“Stolen! My goodness, sir! do you think there is any one about this house who would steal young gentlemen’s trousers?”
“Oh no, of course not,” said Max; “but could you get a man to pick a lock?”
“Pick a pocket, sir!” cried Grant indignantly, for he had not fully caught Max’s question.
“No, no—a lock. I lost the key of my small portmanteau as I came here, and I can’t get at my clothes.”
“No, sir, there is no one nearer than Stirling that we could get to do that.”
“Oh, never mind, Max,” cried Kenneth, coming in after leaving his visitor for some little time in the drawing-room; “the trousers’ll turn up soon, and if they don’t, you’ll do as you are. He looks fizzing, don’t he, Granty?”
“Yes, sir, that he do,” replied the butler, compressing his lips into a thin line.
“Only his legs look just a little too white,” continued Kenneth.
“You are both laughing at me,” said Max sadly.
“No, no, nonsense! There, come on out.”