“You trust me for that, Dick Smithson, I will. But, really, it’s shameful the way he’s been neglected. He come and ketched me last night sitting on the floor cross-legged, fine-drawing a hole in his dress-vest, and he burst out a-laughing, good-humoured like.
“‘Why, Brigley,’ he says, ‘I didn’t know you were a tailor.’
“‘More I am, sir,’ I says; ‘but a man as pretends to valet a gent, and can’t draw up a tear, or put on a button, ain’t worth calling a servant, sir,’ I says.
“‘I’m afraid my things have been very much neglected,’ he says, and then he asked, ‘What boots are those in a row?’
“‘Some as I found in the closet, sir, all over mould.’
“‘But they’re not fit to wear, are they?’
“‘Why not, sir?’ I says. ‘Look here, sir, that chap as you’ve had here ought to be flogged; I never see a gent’s fit-out and accoutrements in such a state.’
“‘They have been terribly neglected, my man,’ he says, ‘and I hope you’ll put ’em right.’
“‘You trust me, sir,’ I says, ‘and they shall be done proper, but it’ll take me weeks yet. Your linen’s shameful.’
“‘Then I must get some new things.’