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"It will be fought on Tariff Reform, about which I know nothing," I
objected.
"I know everything," he declared. "I'll see you through. You must buck
up a bit, Simon, and get your name better known about the country. And
this brings me to my news. I was talking to Raggles the other day--he
dropped a hint, and Raggles's hints are jolly well worth while picking
up. Just come to the front and show yourself, and there's a place in the
Ministry."
"Ministry?"
"Sanderson's going."
"Sanderson?" I queried, interested, in spite of myself, at these
puerilities. "What's the matter with him?"
"Swelled head. There have been awful rows--this is confidential--and
he's got the hump. Thinks he ought to be the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, or at least First Lord, instead of an Under Secretary. So
he's going to chuck it, before he gets the chuck himself--see?"
"I perceive," said I, "that your conversational English style is
abominable."
He lit a cigarette and continued, loftily taking no notice of my rebuke.


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