"In a word, Brimberly," pursued his master, seating himself upon the escritoire and swinging his leg, "I want some old clothes, shabby clothes—moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and an old hat. Can you find me some?"
"No, sir, I don't—that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir—'arf a moment, sir." Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.
"Say," exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr. Ravenslee, "who's His Whiskers—de swell guy with d' face trimmings?"
"Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his life to—er—looking after my welfare and—other things."
"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike, staring, "I should have thought you was big 'nuff to do that fer yourself, unless—" and here he broke off suddenly and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee's long figure with a new and more particular interest.
"Unless what?"
"Say—you ain't got bats in your belfry, have you—you ain't weak in the think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?"
"No—at least not more than the average, I believe."
"I mean His Whiskers don't have to lead you around on a string or watch out you don't set fire to yourself, does he?"
"Well, strictly speaking, I can't say that his duties are quite so far-reaching."