Horace could say nothing against this arrangement, though it meant more separation from Reginald. At present, however, his hand not being in, he had nothing to keep him after the seven o’clock bell, and he eagerly escaped at its first sound to look for Reginald.
Not, however, till he had witnessed a strange sight.
About a quarter to seven Booms, whose early evening it was, showed signs of uneasiness. He glanced sorrowfully once or twice at the clock, then at Horace, then at Waterford. Then he got up and put his papers away. Finally he mused on a washhand basin in a corner of the room, and said dolefully,—
“I must dress, I think, Waterford.”
“All serene,” said Waterford, briskly, “the young ’un and I will finish up here.” Then nudging Horace, he added in a whisper, “He’s going to rig up now. Don’t pretend to notice him, that’s all.”
Booms proceeded to divest himself of his office coat and waistcoat and collar, and to roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, preparatory to an energetic wash. He then opened a small box in a corner of the room, from which he produced, first a clothes-brush, with which he carefully removed all traces of dust from his nether garments; after that came a pair of light-coloured “pats,” which he fitted on to his boots; then came a bottle of hair-oil, and afterwards a highly-starched “dicky,” or shirt-front, with a stud in it, which by a complicated series of strings the owner contrived to fasten round his neck so as to conceal effectually the flannel shirt-front underneath. Once more he dived, and this time the magic box yielded up what seemed to Horace’s uninitiated eyes to be a broad strip of stiff cardboard, but which turned out to be a collar of fearful and wonderful proportions, which, when once adjusted, fully explained the wisdom displayed by the wearer in not deferring the brushing of his trousers and the donning of his “pats” to a later stage of the proceedings. For nothing, not even a pickpocket at his gilt watch-chain with its pendant “charms,” could lower his chin a quarter of an inch till bed-time. But more was yet to come. There were cuffs to put on, which left one to guess what had become of Mr Booms’s knuckles, and a light jaunty necktie to embellish the “dicky.” Then, with a plaintive sigh, he produced a blue figured waistcoat, and after it a coat shaped like the coat of a robin to cover all. Finally there appeared a hat, broad-brimmed, low-crowned, and dazzling in its glossiness, a pair of gay dogskin gloves, a crutch walking-stick, a pink silk handkerchief, and then this joint work of art and nature was complete!
“All right?” said he, in melancholy tones, as he set his hat a little on one side of his head, and, with his stick under his arm, began with his gloves.
Waterford got up and walked slowly and critically round him, giving a few touches here and there, and brushing a little stray dust from his collar.
“All right, dear boy. Mind how you go, and—”
“Oh!” groaned Booms, in tones of dire distress, “I knew I should forget something. Would you mind, Waterford?”