hope, if not of champagne, at least of strawberries and cream. There was a prematurely expectant crowd round the hot-air balloon: at present a floppy pear-shaped affair in a variety of brilliant colours, the preliminary inflating of which was being supervised by a man attired – uncomfortably and surely needlessly – as if his destination was going to be the moon. His actual project, whatever it was, appeared to be mixed up with an obscure competition involving the setting adrift of less ambitious gas-filled balloons of the children’s party sort. The military band, perched at the end of a terrace, laboured valiantly at its instruments without much hope of arresting either an ear or an eye.
At a short distance beyond the large marquee there were two smaller ones, and these at present were unfrequented. Or so Appleby thought until, as he was about to pass them by, a figure emerged from between them. It was the figure of a man. Indeed, it was Appleby’s third sheik.
This sheik, unlike the earlier sheiks, didn’t at once disappear again from view. In fact he approached Appleby in a wholly affable manner, and then paused to address him with confidence.
‘If it’s the bar you’re looking for,’ he said, ‘these are n-b-g, old boy.’ He paused as if to assure himself that his hearer was one to whom this demotic expression was intelligible. ‘They’re only the damned toilets.’
‘The bar should no doubt be one’s earlier port of call.’ Appleby saw that this sheik also wore dark glasses, but wasn’t otherwise made up so as to pass for any sort of authentic Arab. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen it myself.’
‘It mayn’t be open yet, come to think of it,’ the third sheik said unhappily. ‘They probably have to keep pub hours.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Appleby was glad to have an encouraging consideration to advance to this wanderer in a thirsty desert. ‘I believe one gets a special sort of licence for an affair like this, and can keep open all the time.’
‘Well, I’ll just take a walk round and see,’ the third sheik said, brightening a little. ‘The name is Pring,’ he added, as if recalling a necessary courtesy.
‘How do you do, Mr Pring? My name is Appleby. I hope you won’t feel awkward when you do find the bar. Arabs, you know, are not supposed to drink alcohol.’
‘That’s right!’ Mr Pring seemed both impressed and depressed by this consideration. ‘Something to do with their religion, it must be. And I wouldn’t like not to show respect, Mr Appleby.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that.’ Appleby was favourably struck by this honourable if confused feeling on Mr Pring’s part. ‘By the way, have you noticed that several other people have come in Arab costume?’
‘Is that so? I haven’t seen them. And it’s not what you might call very original, is it? I’d have thought of something better, I think I may say, if it hadn’t been for Mr Chitfield.’
‘You discussed the matter with Mr Chitfield?’ Although not hitherto really very interested in the parched Mr Pring, Appleby was suddenly alert.
‘Chitfield asked me to come and support his fête. And, business associations being as they are, Mr Appleby, it seemed to me I oughtn’t to refuse. Chitfield and me, that’s to say, having been partners in this and that.’ Mr Pring paused, and perhaps felt that this suggested an implausible degree of commercial elevation. ‘Not, mark you, that I put myself in Richard Chitfield’s bracket – not by a long way. Chitfield is one of the biggest men we have. But I’m substantial, Mr Appleby, I can fairly say. It’s twelve years now since Mrs Pring and I had our first executive-type home, and we haven’t stood still since then by no means.’
‘I am delighted to hear it. Is Mrs Pring with you today – as an Arab lady, perhaps?’
‘Mrs Pring, sir, is here as Joan of Arc. It was entirely her own idea, that was, and I’m bound to say she looks
At a short distance beyond the large marquee there were two smaller ones, and these at present were unfrequented. Or so Appleby thought until, as he was about to pass them by, a figure emerged from between them. It was the figure of a man. Indeed, it was Appleby’s third sheik.
This sheik, unlike the earlier sheiks, didn’t at once disappear again from view. In fact he approached Appleby in a wholly affable manner, and then paused to address him with confidence.
‘If it’s the bar you’re looking for,’ he said, ‘these are n-b-g, old boy.’ He paused as if to assure himself that his hearer was one to whom this demotic expression was intelligible. ‘They’re only the damned toilets.’
‘The bar should no doubt be one’s earlier port of call.’ Appleby saw that this sheik also wore dark glasses, but wasn’t otherwise made up so as to pass for any sort of authentic Arab. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen it myself.’
‘It mayn’t be open yet, come to think of it,’ the third sheik said unhappily. ‘They probably have to keep pub hours.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Appleby was glad to have an encouraging consideration to advance to this wanderer in a thirsty desert. ‘I believe one gets a special sort of licence for an affair like this, and can keep open all the time.’
‘Well, I’ll just take a walk round and see,’ the third sheik said, brightening a little. ‘The name is Pring,’ he added, as if recalling a necessary courtesy.
‘How do you do, Mr Pring? My name is Appleby. I hope you won’t feel awkward when you do find the bar. Arabs, you know, are not supposed to drink alcohol.’
‘That’s right!’ Mr Pring seemed both impressed and depressed by this consideration. ‘Something to do with their religion, it must be. And I wouldn’t like not to show respect, Mr Appleby.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that.’ Appleby was favourably struck by this honourable if confused feeling on Mr Pring’s part. ‘By the way, have you noticed that several other people have come in Arab costume?’
‘Is that so? I haven’t seen them. And it’s not what you might call very original, is it? I’d have thought of something better, I think I may say, if it hadn’t been for Mr Chitfield.’
‘You discussed the matter with Mr Chitfield?’ Although not hitherto really very interested in the parched Mr Pring, Appleby was suddenly alert.
‘Chitfield asked me to come and support his fête. And, business associations being as they are, Mr Appleby, it seemed to me I oughtn’t to refuse. Chitfield and me, that’s to say, having been partners in this and that.’ Mr Pring paused, and perhaps felt that this suggested an implausible degree of commercial elevation. ‘Not, mark you, that I put myself in Richard Chitfield’s bracket – not by a long way. Chitfield is one of the biggest men we have. But I’m substantial, Mr Appleby, I can fairly say. It’s twelve years now since Mrs Pring and I had our first executive-type home, and we haven’t stood still since then by no means.’
‘I am delighted to hear it. Is Mrs Pring with you today – as an Arab lady, perhaps?’
‘Mrs Pring, sir, is here as Joan of Arc. It was entirely her own idea, that was, and I’m bound to say she looks
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