The "hexibition styke" in the window; would that do, queried the proprietor, displaying it.
Would it? the eyes of the erstwhile dandy of the east side asked of John Steele; that gentleman only answered with a nod, and the supplemental information that he would take "half a dozen natives himself." The proprietor bustled out; from an opposite corner of the room, the only other occupant regarded with casual curiosity the two ill-assorted figures. Tall, florid, Amazonian, this third person represented a fair example of the London grisette, the petite dame who is not very petite, of its thoroughfares. Setting down a pewter pot fit for a guardsman, she rose and sauntered toward the door; stopping there, with one hand on her hip, she looked back.
"Ever see 'im?" she observed, nodding her bonnet at the portrait. "Noticed you appeared hinterested, as if you 'ad!"
"Perhaps!" Steele laughed, not pleasantly. "In my mind's eye, as the poet says."
"Wot the--!" she retorted elegantly. "'Ere's a swell toff to chawf a lidy! 'Owever," reflectively, "I'ave 'eard 'e could 'it 'ard!"
"But that," said the gentleman, indicating the tankard, "could hit harder."
"My hyes; wot's the name of yer missionary friend, ragbags?" to Joe.
"The gentleman's a lawyer, and when I tell you his name is--"
John Steele reached over and stopped the speaker; the woman laughed.
"Perhaps it ayn't syfe to give it!"