Mrs. Watson had to stagger into the shop for a chair.
The boys had a drink, and set off to the warehouse to look up Jack's box, in which were his white shirts and other forgotten garments.
Back in town, Jack felt a slow, sinister sense of oppression coming over him, a sort of fear, as if he were not really free, as if something bad were going to happen to him.
"How am I going to get dressed to dine with Old George tonight?" grumbled the still-careless Tom, who was again becoming tipsy. "Wherever am I goin' to get a suit to sport?"
"Oh, some of yer relations 'll fix you up."
Jack had an undefinable, uncomfortable feeling that he might suddenly come upon Monica, and she might see him in this state. He wouldn't like the way she'd look at him. No, he wouldn't be looked at like that, not for a hundred ponies.
They turned their backs on the beautiful River, with its Mount Eliza headland and wide sweeps and curves twinkling in the sun, and they walked up William Street looking for an adventure.
A man whom they knew from the north, in filthy denims, came out of a boot-shop and hailed them.
"Come an' stop one on me, maties."
"Righto! But where's Lukey? He stood us one this morning. Seen him?"