"People's ideas of
fun vary," he stated. "The fly's idea ain't the same as the spider's.
This 'ere is my idea--shaking your hand and sitting cosy with the bloke
that's sent me down more times than I can think. And the fun 'ull grow
furious when you and I walk arm in arm on to that platform, and you
tell them all I'm resurrected."
"Like this?" The proper Mr. Fosdike interjected.
"Eh?" said Tim. "Like what?"
"You can't go on to the platform in those clothes, Martlow. Have you
looked in a mirror lately? Do you know what you look like? This is a
respectable occasion, man."
"Yes," said Tim drily. "It's an occasion for showing respect to me.
I'll do as I am, not having had time to go to the tailor's for my dress
suit yet."
"Martlow," said Sir William briskly, "time's short. I'm due on that
platform."
"Right, I'm with you." Tim moved towards the platform door.
Sir William, with a serene air of triumph, played his trump card. He
took out his cheque-book. "No," he said. "You're not coming. Instead--"
He shrank back hastily as a huge fist was projected vehemently towards
his face.
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