Mrs Rampy broke down at this point and threw her apron over her head to conceal her feelings. At the same moment the eccentric footman raised his head, and something like a pistol-shot was heard as the burglar brought his palm down on his thigh, exclaiming—
“I know’d it! Trumps—or his ghost!”
“’E’s too fat for a ghost,” remarked a humorous thief.
“No, mate, I ain’t Trumps,” said the resplendent man, rising before the admiring gaze of the party. “My name is Rodgers, footman to Colonel Brentwood of Weston ’All. I’m a noo man, houtside an’ in; an’ I’ve come ere a-purpuse to surprise you, not only wi’ the change in my costoom, but wi’ the noos that my master’s comin’ down ’ere to see arter you a bit, an’ try if ’e can’t ’elp us hout of our difficulties; an’ e’s agoin’ to keep a missionary, hout of ’is own pocket, to wisit in this district an’ they’re both comin’ ’ere this wery night to take tea with us. An’ ’e’s bringin’ a lord with ’im—a live lord—”
“Wot better is a live lord than any other man?” growled a thief with radical proclivities.
“Right you are, Jim Scroodger,” said Trumps, turning sharply on the speaker; “a live lord is no better than any other man unless ’e is better! Indeed, considerin’ ’is circumstances, ’e’s a good deal wuss if ’e’s no better; but a live lord is better than a dead thief, w’ich you’ll be soon, Jim, if you don’t mend yer ways.”
“Hear! hear!” and a laugh from the company.
“Moreover,” continued Trumps, “the lord that’s a-comin’ is better than most other men. He’s a trump—”
“Not a brother o’ yourn—eh?” murmured the burglar. “W’y, Trumps, I thought you was a detective!”
“Not in plain clo’es, surely,” remarked the humorous thief.