The Little Warrior

1. Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which Parker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate before him. "Parker!" His voice had a ring of pain. "Sir?" "What's this?" "Poached egg, sir." Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder. "It looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "Remove it!" He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a stand in front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyed the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club-fender. It was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a typical London bachelor's breakfast-room. The walls were a restful gray, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white and silver. "Eggs, Parker," said Freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!" "Yes, sir?" "If, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all right. If not, not. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise." "No, sir." Freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed. "It would seem, then, that I must have revelled a trifle whole-heartedly last night. I was possibly a little blotto. Not whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. Did I make much noise coming in?" "No, sir. You were very quiet." "Ah! A dashed bad sign!" Freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. "The cream-jug is to your right, sir," said the helpful Parker. "Let it remain there. Cafe noir for me this morning. As noir as it can jolly well stick!" Freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped delicately. "As far as I can remember, it was Ronny Devereux' birthday or something ..."