“In my studio,” said Rippley. “I hope to Jupiter the horses haven’t knocked the stuffing out of my stattoos. I tipped the men to stay all night.”
“Splendid! Get ’em round, Rip, quick—by the back way, and into the court here—the door of the dressing-room opens into the court, and was made for taking big pictures through. There’s not a moment to lose.”
Rippley hurried out of the room.
“Quick, boys—one of you lock the hall door after Rippley!” cried Fluffy Reubens hoarsely; “we’ve got to pack out the whole parcel of toys in a couple of hours.”
He flung off his coat, and began to roll up a great Persian carpet.
In the early morning, the sleeping bailiff was roused by a rude hand upon his shoulders.
“Get up!” said a rough voice.
He sat up, untidy, frowsy, weak-eyed, snuffling and grumbling in the ridiculous gorgeousness of the ill-fitting livery.
He rubbed his eyes:
“God!” said he hoarsely.