“Also patches, Brimberly, the bigger the better!”
“Patches! Hexcuse me, sir, but—patches! I beg parding, but—” Mr. Brimberly laid a feeble hand upon a twitching whisker.
“In a word, Brimberly,” pursued his master, seating himself upon the escritoire and swinging his leg, “I want some old clothes, shabby clothes—moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and an old hat. Can you find me some?”
“No, sir, I don’t—that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir—’arf a moment, sir.” Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.
“Say,” exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr. Ravenslee, “who’s His Whiskers—de swell guy with d’ face trimmings?”
“Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his life to—er—looking after my welfare and—other things.”
“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike, staring, “I should have thought you was big ‘nuff to do that fer yourself, unless—” and here he broke off suddenly and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee’s long figure with a new and more particular interest.
“Unless what?”
“Say—you ain’t got bats in your belfry, have you—you ain’t weak in the think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?”
“No—at least not more than the average, I believe.”
“I mean His Whiskers don’t have to lead you around on a string or watch out you don’t set fire to yourself, does he?”
“Well, strictly speaking, I can’t say that his duties are quite so far-reaching.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“Well, my names are Geoffrey, Guy, Eustace, Hughson-and—er—a few others, but these will do to go on with, perhaps?”
“Well, I guess yes!”
“You can take your choice.”
“Well, Guy won’t do—no siree—ye see every mutt’s a guy down our way—so I guess we’ll make it Geoff. But, say, if you ain’t weak on the think-machinery, why d’ ye keep a guy like His Whiskers hanging around?”
“Because he has become a habit, Spike—and habits cling—and speaking of habits—here it is!” Sure enough, at that moment Brimberly’s knuckles made themselves discreetly heard, and Brimberly himself appeared with divers garments across his arm, at sight of which Spike stood immediately dumb in staring, awe-struck wonder.
“Ah, you’ve got them, Brimberly?”
“Yessir! These is the best I can do, sir—”
“Say rather—the worst!”
“‘Ere’s a nice, big ‘ole in the coat, sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, unfolding the garment in question, “and the weskit, sir; the pocket is tore, you’ll notice, sir.”
“Excellent, Brimberly!”
“As for these trousis, sir—”
“They seem rather superior garments, I’m afraid!” said Mr. Ravenslee, shaking his head.
“But you’ll notice as they’re very much wore round the ‘eels, sir.”
“They’ll do. Now the hat and muffler.”
“All ‘ere, sir—the ‘at’s got its brim broke, sir.”
“Couldn’t be better, Brimberly!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took up the clothes and turned toward the door. “Now I’ll trouble you to keep an eye on—er—young America here while I get into these.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, turning his whiskers full upon Spike, who immediately fell to shuffling and wringing at his cap. “Sir—I will, certingly, sir.”
Now when the door had shut after his master, Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands to the ceiling and shook his head until his whiskers quivered. Quoth he: “Hall I arsks is—wot next!” Thereafter he lowered his eyes and regarded Spike as if he had been that basest of base minions—a boy in buttons. At last he deigned speech.
“And w’en did
“‘Bout a hour ago, sir,” answered Spike, dropping his cap in his embarrassment.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, “about a hour ago—ho! By appointment, I pre-zoom?”
“No, sir—by a winder.”
“A—wot?”
“A winder, sir.”
“A—winder? ‘Eavens and earth—a winder—ow? Where? Wot for?”
“Say, mister,” said Spike, breaking in upon Mr. Brimberly’s astounded questioning, “is he nutty?” And he jerked his thumb toward the door through which Mr. Ravenslee had gone.
