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Back The Tin Men Save as PDF
Chapters (41)
  1. By the Same Author
  2. Copyright
  3. Introduction by the Author
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. About the Author

The world around Nunn seemed very warm and merry and familiar. It took him back to the old days, when after a vigorous day’s exercise extracting information from some recalcitrant native he would come back full of modest triumph to a jolly good booze-up of one sort or another in the mess. What were the games they used to play? Indoor rugby. British bulldogs. ‘Where Art Thou, Moriarty?’ All jolly good games. He picked up an empty whisky bottle and looked round for someone to pass it to.

‘Come along, then!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s have you!’

But no one took much notice, and in the end he did a fast low pass to a man who wasn’t looking just to teach him for being such a rotten sport.

‘Come along, then!’ he called, but the man began to shout and rub his knee and hop about. A knot of people collected round him sympathising. Nunn could see the rugby bottle on the floor in the middle of the group, and scented battle. He bent double and plunged in, throwing his arms round the waists of the two people on either side and shouting: ‘Heel! Heel, damn you!’

More and more people were dancing. Nobbs had started on his rounds all over again, this time shaking everyone’s left hand, to remove any possible suspicion that he was too conventional or supercilious to extend the royal largesse to left hands.

‘He’s got such a sense of fun,’ said the wives, as they helped to hold him upright with their right hands. ‘Honestly, I think he’s wonderful.’

Vulgurian was leaning heavily on Chiddingfold’s shoulder, and squeezing Mrs. Chiddingfold’s arm.

‘Husband put on a wonderful show,’ he was telling her. ‘Proud and privileged to be here. Went off with no hags or snitches. No hags or snitches? What do I mean, Prestwick?’

‘No snigs or hatches, R.V.,’ said Sir Prestwick, whose face looked remarkably grey and drawn.

Nunn had extracted himself from the scrum, and was leading a party of laboratory technicians in throwing crab sandwiches and empty liquor bottles at the two reporters and a photographer trapped inside the Press enclosure.

Jellicoe came in and plucked Nunn’s sleeve.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘But there’s another contingent of the upper classes arriving in a kind of funeral cortège of Rolls-Royces and Daimlers.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Nunn. ‘Send ’em across. Any chums of yours are chums of mine.’

Into the Refreshments Extension from the direction of the Poli­tical Department came Riddle, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, and leading a battered little man with round shoulders and a patient, embarrassed smile.

‘I want you to meet Mr. Plushkov,’ she said loudly to everyone within earshot. ‘We’re going to be married.’

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