Hamilton, in the midst of his weekly report, chucked down his pen.
"No; nor the Eves of Cambridge, nor the Serpents of Eton, nor the Angels of Harrow."
"I suppose——" began Bones.
"Nor are my relations on speaking terms with them. They don't know the Adamses, nor the Cains, nor the Abels, nor the Moseses, nor the Noahs."
"That's all I wanted to know, sir," said an injured Bones. "There's no need to peeve, sir."
Step by step Bones was compiling a directory of people to whom he might write without restraint, providing he avoided mythical lion hunts and confined himself to anecdotes which were suggestively complimentary to himself.
Thus he wrote to one pal of his at Biggestow to the effect that he was known to the natives as "The-Man-Who-Never-Sleeps," meaning thereby that he was a most vigilant and relentless officer, and the recipients of this information, fired with a sort of local patriotism, sent the remarkable statement to the Biggestow Herald and Observer and Hindhead Guardian, thereby upsetting all Bones' artful calculations.
"What the devil does 'Man-Who-Never-Sleeps' mean?" asked a puzzled Hamilton.
"Dear old fellow," said Bones, incoherently, "don't let's discuss it ... I can't understand how these things get into the bally papers."