"Bill," said the voice of Mrs. Scutts, outside the door.
"Halloa," growled her husband.
"He mustn't go," said Mrs. Scutts. "Those gentlemen are coming again, and they think he is you."
"WHAT!" roared the infuriated Mr. Scutts.
"Don't you see? It's me what's got the pore back now, Bill," said Mr. Flynn. "You can't pass yourself off as me, Bill; you ain't good-looking enough."
Mr. Scutts, past speech, raised his clenched fists to the ceiling.
"He'll 'ave to stay in your bed," continued the voice of Mrs. Scutts. "He's got a good 'art, and I know he'll do it; won't you, Jim?"
Mr. Flynn pondered. "Tell my landlady in the morning that I've took your back room," he said. "What a fortunit thing it is I'm out o' work. What are you walking up and down like that for, Bill? Back coming on agin?"
"Then o' course," pursued the voice of Mrs. Scutts, in meditative accents, "there's the club doctor and the other gentleman that knows Bill. They might come at any moment. There's got to be two Bills in bed, so that if one party comes one Bill can nip into the back room, and if the other Bill—party, I mean—comes, the other Bill—you know what I mean!"
Mr. Scutts swore himself faint.