In that same apartment was assembled, that afternoon, a solemn conclave. Biggington took the chair (there was but one); Stradwick drew a box from under the bed, and seated himself upon it, in an attitude exactly copied from that of Biggington.
Norman, resting his elbow on the chimney-piece, remained standing; while Terry turned a wash-hand basin topsy-turvy, and perched himself, monkey-like, on the apex of the semi-cone thus created. After a moment’s silence, Biggington exclaimed—“Well, Norman, how are we going on? have you brought your plan to perfection yet?”
“Unforeseen difficulties have sprung up,” was the reply, “but none which the three Ps—patience, perseverance, and pluck—will not carry us through.”
“Difficulties be hanged!” rejoined Biggington, impetuously. “I tell you one thing, go I will, by fair means or foul; the fact is, Trevanion” (“Jack Spratty,” murmured Norman. “With a great pair of dyed moustachios on him,” urged Terry) “has been here, and promised to take us behind the scenes, and to come and sup with us at the Bull afterwards, and induce Coralie and the other girl to come too.”
“Ay! and Coralie’s a stunner, and no mistake,” observed Terry; “such a pair of black eyes, by Jove! they go through a fellow like—like——”
“Bradawls,” suggested Stradwick, complacently.
“A pointed illustration, decidedly,” resumed Terry; “but I was walking the day before yesterday with old Beaugentil, when we met this said Coralie, taking a constitutional for the benefit of her complexion; the moment Beaugentil set eyes upon her, he went off into an ecstacy, throwing up his arms and capering about like a bear on hot bricks. ‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible!’ he exclaimed, ‘vot shall I be ’old? Est-ce toi, Coralie? Am it thou, Coreliar, zie daugtaire of thy mama, zie beloafed de ma premiere jeunesse! et quelle ange! vot an angle! vrai ange du ciel, a right angle of ’eaven! Voyez donc, Monsieur Terrie; permettez que je vous présente mon cher élève, Monsieur Terrie, june homme charmant; mais n’est-ce pas que Mademoiselle est jolie; ees not Mees superbe, beautifu, magnifique, pretty vell!’ and so the old boy ran on till I was in fits.”
“What is your confounded difficulty, Norman?” inquired Biggington, abruptly.
“Why, the window in the loft turns out to be too small for anything bigger than a boy to get through,” was the reply.
Biggington muttered something unintelligible, which it would be the height of charity to consider a good word, as he continued—“What do you mean to do, then?”