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There's the noo 'arris tweed, sir--"
"With holes in them, if possible, Brimberly."
"'Oles, sir! Beg parding, sir, but did you say 'oles, sir?"
"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.


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