Wiggly bounded down the stairs with greater than usual exuberance and flung himself like a spaniel onto the Chesterfield beside me, sloshing the cup of Earl Grey which I had heedlessly retained in my grasp. "Sorry, old boy, I didn't think," he said, offering the antimacassar to sop my trousers. Then, after marveling at the "jolly lot of dust" that had evidenced itself in a beam of strong morning sunshine as a result of his recent exertion, he disclosed what had prompted it.
First Lines Contest 2017: Wiggly Barstool
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