“I got a sensitive skin!”
“This is no time to talk about your skin——”
“Somebody put a beetle down my back!”
“Absurd!”
“I felt it wriggling——”
“Nonsense!”
“Sounds pretty thin, doesn’t it?” said someone at my side.
It was Steggles, dash him. Clad in a snowy surplice or cassock, or whatever they call it, and wearing an expression of grave concern, the blighter had the cold, cynical crust to look me in the eyeball without a blink.
“Did you put a beetle down his neck?” I cried.
“Me!” said Steggles. “Me!”