Mr. Molloy brightened. He knew himself to be at his best when it came to a spiel.
“Soapy says he was born in this joint—ages and ages ago.”
“What do you mean—ages and ages ago?” said Mr. Molloy, starting.
“Ages and ages ago,” repeated Chimp firmly, “before he had to emigrate to America and leave the dear old place to be sold. He has loving childhood recollections of the lawn where he played as a kiddy and worships every brick in the place. All his favourite relations pegged out in the rooms upstairs, and all like that. Well, I’m here to say,” concluded Chimp emphatically, “that if that guy has any sentiment in him and if Dolly has done the preliminary work properly, he’ll drop.”
There was a tense silence.
“It’ll work,” said Soapy.
“It might work,” said Dolly, more doubtfully.
“It will work,” said Soapy. “I shall be good. I will have that lobster weeping into his handkerchief inside three minutes.”
“A lot depends on Dolly,” Chimp reminded him.
“Don’t you worry about that,” said the lady stoutly. “I’ll be good too. But listen here; I’ve got to dress this act. This is where I have to have that hat with the bird-of-paradise feather that I see in Regent Street this morning.”