“Cheer up, Papa Maddingham! ’Soon be dead!” Winchmore suggested.
Maddingham glared at him. “If I’d had you with me for one week, Master Winchmore——”
“Not the least use,” the boy retorted. “I’ve just been made a full-lootenant. I have indeed. I couldn’t reconcile it with my conscience to take Etheldreda out any more as a plain sub. She’s too flat in the floor.”
“Did you get those new washboards of yours fixed?” Tegg cut in.
“Don’t talk shop already,” Portson protested. “This is Vesiga soup. I don’t know what he’s arranged in the way of drinks.”
“Pol Roger ’04,” said the waiter.
“Sound man, Henri,” said Winchmore. “But,” he eyed the waiter doubtfully, “I don’t quite like.... What’s your alleged nationality?”
“’Henri’s nephew, monsieur,” the smiling waiter replied, and laid a gloved hand on the table. It creaked corkily at the wrist. “Bethisy-sur-Oise,” he explained. “My uncle he buy me all the hand for Christmas. It is good to hold plates only.”
“Oh! Sorry I spoke,” said Winchmore.
“Monsieur is right. But my uncle is very careful, even with neutrals.” He poured the champagne.