“You—er—threw this in the—er—waste-basket.” he drawled. “In which pocket was it?”
“The waistcoat. An upper one, I believe. There was a pencil there, too.”
“Have you an old pair of shoes of Bailey’s,” asked the visitor abruptly.
“Why, I suppose so. In the attic somewhere.”
“Please bring them to me.”
The Reverend Mr. Prentice left the room. No sooner had the door closed after him than Average Jones jumped out of his chair stripped to his shirt, caught up the pepper-and-salt waistcoat, tried it on and buttoned it across his chest without difficulty; then thrust his arm into the coat which went with it, and wormed his way, effortfully, partly into that. He laid it aside only when he had determined that he could get it no farther on. He was clothed and in his right garments when the Reverend Mr. Prentice returned with a much-worn pair of shoes.
“Will these do?” he asked.
Average Jones hardly gave them the courtesy of a glance. “Yes,” he said indifferently, and set them aside. “Have you a time-table here?”
“You’re going to leave?” cried the clergyman, in sharp disappointment.
“In just half an hour,” replied the visitor, holding his finger on the time-table.