“All right, yer honour,” but to himself he added, “by Jingo, it’s serious! Well, well! However, he’s as poor as a rat and that’s a great comfort.”
Comfort was constituted by the fact that, in these circumstances, there could be no immediate prospect of a break-up of the congenial chummery.
“See here, Mr. Shafto, on your high horse, if you promise not to trail your coat and frighten me, I’ll tell you something that will interest you. I know you have been poking round with Roscoe and diving into queer places—are you as keen as ever?”
“I am, of course,” rejoined Shafto, still stiff and unappeased.
“Well, then, I can show you a quarter where Roscoe has never dared to stick his nose—a cocaine den.”
“Not really? Surely you couldn’t take me in there.”
“I can so, as one of my subordinates; I am looking for evidence in a murder case; I’ll lend you a coat, and all you will have to do is to look wise and hold your tongue.”
“This is most awfully good of you,” exclaimed Shafto, “and I needn’t tell you I’ll go like a shot.”
“Oh, I’m good now, am I?” jeered FitzGerald; “but, joking apart, this will be an experience. Not like puppet plays and dances—but a black tragedy.”
“Yes, I suppose so; I know it’s pretty awful.”