I hasten to assure him that I am convinced that my house is a perfect nest of draughts.
"Don't you be too sure until I have tested them," advises Mr. Lopside.
Then the ingenious creature again divests himself of his overcoat and workman's bag and commences his labours. He visits every door in the house and tries it. He assumes all sorts of attitudes. Now he appears like Jessie Brown at Lucknow listening to the distant slogan of the coming Highlanders. Now like a colleague of Guy Fawkes noting the tread of Lord Monteagle on the road to the gunpowder cellar beneath the Houses of Parliament. His attitudes, if not exactly graceful, are full of character.
"There are draughts everywhere," says Mr. Lopside, having come to the end of his investigations.
"And what shall I do?" I ask for the second time. Again my worthy inspector spends a few minutes in self-communing.
"It's not for the likes of a poor man like me, Sir, to give advice; but if I were you, Sir, I would say antiplutocratic tubing."
"What is antiplutocratic tubing?"
"Well, Sir, it's as good a thing as you can have, under all the circumstances. But don't have antiplutocratic tubing because I say so. I may be wrong, Sir."
"No, no, Mr. Lopside," I reply, in a tone of encouragement. "I am sure you are right. Do you think you could get me some antiplutocratic tubing, and put it up for me?"
"Why, of course I could, Sir!" returns my worthy helper, in the tone of a more than usually benevolent Father Christmas. Then he seems to lose heart and become despondent. "But there, Sir, it's not for the likes of me to say anything."