As The Freak hustled me down All Saints' Passage, I enquired plaintively who Mr. Wicky might be.
"Wickham is his name," replied The Freak. "He is nominally giving the dinner. We are going to--"
"Pardon me," I interposed. "How many people are nominally giving this dinner? So far, we have you, Wicky, and myself. I--"
"It's this way," explained my friend. "Wicky is nominally the host; he will do the honours. But I have dropped out. The dinner will be ordered in your name now. That's all."
"Why is Wicky nominally the host?" I enquired, still befogged.
"We are all giving the dinner--seven of us," explained The Freak; "all except yourself and The Jebber, in fact. Wicky has to be host because he is the only man who is not going to the dinner disguised as some one else. Now, do you understand?"
"There are one or two minor points," I remarked timidly, "which--"
"Go ahead!" sighed my friend.
"Who," I enquired, "is The Jebber? And why should he share with me the privilege of not paying for his dinner?"
The Freak became suddenly serious.