“If there's no sparring going on, Perkins, I think we'll go out for a stroll, and come back at the time you name. I can't stand the bad tobacco smoke, and the bad singing.”
“Now, gentlemen, if you're ready,” Perkins said, when they returned, “I'm with you.”
They went into the bar-parlour, where the Slogger, a powerful man, with the unmistakeable look of a prize fighter, was awaiting them.
“You are not thinking of going like that?” he asked. “Lor', they'd never let you in, not if you'd twenty pass-words, and if they did, they'd pitch into us directly we were in the light. No; if you mean to go, you must go like working men.”
“Have you any clothes you could lend us, Perkins?”
“Well, sir, I've an old greatcoat which would cover you well enough, and I dare say I can rummage out something for Mr. Prescott. As for hats, your best way is to send out and buy a couple of cheap billycocks. You can pull them down over your eyes. I think that with that, and if you take off your collars, and put a black handkerchief or a bird's eye round your necks, you will pass well enough.”
The transformation was soon effected, and the two young men could not help laughing at each other's altered appearance.
“You'll pass very well for a bricklayer out of employ, Frank.”
“Well, Prescott,” Frank retorted, “I could swear to you as a disreputable-looking tailor anywhere.”