Reginald spat a mouthful of crumpet to the ground. “Horrid!” he cried. “No spring, no texture, no taste! These Yanks call this a crumpet?” The point was driven home by a swift kick to the end table that held the tray, scattering baked goods all over the poolside.

“Why, exactly, did you feel compelled to do that?” said Nigel, looking at the carnage over the top of his newspaper.

“Those were not fit to eat,” Reginald groused. “Not by man or by beast. The management will hear about this immediately.”

Nigel folded his Times of London across his lap. “So you’re taking a stand,” he said.

“Yes,” Nigel replied.

“You’re taking a stand against this,” Nigel said, indicating the spilled and spat crumpets with his paper. “All the injustice and violence and man’s inhumanity to man in this world of ours makes no nevermind to you, but you”re taking a stand against this.”

“Correct. A crumpet stand.”

Nigel sighed and reopened the paper. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”