“Yes. Yes. But a sprat is also thrown away sometimes in order to catch a whale.”
“A whale. Phew!” exclaimed Toodles, with bated breath. “You’re after a whale, then?”
“Not exactly. What I am after is more like a dog-fish. You don’t know perhaps what a dog-fish is like.”
“Yes; I do. We’re buried in special books up to our necks—whole shelves full of them—with plates. . . . It’s a noxious, rascally-looking, altogether detestable beast, with a sort of smooth face and moustaches.”
“Described to a T,” commended the Assistant Commissioner. “Only mine is clean-shaven altogether. You’ve seen him. It’s a witty fish.”
“I have seen him!” said Toodles incredulously. “I can’t conceive where I could have seen him.”
“At the Explorers, I should say,” dropped the Assistant Commissioner calmly. At the name of that extremely exclusive club Toodles looked scared, and stopped short.
“Nonsense,” he protested, but in an awe-struck tone. “What do you mean? A member?”
“Honorary,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner through his teeth.
“Heavens!”