Then he got up and put his papers away.
Finally he mused on a washhand basin in a corner of the room, and said dolefully,-- "I must dress, I think, Waterford." "All serene," said Waterford, briskly, "the young 'un and I will finish up here." Then nudging Horace, he added in a whisper, "He's going to rig up now.

Don't pretend to notice him, that's all." Booms proceeded to divest himself of his office coat and waistcoat and collar, and to roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, preparatory to an energetic wash.

He then opened a small box in a corner of the room, from which he produced, first a clothes-brush, with which he carefully removed all traces of dust from his nether garments; after that came a pair of light-coloured "pats," which he fitted on to his boots; then came a bottle of hair-oil, and afterwards a highly-starched "dicky," or shirt-front, with a stud in it, which by a complicated series of strings the owner contrived to fasten round his neck so as to conceal effectually the flannel shirt-front underneath.

Once more he dived, and this time the magic box yielded up what seemed to Horace's uninitiated eyes to be a broad strip of stiff cardboard, but which turned out to be a collar of fearful and wonderful proportions, which, when once adjusted, fully explained the wisdom displayed by the wearer in not deferring the brushing of his trousers and the donning of his "pats" to a later stage of the proceedings.

For nothing, not even a pickpocket at his gilt watch-chain with its pendant "charms," could lower his chin a quarter of an inch till bed-time.