When I pushed open the door of the restaurant, the first person I saw
was Tommy. He was lunching with another man, and, as usual,
conversing with such vigorous cheerfulness that he failed to notice
my arrival. I walked up to him, and laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Hallo, Tommy," I said. "I thought you were in Timbuctoo."
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."