Their fines paid, Jimmy--staunch to the last--brought Farrell forth
to me, who waited outside by the doorstep.
"Look here, Otty; he's in trouble--"
"Of his own making, by all accounts," I put in sternly.
Farrell began to stutter. "A most untoward--er--incident, Sir
Roderick--_most_ untoward! Compromising, I fear?"
"You've lost us the seat, that's all," I told him.
"Oh, I trust not--I trust not!" he protested. "Might the reporters
be--er--"
"Squared?" I suggested.
"Induced--yes, induced--to omit the--er--personal reference?"
"Like the Scarlet Mr. E's," suggested Jimmy, "or the Scarlet
Pimpernel--rather a good name for you, Farrell. Better than Martin
Luther, anyway. The Scarlet Pimpernel, or Two in a Taxi, Not to
Mention the Lady. Or--wait a bit--Peter and Petunia, or Marooned in
Soho. Reader, do you know the 'Catalafina'? If not, let me--"
"Jimmy," I commanded, "don't make an ass of yourself. . . . As for
you, Mr. Farrell, let me remind you of a pretty wise saying of
somebody's--that influence is jolly useful until you have used it.
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