“I say,” said I, “which is Mr Sharpe’s house?”
“Over there,” said he, pointing to an ivy-covered house at some little distance higher up the street. Then, regarding me attentively, he added, “I say, you’ll get in a jolly row if he sees you in that get-up.”
“Oh,” said I, feeling that the youngster was entitled to an explanation, “I’m an exhibitioner.”
“A who? All I know is he’s down on chaps playing the fool. You’d better cut in on the quiet before they bowl you out in that thing,” said he, pointing to my hat.
That thing! True, I had not observed many hats like it, so far, at Low Heath; but that was probably because I had not encountered any other fellow-exhibitioner. Tempest knew more about the form than this kid.
“Thanks,” said I. “Mr Sharpe will know who I am.”
“Oh, all right,” said he; “don’t say I didn’t tell you, that’s all.”
“I say,” said I, feeling that enough had been said on a matter on which we evidently misunderstood each other, “do you know Tempest?”
“Rather. He’s in our house. You’ll get it pretty hot from him if you cheek him.”
“Oh, I know him well; he’s an old chum.”