“Follow that boy,” said Phil. “He will fix you up.”
“Thanks! If you don’t mind, I should like to have my bite with you, old chap. I won’t be a jiffy.”
And off he strutted after the grinning boy, while Phil sat in five minutes’ dreamy contemplation.
Back came Percival DeRue Hannington, spick and span as far as a clothes-brush and soap and water could make him.
“By jove! It’s a corker how much dirt can stick to a fellow without falling off,” he remarked. “What are you having?”
Phil named something light.
“That all?” asked Hannington. “I’m hungry as a blooming hawk. I haven’t had a decent bite for three months.
“Everything on the blessed calendar for me, miss, frills and extras included,” he went on, addressing the waitress, who went away with the end of her apron in her mouth.
“You know, Mister––Mister–––”