I sat huddled in the taxi with my chin on my breast, wishing that I had lost a leg at Loos and been comfortably tucked away for the rest of the war.
Sure enough I found my man in the Grill Room.

There he was, feeding solemnly, with a napkin tucked under his chin.

He was a big fellow with a fat, sallow, clean-shaven face.

I disregarded the hovering waiter and pulled up a chair beside the American at the little table.
He turned on me a pair of full sleepy eyes, like a ruminating ox.
'Mr Blenkiron ?' I asked.
'You have my name, Sir,' he said.

'Mr John Scantlebury Blenkiron.