sent him to the Bastille for thirty days without the option.”