It was clear he didn't believe me, and he kept it out of my reach, turning it carefully about, and in response to a jerk of his chin two or three of his colleagues came up and glared, first, at me, and than at the suspicious object. However, he would not let them touch it, but, squaring his chin and taking a deep breath, he turned the handle.
There was a faint ticking noise, but nothing happened, and I suggested timidly that he should look through the peep-holes and see what was going on inside. He frowned at my interference, but taking my advice all the same, raised the box nearer his fierce eye and turned the handle once more and with greater force. Instantly there was a loud whirr, and a bright green trick-serpent leapt through the lid, caught him full on the nose and sent him back sprawling among his packing cases, carrying two of his friends with him.
I gave a bit of a squeak, but it was lost among the "Ach Gotts" and "Himmels" all round me. Cecil in his wildest dreams had never hoped for this. Whatever the consequences might be I meant to have my snake, and while I was collecting it from the floor and cramming it back in the box I discovered my defence.
Smiling my very best smile, I turned and faced the angry officials the other side of the counter and, holding the box towards them, pointed to three printed words underneath: "Made in Germany."
"The Prime Minister left Cupar by the 5.29 train.... The motor arrived at the station at 5.55 and the party went in leisurely fashion down the station steps."—Glasgow Herald.
What it is to be a Prime Minister! Ordinary mortals arrive at 5.28 and go down the steps three at a time.
"It is, of course, impossible to dogmatise without conclusive evidence."—Times.
You should hear our curate.