“Eh?” I said, for Bingo’s loathing for the country was well known. “Whereabouts?”
“Down in Hampshire, at a place called Ditteredge.”
“No, really? I know some people who’ve got a house there. The Glossops. Have you met them?”
“Why, that’s where I’m staying!” said young Bingo. “I’m tutoring the Glossop kid.”
“What for?” I said. I couldn’t seem to see young Bingo as a tutor. Though, of course, he did get a degree of sorts at Oxford, and I suppose you can always fool some of the people some of the time.
“What for? For money, of course! An absolute sitter came unstitched in the second race at Haydock Park,” said young Bingo, with some bitterness, “and I dropped my entire month’s allowance. I hadn’t the nerve to touch my uncle for any more, so it was a case of buzzing round to the agents and getting a job. I’ve been down there three weeks.”
“I haven’t met the Glossop kid.”
“Don’t!” advised Bingo, briefly.
“The only one of the family I really know is the girl.” I had hardly spoken these words when the most extraordinary change came over young Bingo’s face. His eyes bulged, his cheeks flushed, and his Adam’s apple hopped about like one of those india-rubber balls on the top of the fountain in a shooting-gallery.
“Oh, Bertie!” he said, in a strangled sort of voice.