Jacob eyed him.
"Why, do you know, you are a deuced good-looking fellow."
Jack rose, and made a most awkward obeisance.
"Oh, 'pon my honour," quoth Twig, with the utmost gravity—"so my clothes will suit you to a nicety—ahem! Cato, tell Romulus to desire Cobbler to fetch in my portmanteau instantly. So come along, my dear fellow, and let us rig you." (What next, thought I—this to a man he never saw before!) And away the Jolly tar sculled between Mr Twig and his friend Flamingo.
I had never before been guilty of such a heterodox proceeding, as going unasked to a ball given by a lady I had never seen or even heard of; and although the wine I had drank had by this created no small innovation in my brain, still I had discretion enough left to induce me to go up to Mr Twig's room door, where I again remonstrated with him on the impropriety of such an intrusion on my part.
"Poo, nonsense, my dear fellow. Just say you are old Frenche's nephew, and the whole company will hug you as an old acquaintance, man—not a Creole miss but will set her cap at you—take Jacob Twig's word for it—why, you will find that your fame has outstripped you the instant your name is mentioned, for your uncle makes no secret of his intention to make you his heir—so come along, man. Go dress—that's a good fellow."
I did so, and we were presently all in the hall of the tavern again, where friend Quacco was waiting with my cloak and hat, ready for a start.
"Thank you, Quacco; I hope you have made yourself comfortable?"
Quacco grinned. "Very, sir; find myself great man here. My story please people—better country dis dan de coast of Africa."
"Glad you find it so; but where, in heaven's name, got you that rig? you don't mean to follow me to Mr Roseapple's in such a dress?"