"Mine," I said. "Let's go, old horse."
We went, taking along a bottle of gin for medicinal purposes. I sat him down in the dilapidated rocking chair, in my bedroom and, staring into his brown face intently, said, "I've got a proposition for you, Arold. It's a whopper, too."
"Big job?" he said. "You want me on a big job?"
"Yes, you. You'll be my partner in it."
"Me?" he repeated incredulously.
"You're the one chap who can help me."
The muddy eyes actually filled with tears; it was not a maudlin drunk's easy weeping, though, but the honest emotion of a humble workman who finds himself asked to assist a master. "You want me, Arold Smiff, to link up wiff you, a gent, a real gent, clarss, wot I mean a toff as ever was? Cor! I knowed I wasn't through yet," said he. "Just you lead on, General."
"I was only a Captain," said I.
"Then you didn't 'ave your deserts, I'll say. Wot's the gyme?"
"The biggest."