He spun round.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" he cried. Then, with that artless directness that so endears him to strangers, he added impetuously, "What the dickens are you doing in this God-forsaken place?"
An eminent Bristolian at the next table snorted audibly.
"I was just going to ask you the same question," I replied, "only in rather more tactful language. I'm here on business."
"Sit down," said Tommy, clutching me by the wrist and dragging me into a vacant chair. "This is Mortimer—Jimmy Mortimer, of the Gold Coast. We're motoring, and you've got to join us."
"May I have some lunch first?" I asked, bowing politely to Mr. Mortimer.
"Why, of course," said Tommy cheerfully. "You're feeding with us. Here, waiter, waiter, get this gentleman some lunch."
"Look here," he added, as the waiter slid off to fulfil the order, "do you know anything about salmon fishing?"
"In theory," I said, "I know everything. Why?"
"Because as soon as you've finished we're going to take you up to Hereford, for a couple of days on the best salmon river in England."