The Summer of Sir Lancelot

couples locked on the grass all over Green Park. But inside him it was blackest Arctic midnight.
    His day had been as discouraging and frustrating as Napoleon‘s at Waterloo. His back was still sore. When the X-ray showed no lesion whatever, he accepted the verdict with annoyance rather than relief. St Swithin‘s Hospital seemed to treat him like Rip van Winkle‘s little brother. Simon Sparrow had been priggish to the point of impertinence. And that blasted girl had got lipstick all over his shirt.
    Worse still, his solicitors were damn fools.
    ‘All I want from you,‘ he‘d explained in the office of Boarcastle, Perwit, Dewberry and Cramps in Austin Friars, ‘is some sort of definitive opinion that I can wave in the beastly fellows face, declaring that Witches‘ Pool is unequivocally mine.‘
    ‘Well, yes,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry.
    After the sinusoidal opinions of Mr Evans, Sir Lancelot drew confidence from this ancient City Oltice filled with so many dusty objects well worn in the service of the law, such as Mr Dewberry.
    ‘There is of course no doubt whatever about the Pool being on my land.‘
    ‘Well, no,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry again, fingering the deeds on his desk. He was a tall, thin man with a hanging lock of grey hair, which he often chewed thoughtfully. ‘Though of course — ‘
    ‘Come, come, Dewberry! Surely you, my own London solicitor, cannot doubt my word in the matter?‘
    ‘Well, yes and no,‘ conceded Mr Dewberry. He took a brief chew at his hair. ‘Naturally, Sir Lancelot, there can be no doubt in your own mind about the rightness of your cause, and I can thoroughly sympathize with your attitude.‘
    ‘Good! Get your clerk feller to draw up the document.‘
    ‘Unfortunately, of course... ‘ Mr Dewberry put his dirty fingernails together. ‘There is a certain... shall one say, ambiguity? An area, one might put it, of vagueness? A clause in the deeds, one might express oneself, somewhat in doubt?‘
    Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘What exactly are you trying to say, man?‘
    ‘I am doing my best, Sir Lancelot, to be quite explicit.‘ The solicitor sounded hurt. ‘I am only trying to put my opinion that the claim of both yourself and Mr Chadwick to Witches‘ Pool can be disputed.‘
    ‘Very well.‘ Sir Lancelot banged the desk. ‘We‘ll dispute it in court. Brief Sir Geoffrey.‘
    Mr Dewberry helped himself to another bonnebouche of hair. ‘When I say, as I put it, the claim can be disputed, I mean, you understand, that in such a dispute you would not yourself, I fear... indeed, I very much regret... am very sorry to say... you would not... er, have a leg to stand on.‘
    ‘But that‘s outrageous!‘
    ‘I agree, Sir Lancelot, but it is also the fact of the matter. Shall I send the deeds back to you by registered post?‘
    Half an hour later Sir Lancelot was in another office, in Grosvenor Square. The interview was even briefer. The tall pale man with the gardenia, who ran the manservants‘ bureau like an ambassador dealing with the heads of painfully dependent states, agreed that he certainly had chauffeurs but none who could equally handily gaff a salmon or net a trout.
    ‘I‘ll teach the feller,‘ Sir Lancelot offered handsomely. ‘A couple of afternoons on the river with me, and he‘ll be an expert.‘
    ‘My clients arc extremely particular,‘ observed the ambassador coldly, ‘and I do not think we have any of the rustic type.‘
    Not before time, Sir Lancelot felt as he finally strode down Piccadilly, he could turn into a haven of sanity and peace.
    You may have noticed the establishment of Brackett and Knockett, on the right opposite Green Park. You could describe them as fishing-tackle merchants, but that would be like calling Chateau Margaux a drink or the Mona Lisa a bit of wall decoration. The old gentlemen in striped trousers, moving gently behind the delicate screen of rods inside the door, admittedly sell lines, reels, spoons, wobblers, Devons, boot dryers, trout disgorgers, priests, tailers, creels, bottled minnows, and little paraffin things to keep your hands warm. But the transaction is merely incidental to swapping the latest gossip about fish. Sir Lancelot could spend hours in the place, describing a single battle of wits between him and a trout. It did him much more good than tranquillizers.
    ‘Afternoon, Pytchley,‘ he began, striding to the counter and mellowing at once. ‘Did you hear who won the Gold Cup?‘
    ‘Why, it‘s Sir Lancelot! Good