He was a massive bloke, and there was something in his appearance that seemed familiar. Then, as I narrowed my gaze and scanned him more closely, memory did its stuff. That beefy frame. . . That pumpkin-shaped head. . .The face that looked like a slab of pink dough. . .It was none other than my old friend, Stilton Cheeswright.
The appointment to which I had alluded was with the barman at the Bollinger. Seldom, if ever, had I felt in such sore need of a restorative. I headed for my destination like a hart streaking towards cooling streams, when heated in the chase, and was speedily in conference with the dispenser of life savers.
The root of the trouble was that she was one of those intellectual girls, steeped to the gills in serious purpose, who are unable to see a male soul without wanting to get behind it and shove.We had scarcely arranged the preliminaries before she was checking up on my reading, giving the bird to 'Blood on the Banisters', which happened to be what I was studying at the moment, and substituting it for a thing called 'Types of Ethical Theory'.
'Was Nobby alone?'
'No, sir. There was a gentleman with her, who spoke as if he were acquainted with you. Miss Hopwood addressed him as Stilton.'
'Big chap?'
'Noticeably well developed, sir.'
'With a head like a pumpkin?'
'Yes, sir. There was a certain resemblance to the vegetable.'
