"Exchange," I said, "there is here a fat swab."
"What?"
"Swab," said I. "I'll spell it. S for soldier, W, A for apple, B for Baldwin."
"Have you a complaint to make?"
"That's it," said I:
"About this swab. You see, he won't go to the ball. His ticket has been bought, his role chosen, his face passed over. And yet—"
"Mayfair supervisor," said a voice.
"That's done it," said I.
"I mean—er—Supervisor."
"Speaking."