“Down that passage, blast you!” said Mr. Jordan.
A distressed and wondering and yet not absolutely abject Sargon was taken to a wet and untidy bathroom in which a broken chair, pools of water, great splashings on the wall, and some crumpled towels in the corner suggested a recent struggle. There he was made to undress and take a tepid bath, dried with a towel that had already been in action, put into a grey nightgown that was doubtfully clean, a grey shoddy dressing-gown that certainly wasn’t, and a pair of down-at-heel slippers two sizes too big, and so garbed, was led by Mr. Jordan, a little propitiated now by alert obedience, into the ward in which he was to pass the night.
A rufous man with very light eyelashes appeared.
“’Ere ’e is, Mr. ’Iggs,” said Mr. Jordan.
“I’ve got his bed ready,” said Mr. Higgs. “’Ow many more of ’em?”
“Perfec’ shower of ’em,” said Mr. Jordan.
“Three,” said Mr. Higgs.
“Well,” said Mr. Jordan. “So long.”
“So long,” said Mr. Higgs.
Neither of them addressed the Lord of the Whole World directly. He might have been a parcel passed from hand to hand.