Brentin, who was next the pew, looked over the partition and added to the sensation by audibly observing, “Sakes alive! It’s friend Bailey Thompson.”
When the service was over and we all got outside, he whispered, “Wait a minute, Blacker; send the others on, and I’ll present you to my friend.” So the others went on back to “The French Horn,” while I remained behind with some apprehension and curiosity to take this Mr. Bailey Thompson’s measure. He came out alone, Mr. Crage remaining to have a few words with the parson (with whom he was continually squabbling), and Brentin and Bailey Thompson greeted each other with great warmth.
He turned out to be a short, dark, determined-looking little man, with a square chin and old-fashioned, black, mutton-chop whiskers. No, he was clearly not quite a gentleman, in the sense that he had evidently never been at a public school.
“This,” said Mr. Brentin as he presented me, “is the originator of the little scheme I was telling you of—Mr. Vincent Blacker.”
“Oh, indeed!” Mr. Bailey Thompson replied, looking me full in the face with his penetrating black eyes, and politely lifting his small, tall hat. “Oh, indeed! so you really meant it?”
“Meant it?” echoed Brentin. “Why, the band of brothers is here; they were in the pew next you. Mr. Bailey Thompson, we are all here together for the making of our final arrangements, and in two weeks we start.”
“Oh, indeed!” he smiled; “it’s a bold piece of work.”
“Sir, it is colossal, but it will succeed!”
“Let us hope so. I am sure I wish you every success.”
“Mr. Bailey Thompson,” said Brentin, evidently nettled at the way the little man continued incredulously to smile, “if you care to join us some time during the afternoon we shall be glad to lay details of our plan before you. They will not only prove our bona-fides, but show how complete and fully thought out all our preparations are.”