‘I don’t quite get the whole story from this,’ Charles ventured. ‘I suppose you promote shows and—act as an agent of some sort.’

Mr. Blearney chuckled richly. ‘I promote shows, yes, I act as an agent, yes. As for not quite getting the whole story, well, partner, you weren’t altogether meant to get it. That’s another lesson of my lifetime—the day anybody gets the whole story, you get it where the chicken got the chopper.’

The train drew in to Stotwell station and halted. They stood up. ‘No,’ said Mr. Blearney, still chuckling, ‘I didn’t say anything about the whole story, partner, now did I?’

Charles looked at him, unable to decide whether to dislike him or relax and join in his amusement, sharing that genuine good humour and unconsciousness of offence. He had still not decided when they had clambered down and emerged, still side by side, through the ticket barrier.

‘Busy?’ Mr. Blearney asked. ‘If not, why don’t you come along to my hotel and let’s have a drink?’

‘What is your hotel?’ Charles countered. He must not miss his pilgrimage to the Oak Lounge after taking so much trouble to get here.

‘The Grand—only one fit to stay in in this dump,’ Mr. Blearney husked, and, when Charles signified assent, he masterfully signalled for a taxi. In a few minutes they were in the hotel foyer, and Mr. Blearney was the centre of a vortex of scurrying em­ployees. The receptionist ran forward with the book; the manager ran out of his office; the page ran towards the lift to take him up to his room; even the porter stumped off with Mr. Blearney’s case at twice his usual speed. There was something galvanic about the man as he stood squarely dominating the scene, shouting jovially and keeping up a stream of atrociously unfunny jokes. Charles melted away to the background, content to watch and admire. Mr. Blearney was the first man he had ever met who combined a hearty manner with genuine self-confidence. He contradicted the general rule that heartiness is a sign of self-distrust, thus confirming it.

At last they found themselves comfortably installed in the Oak Lounge. Mr. Blearney insisted on ordering, and paying for, four double whiskies. ‘Two each, that’s the style, partner,’ he said positively. ‘Drink the first one down in one swallow, then take the second slowly.’ He drained his first, and Charles followed suit.

‘Aaaaah,’ said Mr. Blearney, sitting back. ‘That’s the first time I’ve had the cold out of my marrow-bones for three hours. I’m getting old for this gallivanting, in draughty trains at any rate. I shall have to go everywhere by car, and that’ll bankrupt me in six months.’

He lit a cheroot. Charles, refusing the offer of one for himself, took out his cigarettes.