Position held out a hand, gloved somewhat aggressively in yellow. His senior by four years shook the gauntlet warily.
"Mornin', Sally."
Position turned its back and put its elbows on the counter. It might have been the sole proprietor, not only of those most desirable lock-up basement premises, but of Miss Pearson and all its other contents. Still, no reproof was forthcoming.
During an even earlier phase of Position's adolescence, it had been Mr. Shelmerdine's privilege as a member of the Eleven, a member of Pop, and of other high dignities, to lay into Position in no uncertain manner. Alas that his zeal had proved so unfruitful!
Autres temps, autres mœurs. Had we the pen of the sage, the fervor of the poet, the sœva indignatio of the preacher, what a theme is here, my lords and gentlemen! Position not only usurping the badge of intimacy, reserved for the peers of the Keeper of the Field, but actually venturing to take pas of him, addressing Miss Pearson by her first name, setting his elbows on the counter, and removing a bunch of violets from her ample bosom, while he—the unspeakable humiliation of it—actually had to wait meekly for his own.
Had there been a toasting fork within the precincts of those desirable lock-up basement premises, it is ap-
