My host seized me by the arm and drew me back. 'Tell me, dear boy,' he said in a hoarse whisper, 'I don't want to be personal, but is it the gin I've drunk or does your stomach always wriggle like that?'
'No,' I said gravely. 'It's not my stomach. I've got a mongoose in my shirt.'
He gazed at me unblinkingly for a moment.
'Very reasonable explanation
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