Anxious to please, Vag selected the ones indicated, observing the Oxford Street address of King George's own bootmaker. After much straining, the boots went on. Panting, Vag stood up, trying to erase the imprint of the boot heel from his shirt.
"Bring me that helmet there," directed another polo princeling, "and tighten the strap on it."
Moving too quickly, Vag tried to adjust it, but his thick fingers were clumsy, and the strap broke in his hand."
"What sort of a clod are you?"
"Sorry, I just..."
"Let him go and clean the stables," submitted a freshman as he flexed his new mallet, "He can't do this kind of work."
"Good idea. All right, fellow, you can go behind this building to the stalls and ask the stableboy for a fork."
But Vag wasn't very happy, and turning the heel of his engineer's boot on the young lords, he made for his Detroit charger.