“I say, Bangs, old man, we must have a drink on this.”
Drake led the way to the bar and called authoritatively for two whiskies and a split Polly.
“Quite a little-bit-of-fluffy-all-right,” he whispered to Michael, seeming to calculate with geometrical eyes the arcs and semicircles of the barmaid’s form. She with her nose in the air poured out the liquid, and Michael wondered how any of it went into the glass. As a matter of fact, most of it splashed onto the bar, whence Drake presently took his change all bedewed with alcohol, and, lifting his glass, wished Michael a jolly good chin-chin.
“’D luck,” Michael muttered in response.
“My lord!” Drake began again. “Fancy meeting you of all people. And not a bit different. I said to myself: ‘I’m jiggered if that isn’t old Bangs,’ and—well, my lord! but I was surprised. Do you often come out on the randan?”
“Not very often,” Michael admitted. “I just happened to be alone to-night.”
“Good for you, old sport. What have you been doing since you left school?”
“I’m just down from Oxford,” Michael informed him.
“Pretty good spree up there, eh?”
“Oh, yes, rather,” said Michael.