“Ah!” returned Hugh softly. “Of course he is. I forgot.”
“Strike me dead, guvnor,” cringed the man, “I never meant no ’arm—I didn’t really. I’ll tell you all I know, sir. I will, strite.”
“I’m quite certain you will,” said Hugh. “And if you don’t, you swine, I’ll make you. When does Peterson come back?”
“Termorrow, too, sir, as far as I knows,” answered the man, and at that moment the intimidated rabbit shot rapidly out of his room, propelled by an accurate and forcible kick from Toby, who had followed him in to ensure rapidity of toilet.
“And what’s he doing?” demanded Drummond.
“On the level, guvnor, I can’t tell yer. Strite, I can’t; ’e can.” The man pointed at the latest arrival, who, with his nightdress tucked into his trousers, stood gasping painfully after the manner of a recently landed fish.
“I repeat, sir,” he spluttered angrily, “that this is an outrage. By what right...”
“Dry up,” remarked Hugh briefly. Then he turned to the American. “This is one of the ragged-trousered brigade I spoke to you about.”
For a while the three men studied him in silence; then the American thoughtfully transferred his chewing-gum to a fresh place.
“Wal,” he said, “he looks like some kind o’ disease; but I guess he’s got a tongue. Say, flop-ears, what are you, anyway?”