What Ho!

LONDON, 1921, 9:37 A.M.

'What a fine day!' you idly think. For starters, the cheerful sun is just now topping the house across the street, quite respectably waiting until the respectable hour of nine (or so) before announcing its presence in your bedroom. The lark is on the thorn, the snails are on the wing (or is it the other way around?) and, in short, all is right with the world.

But, now, with a gentle stretch of your flannel clad (with cheerful duckie ornamentation) limbs, your muzzy brained head (last night was a good one at the club) communicates with your stomach which relays the alarming news that you are starving, nay, famished.

Gratifyingly, you remember that you are, after all Peter Postletwaite the Third (known to your chums as Petey and by your not-so-chummy acquaintances as 'That brainless twit with money'). You have, after all a man to attend to such affairs as your stomach.

You decide to