The Summer of Sir Lancelot

danced a brisk fandango. ‘I‘ll have you know I‘m not used to being contradicted, particularly by every blasted trespasser — ‘
    ‘Ah, my guest of the morning,‘ Mr Chadwick interrupted, as though Sir Lancelot were some noisy but passing irritation like a wasp. ‘Dear me, what a coincidence! My visitor is in the same profession as yourself. Dr Tolly, I‘d like you to meet Dr Spratt.‘
    ‘It wouldn‘t be “Doctor” it would be “Mister” and anyway it‘s Sir Lancelot,‘ snapped the surgeon.
    ‘G-glad to meet you,‘ said Dr Tolly.
    ‘Why?‘ barked Sir Lancelot.
    ‘Young Dr Tolly has taken over Dr Ewenny‘s practice in the village,‘ Mr Chadwick explained politely. ‘He has already effected an absolutely miraculous cure of my gout.‘
    Sir Lancelot glared at doctor and patient impartially. ‘You don‘t need a miracle to cure gout. You need to cut down on the port.‘
    ‘But I drink only hock and soda-water,‘ objected Mr Chadwick mildly. ‘Then it‘s probably the wrong diagnosis. Tolly? Tolly? I know you.‘ The meteorology of Sir Lancelot‘s thunderous brow worsened further. ‘I examined you in your surgery finals last year, didn‘t I?‘
    ‘That‘s... that‘s right, sir.‘
    ‘You were the candidate who, when I asked the cause of this sinus scar on my own forehead, answered, “It‘s your leucotomy, sir”?‘
    ‘I -1 was flustered, Sir Lancelot,‘ agreed Dr Tolly, turning pink.
    The glance which Sir Lancelot focused on him was one of curiosity. He merely wanted to observe more closely what form this offender against the laws of Nature took. He saw a slim young man in T-shirt and jeans, garments which he had frequently described in public as fit only for the end of Blackpool pier. Furthermore, he half suspected the young pup had one of those fancy modern haircuts. He snorted. He could cheerfully have disposed of this junior fellow-practitioner for purposes of vivisection.
    ‘Which hospital d‘yer come from, boy?‘
    ‘St Agnes‘,‘ gulped Dr Tolly.
    ‘I might have known!‘
    Sir Lancelot folded his arms decisively, the members of any other London hospital being regarded in St Swithin‘s as not only underprivileged and mentally handicapped, but probably making their own trousers as well.
    ‘Come,‘ interrupted Mr Chadwick, mindful of his duties as host. ‘We must proceed to our fishing lesson.‘
    Dr Tolly climbed shakingly on a convenient flat rock. He had, in fact, recently been giving a good deal of thought to his reunion with Old Slasher Spratt, and the projected scene hadn‘t been on these lines at all. He nervously took Mr Chadwick‘s rod, while Sir Lancelot watched with an expression etched into the souls of countless house surgeons fumbling through their first appendicectomy.
    ‘It is really quite simple,‘ explained Mr Chadwick. ‘You simply flick the rod, like a whip.‘
    ‘Like that?‘
    ‘Exactly, my dear Doctor! See how your fly falls on the surface of the water? If you will permit me to say so, the rod looks remarkably natural in your hand.‘
    ‘And if you will permit me to say so,‘ commented Sir Lancelot, ‘it looks about as much use as a razor to a eunuch. Good God! Hang on, boy, hang on! Play him, you fool, play him! Let out line, let out line!‘
    Dr Tolly‘s rod would have aroused the admiration of an aspen. The fisherman himself stood on one leg with his mouth open. Mr Chadwick tripped into the brambles. Sir Lancelot excitedly ploughed through the bracken firing broadsides of advice. The ownership of Witches‘ Pool and Dr Tolly‘s surgery finals fled from his mind. Had the Montagues been fishermen, in the excitement of the catch they would have forgotten even the Capulets.
    ‘Net, Chadwick, net!‘ snapped Sir Lancelot, as though needing the artery forceps in a hurry. ‘Go on, man, shove it under the fish‘s belly, don‘t tickle the back of his neck with it. That‘s right, boy, reel in. Now you‘ve got him safe and sound... ‘
    His voice faded away. He stood on the bank in silence as the pair landed an aldermanic trout and dispatched it with blows to its shapely head.
    ‘I say, what a splendid specimen!‘ Mr Chadwick‘s gold-rimmed glasses flashed as he glanced round excitedly. ‘Really, Sir Lancelot, you must admit the young doctor here—‘
    But Sir Lancelot had gone. He was stalking through the brambles with tears running from his eyes. Lying in state on that flat rock beside the river was undoubtedly Percival. The