Frosty Mr. Neville Chamberlain, hawk-nosed Chancellor of the Exchequer, arrived at the Treasury one morning last week with his striped trousers soaked to the hips, the tail of his morning coat dripping, water squelching from his shoes. Nobody asked any questions, discretion being a hallmark of British civil servants, and Chancellor Chamberlain volunteered no explanation, sat down wet, merely telling his secretary to have his chauffeur bring a change of clothes.
Meanwhile Fleet Street editors scoffed at the cock & bull yarn some reporters had telephoned in. They said they had talked to an...