“I have everything,” he said, querulously, emphasising his remarks with a coffee-spoon. “Looks, talent, personality, a beautiful speaking-voice—everything. All I need is a chance. And I can’t get that because I have no clothes fit to wear. These managers are all the same, they never look below the surface, they never bother to find out if a man has genius. All they go by are his clothes. If I could afford to buy a couple of suits from a Cork Street tailor, if I could have my boots made to order by Moykoff instead of getting them ready-made and second-hand at Moses Brothers’, if I could once contrive to own a decent hat, a really good pair of spats, and a gold cigarette-case, all at the same time, I could walk into any manager’s office in London and sign up for a West-end production to-morrow.” It was at this point that Freddie Lunt came in. Freddie, like Robert Dunhill, was a financial magnate in the making and an assiduous frequenter of Barolini’s; and it suddenly occurred to us that a considerable time had passed since we had last seen him in the place. We enquired the reason for this aloofness. “I’ve been in bed,” said Freddie, “for over a fortnight.” The statement incurred Ukridge’s stern disapproval. That great man made a practice of never rising before noon, and on one occasion, when a carelessly-thrown match had burned a hole in his only pair of trousers, had gone so far as to remain between the sheets for forty-eight hours; but sloth on so majestic a scale as this shocked him. “Lazy young devil,” he commented severely. “Letting the golden hours of youth slip by like that when you ought to have been bustling about and making a name for yourself.” Freddie protested himself wronged by the imputation. “I had an accident,” he explained. “Fell off my bicycle and sprained an ankle.” “Tough luck,” was our verdict. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Freddie. “It wasn’t bad fun getting a rest. And of course there was the fiver.” “What fiver?” “I got a fiver from the _Weekly Cyclist_ for getting my ankle sprained.” “You—_what?_” cried Ukridge, profoundly stirred—as ever—by a tale of easy money. “Do you mean to sit there and tell me that some dashed paper paid you five quid simply because you sprained your ankle? Pull yourself together, old horse. Things like that don’t happen.” “It’s quite true.” “Can you show me the fiver?” “No; because if I did you would try to borrow it.” Ukridge ignored this slur in dignified silence. “Would they pay a fiver to _anyone_ who sprained his ankle?” he asked, sticking to the main point. “Yes. If he was a subscriber.” “I knew there was a catch in it,” said Ukridge, moodily. “Lots of weekly papers are starting this wheeze,” proceeded Freddie. “You pay a year’s subscription and that entitles you to accident insurance.”