“Come in,” he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisper of a trombone.
The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door, opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room. It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; its chief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, with a gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes.
“Please, sir, Mr Muddle,” said the youth.
“Admit Mr Muddle.”
The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered into the room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stood at the fireplace vis-à-vis to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat, explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fancied that his friend was engaged with some one on business.
“How are you, Jack?” said George Augustus.
“Pretty bobbish,” replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we have already introduced as being Mr Clearemout’s friend and kindred spirit.)
“Any news?” inquired Mr Clearemout.
“No, nothing moving,” said Jack languidly.
“H’m, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune is apt to get stiff and creaky if we don’t grease her now and then and give her a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concocting and intend to lay on immediately.”