The postscript interested him.
"... By the way, at Yeovil I came across an old friend of yours.
Stanley Featherstonhaugh Ukridge, of all people. As large as
life--quite six foot two, and tremendously filled out. I thought he
was abroad. The last I heard of him was that he had started for Buenos
Ayres in a cattle-ship. It seems he has been in England sometime. I
met him in the refreshment room at Yeovil station. I was waiting for a
down train; he had changed on his way to town. As I opened the door I
heard a huge voice in a more or less violent altercation, and there
was S. F. U., in a villainous old suit of gray flannels (I'll swear it
was the same one that he had on last time I saw him), and a
mackintosh, though it was a blazing hot day. His pince-nez were tacked
onto his ears with wire as usual. He greeted me with effusive shouts,
and drew me aside. Then after a few commonplaces of greeting, he
fumbled in his pockets, looked pained and surprised.
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