DEAR MONGO
The talk buzzed on around him. How redolent of Wallace it seemed, virile, hard-hitting and pithy, generous, too, and all-embracing. Several of the older school of epigrammatists seemed to be of the party; their rapier wits flashed across the shadowy room.
“I hear Bill Wallingford’s standing for the Tories in this Yorkshire election,” some one threw out, apparently at random.
The world of high politics was obviously a preserve of the Mongoons.
“Easy enough to stand,” came the lightning reply from some one else in deep shadow, “it’s to sit that’s the difficulty.”
“Splendid,” Gav murmured in fine appreciation. He was feeling even more at home now. Somehow he felt he could show his mettle in this company. And he did.
For a time Mongo said little. But at last he turned to his modest guest.