Mr Hawkins spat comprehensively. Sir Roland, his sense of propriety offended, interposed. “Here, I say, Pel, can’t have the fellow spitting all over another man’s house. Bad ton, dear boy. Devilish bad!”
“Don’t do that again!” ordered the Viscount. “What’s the use of it? Diddled you out of your money, hasn’t he?”
“Ay, loped off,” growled Mr Hawkins. “A boman prig, he is! When I gets my hands on him—”
“I can help you do that,” said the Viscount. “What do you say to holding him up?—for twenty guineas?”
Mr Hawkins looked suspiciously from one to the other. “What’s the lay?” he demanded.
“He’s got something I want,” said the Viscount briefly. “Make up your mind! The Watch, or twenty guineas?”
Mr Hawkins caressed his stubby chin. “Who’s in it? All of you coves?” he inquired.
“All of us. We’re going to hold up his chaise.”
“What, in them toges?” said Mr Hawkins, indicating the Viscount’s gold-laced coat.
“Of course not, you fool!” answered the Viscount impatiently. “That’s what we want you for. We must have three greatcoats like your own, and masks.”