Mr. Dobb, in an excess of nervous depression, dived beneath the bedclothes, moaning faintly.
“This I will say,” maintained Mr. Lock. “Them chaps on the ‘Raven’ have gone a bit beyond a joke this time. Well, so-long, ’Orace! Keep smiling!”
“We’ll do our best for you,” promised Mr. Tridge. “We’ll keep on telling ’er she was mistook this afternoon.”
“You keep on letting ’er see you in them clothes, Peter, till she sees she’s wrong,” directed Mr. Dobb, reappearing.
“I’m going to meet her to-morrow afternoon in them,” replied Mr. Lock. “I’m going to help her look for you.”
“’Ere!” croaked Mr. Dobb, in alarm; and then, at sight of Mr. Lock’s humorous eyelid, he smiled wanly. “You’re a artful one, Peter!” he stated.
“I am!” agreed Mr. Lock; and followed Mr. Tridge down the stairs.
Next evening, when Mr. Lock again called to report progress, Mr. Dobb was still clinging to the sanctuary of bed.
“Well, you ain’t found me yet, then?” he asked, with effort to be cheerful.
“Not yet,” admitted Mr. Lock, grinning. “We’ve been looking all over the place for you, too!”