“Mr. Bates. Mr. Bates. You know Mr. Bates?” said Sam. And such was the stimulating rhythm of the melody into which the unseen orchestra had just burst that he very nearly added, “He’s a bear, he’s a bear, he’s a bear.”
“Bates?”
“Or Tresidder.”
“Make up your mind,” said the field-marshal petulantly.
At this moment, on the opposite side of the street, there appeared the figure of Mr. Willoughby Braddock, walking with extraordinary swiftness. His eyes were staring straight in front of him. He had lost his hat.
“Bradder!” cried Sam.
Mr. Braddock looked over his shoulder, waved his hand, smiled a smile of piercing sweetness and passed rapidly into the night.
Sam was in a state of indecision similar to that of the dog in the celebrated substance-and-shadow fable. Should he pursue this will-o’-the-wisp, or should he stick to the sound Conservative policy of touching the man on the spot? What would Napoleon have done?
He decided to remain.
“Fellow who was at school with me,” he remarked explanatorily.