"Yes, Sir Thomas, you'll do," he said regretfully, "but I must say, Sir Thomas, that—"
"Shut up, Preston, you've said quite enough. Am I the real thing or not?"
"Certainly not, Sir Thomas," he said with spirit. "How could you be the real thing? But I'm bound to say you look it."
"You mean that your experience of a small but prosperous suburban public-house, visited principally by small tradespeople, leads you to suppose that I might pass very well for the landlord of such a place?"
"I am afraid it does, Sir Thomas," he replied with a gulp, as I surveyed myself once more in the long mirror of my wardrobe door.
I was about six feet high in my boots, fair, with a ruddy countenance and somewhat fleshy face—not gross I believe, but generally built upon a generous scale.
That morning I had shaved off my mustache, had my hair arranged in a new way—that is to say, with an oily curl draping over the forehead—and I had very carefully penciled some minute crimson veins upon my nose. I ought to say that I have done a good deal of amateur acting in my time and am more or less familiar with the contents of the make-up box.
[Note.—My master, Sir Thomas Kirby, has long been known as one of the handsomest gentlemen in society. He has a full face certainly, but entirely suited to his build and physical development. Of course, when he shaved off a mustache that was a model of such adornments, it did alter his appearance considerably.—Henry Preston.]
Instead of the high collar of use and wont, I wore a low one, permanently attached to what I believe is known as a "dicky"—that is to say, a false shirt front which reaches but little lower than the opening of the waistcoat. My tie was a made-up four-in-hand of crimson satin—not too new, my suit of very serviceable check with large side-pockets, purchased second-hand, together with other oddments, from a shop in Covent Garden. I also wore a large and massive gold watch-chain, and a diamond ring upon the little finger of my right hand.
That was all, yet I swear not one of my friends would have known me, and what was more important still, I was typical without having overdone it. No one in London, meeting me in the street, would have turned to look twice at me. You could not say I was really disguised—in the true meaning of the word—and yet I was certainly entirely transformed, and with my cropped hair, except for the "quiff" in front, I looked as blatant and genial a bounder as ever served a pint of "sixes."