“A. B.,” he says, slowly, “little a, nine four seven, I think—”
“Don't you know?”
“Not exactly,” says the botanist, very agreeably. “No.”
“Do you mean to say neither of you know your own numbers?” says the little post-mistress, with a rising note.
“Yes,” I say, with an engaging smile and trying to keep up a good social tone. “It's queer, isn't it? We've both forgotten.”
“You're joking,” she suggests.
“Well,” I temporise.
“I suppose you've got your thumbs?”
“The fact is—” I say and hesitate. “We've got our thumbs, of course.”
“Then I shall have to send a thumb-print down to the office and get your number from that. But are you sure you haven't your papers or numbers? It's very queer.”