But I didn't do anything of the sort. Instead, I hunted up a newspaper chap I knew, and he put me next to "Boiler-plate" Hartopp at the Metropole.
The bruiser wasn't as bad sort as I had fancied him.
He was an Englishman all right-a cut below middle class; you could tell that by the way he clipped his initial h's off and on. I tried the ice at first-it's always best when you don't know the exact thickness of your frozen water. The way I tried it was to toss a flower or two at Maisie Hartopp and her "Jo-Jo" song.
He rose sure enough, and it didn't take me a quarter hour to see that the pug was really bowled out by the parcel of stage skirts who wore his name on the Gaiety bills. This made it a warmer game than it might have been otherwise, but I was in for it now, and I made the date.
No, I didn't mention Natica.
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