“No, thanks, Spike. I’m through now. You might just give me a brush down, though. No, not that. That’s a hair-brush. Try the big black one.”
“Dis is a boid of a dude suit,” observed Spike, pausing in his labours.
“Glad you like it, Spike. Rather chic, I think.”
“It’s de limit. Excuse me, how much did it set you back, boss?”
“Something like twelve guineas, I believe. I could look up the bill and let you know.”
“What’s dat—guineas? Is that more dan a pound?”
“A shilling more. Why these higher mathematics?”
Spike resumed his brushing.
“What a lot of dude suits youse could get,” he observed meditatively, “if you had dem jools.” He became suddenly animated. He waved the clothes-brush. “Oh, you boss!” he cried. “What’s eatin’ you? Aw, it’s a shame not to. Come along, you boss. Say, what’s doin’? Why ain’t you sittin’ in at de game? Oh, you boss!”
Whatever reply Jimmy might have made to this impassioned appeal was checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost immediately the handle turned.