“What’s your name?”
“Jones,” said I.
“Ah—you’re the boy who’s brought down a rubbishy speckled waistcoat and loud striped shirts—eh?”
“Well, yes,” said I.
“Did your mother buy them for you, or did you buy them?”
“I did.”
“I can see your mother’s a lady by the way she has everything else done. You’ll find your own trash just where you put it, in the bottom of your trunk. You will not be allowed to wear it. We expect our boys to dress like young gentlemen, whether they are such or not. What’s that in your hand, Jones?”
“My hat,” said I, hoping I was coming in for a little credit at last.
“Hat!” Here she was rude enough to laugh. “What made you bring a thing like that here for a hat?”
“But,” said I, “I’m an exhibitioner.”