"What's wrong with that?" said Merv. "Not saying anything everyone doesn't know."

But he dropped his voice a little, or as much as he could, before he went on. "Like I said, look at Monty. All that lolly plus the title-even got his teeth straightened to go to the Palace, I heard!-and what happens when he applies to join the Royal Hoo? They turn him down flat!"

"So what's your point?" asked Joe, who liked things spelled out.

"My point is, doesn't matter what this plonker Porphyry says. The only way they'll let you into the Royal Hoo is through the back door dressed as a waiter! Maybe that's it. Maybe they're short of staff. They ask to see your testimonials, just you be careful!"

Merv's difficulty in keeping his voice low even to share a confidence was compounded by a compulsion when uttering a bon mot to up the volume several decibels as if to make sure no one in the same building was deprived. Heads turned, and when a few moments later Joe went to the bar to get a round in, he was pressed to elaborate by several of the other drinkers.

The result was, for the rest of the evening Joe found himself the object of much cheerful waggery. Normally this was water off a duck's back, but even his good nature was finding it hard to raise a smile the tenth time someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Pardon me, sir, aren't you the one they call Tiger?"

Rumors of the joke must have reached Sir Monty's table. After a visit to the Gents, Joe returned to see Merv sitting next to the baronet, talking expansively. At least he wasn't getting the easy laughs he'd wrung out of the rest of his audience. Indeed, Sir Monty, though listening attentively, had a deep frown on his face. Maybe after his own experience with the Royal Hoo he didn't reckon there was much to laugh at.

Serves Merv right, thought Joe.

"Fancy another one, Tiger?" called an acquaintance from the bar.