Mr. Posket.
Where on earth did you get that dress suit?
Cis.
Mum’s the word, Guv. Brighton tailor—six months’ credit. He promised to send in the bill to you, so the mater won’t know. [Putting Mr. Posket’s hat on his head.] By Jove, Guv, don’t my togs show you up?
Mr. Posket.
I won’t go, I won’t go. I’ve never met such a boy before.
Cis.
[Proceeds to help him with his overcoat.] Mind your arm, Guv. You’ve got your hand in a pocket. No, no—that’s a tear in the lining. That’s it.
Mr. Posket.
I forbid you to go out!