"Clothes, I said," remarked Alf caustically, "not a blinkin' dressing-gown—what's that?"
"That" was a bull-like roar in the distance, which repeated itself over and over again until it at last resolved itself into a call for "Alf."
"'Ere, Bill," bellowed Alf in return.
"Oh! 'Ere you are," said the newly-christened Mr. Montmorency in wrathful tones as he entered. "Every room I go into seems to be full o' women. 'Ere, what d'you think o' this?" He displayed the garment he was wearing—a voluminous coat of some rich shimmering stuff. "Pinched me clothes, they 'ave, an' left me this ... this...."
Words failed him.
"An' a pair o' pink satin trousers," he concluded with heat. "What's the game?"
"Dunno. Same 'ere," answered Alf. "Look 'ere, Farr, don't you start no funny jokes with us. Clear this mess away an' bring us some proper civvy clothes."
"Same as what a gentleman 'ud wear," added Bill. "Pot 'at, an' gloves, an' spats, an'—an' so on. An' 'urry up."
"But, Lord," protested Mustapha, "these are garments of the greatest magnificence, such as the great Caliph Haroun Alraschid delighted to wear...."
"All right, take 'em to 'im. 'E can 'ave 'em, for all I care. Look 'ere, 'ave you got any ordinary clothes or not?"