“No need to stand upon ceremony,” Jasper said, waving his arm in the direction of the sideboard with its impressive array of bottles and decanters, most of which looked seriously depleted. Good God, surely they had been full when they all arrived here two or three hours ago. “Can’t get up to pour for you, Motherham. Something has happened to m’legs. Doubt they will support m’feet.”

“What a fellow needs on his twenty-fifth birthday,” Charlie said, “is something to cheer him up. Some new venture. Some exhilll… arrrr… What the deuce is that word? Some new challenge.”

“A challenge? A dare, you mean?” Jasper brightened considerably. “A wager?” he added hopefully.

“The devil!” Charlie said, lifting a hand to grip the edge of the mantel against which his shoulder already leaned. “You need to get an architect to take a look at this floor, Monty. It ought not to be swaying like this. It’s downright dangerous.”

“Sit down, Charlie,” Sir Isaac advised. “You are three sheets to the wind, old boy-maybe even four or five. Just watching you sway on your pins makes my stomach queasy.”

“Am I foxed?” Charlie looked surprised. “Well, that is a relief. I thought it was the floor.” He weaved his way gingerly toward the nearest chair and sank gratefully into it. “What is it to be for Monty this time, then? A race?”

“I did Brighton and back just two weeks ago, Charlie,” Jasper reminded him, “and came in fifty-eight minutes under the agreed-upon time. It ought to be something quite different this time. Something new.”

“A drinking bout?” Motherham suggested.

“I drank Welby under the table last Saturday week,” Jasper said, “and there is no one in town who can hold his liquor like Welby-or was. Lord, I think my head must have swollen to twice its normal size. My neck does not seem quite up to the task of holding it up. Does it look twice its normal size?”