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THE BLACK BAG
By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THOMAS FOGARTY
1908
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN
II. "AND SOME THERE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTURES THRUST UPON THEM"
III. CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER
IV. 9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C.
V. THE MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER
VI. "BELOW BRIDGE"
VII. DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN--RESUMED
VIII. MADAME L'INTRIGANTE
IX. AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE"; AND BEYOND
X. DESPERATE MEASURES
XI. OFF THE NORE
XII. PICARESQUE PASSAGES
XIII. A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME
XIV. STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS
XV. REFUGEES
XVI. TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON
XVII. ROGUES AND VAGABONDS
XVIII. ADVENTURERS' LUCK
XIX. i--THE UXBRIDGE ROAD
ii--THE CROWN AND MITRE
iii--THE JOURNEY'S END
THE BLACK BAG
I
DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN
Upon a certain dreary April afternoon in the year of grace, 1906, theapprehensions of Philip Kirkwood, Esquire, _Artist-peintre_, were enlivenedby the discovery that he was occupying that singularly distressing socialposition, which may be summed up succinctly in a phrase through long usagegrown proverbial: "Alone in London." These three words have come to connotein our understanding so much of human misery, that to Mr. Kirkwood theyseemed to epitomize absolutely, if not happily, the various circumstancesattendant upon the predicament wherein he found himself. Inevitably anextremist, because of his youth, (he had just turned twenty-five), hetook no count of mitigating matters, and would hotly have resented thesuggestion that his case was anything but altogether deplorable andforlorn.
That he was not actually at the end of his resources went for nothing; heheld the distinction a quibble, mockingly immaterial,--like the store ofguineas in his pocket, too insignificant for mention when contrasted withhis needs. And his base of supplies, the American city of his nativity,whence--and not without a glow of pride in his secret heart--he was wont toregister at foreign hostelries, had been arbitrarily cut off from him byone of those accidents sardonically classified by insurance and expresscorporations as Acts of God.
Now to one who has lived all his days serenely in accord with the dictatesof his own sweet will, taking no thought for the morrow, such a situationnaturally seems both appalling and intolerable, at the first blush. It mustbe confessed that, to begin with, Kirkwood drew a long and disconsolateface over his fix. And in that black hour, primitive of its kind in hisbrief span, he became conscious of a sinister apparition taking shape athis elbow--a shade of darkness which, clouting him on the back with askeleton hand, croaked hollow salutations in his ear.
"Come, Mr. Kirkwood, come!" its mirthless accents rallied him. "Have youno welcome for me?--you, who have been permitted to live the quarter of acentury without making my acquaintance? Surely, now, it's high time we werelearning something of one another, you and I!" "But I don't understand,"returned Kirkwood blankly. "I don't know you--"
"True! But you shall: I am the Shade of Care--"
"Dull Care!" murmured Kirkwood, bewildered and dismayed; for the visitationhad come upon him with little presage and no invitation whatever.
"Dull Care," the Shade assured him. "Dull Care am I--and Care that'sanything but dull, into the bargain: Care that's like a keen pain in yourbody, Care that lives a horror in your mind, Care that darkens your daysand flavors with bitter poison all your nights, Care that--"
But Kirkwood would not listen further. Courageously submissive to hisdestiny, knowing in his heart that the Shade had come to stay, he yet foundspirit to shake himself with a dogged air, to lift his chin, set the strongmuscles of his jaw, and smile that homely wholesome smile which was hispeculiarly.
"Very well," he accepted the irremediable with grim humor; "what must be,must. I don't pretend to be glad to see you, but--you're free to stay aslong as you find the climate agreeable. I warn you I shan't whine. Lots ofmen, hundreds and hundreds of 'em, have slept tight o' nights with you forbedfellow; if they could grin and bear you, I believe I can."
Now Care mocked him with a sardonic laugh, and sought to tighten upon hisshoulders its bony grasp; but Kirkwood resolutely shrugged it off and wentin search of man's most faithful dumb friend, to wit, his pipe; the which,when found and filled, he lighted with a spill twisted from the envelope ofa cable message which had been vicariously responsible for his introductionto the Shade of Care.
"It's about time," he announced, watching the paper blacken and burn in thegrate fire, "that I was doing something to prove my title to a living." Andthis was all his valedictory to a vanished competence. "Anyway," he addedhastily, as if fearful lest Care, overhearing, might have read into histone a trace of vain repining, "anyway, I'm a sight better off than thosepoor devils over there! I really have a great deal to be thankful for, nowthat my attention's drawn to it."
For the ensuing few minutes he thought it all over, soberly but with astout heart; standing at a window of his bedroom in the Hotel Pless, handsdeep in trouser pockets, pipe fuming voluminously, his gaze wandering outover a blurred infinitude of wet shining roofs and sooty chimney-pots: allof London that a lowering drizzle would let him see, and withal by no meansa cheering prospect, nor yet one calculated to offset the dishearteninginfluence of the indomitable Shade of Care. But the truth is thatKirkwood's brain comprehended little that his eyes perceived; his thoughtswere with his heart, and that was half a world away and sick with pityfor another and a fairer city, stricken in the flower of her loveliness,writhing in Promethean agony upon her storied hills.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel,beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of thePless pages.
"Mister Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded again, smiling. "Show him up, please," he said. But beforethe words were fairly out of his mouth a footfall sounded in the corridor,a hand was placed upon the shoulder of the page, gently but with decisionswinging him out of the way, and a man stepped into the room.
"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood almost shouted, jumping forward to seize hisvisitor's hand.
"My dear boy!" replied the latter. "I'm delighted to see you. 'Got yournote not an hour ago, and came at once--you see!"
"It was mighty good of you. Sit down, please. Here are cigars.... Why, amoment ago I was the most miserable and lonely mortal on the footstool!"
"I can fancy." The elder man looked up, smiling at Kirkwood from the depthsof his arm-chair, as the latter stood above him, resting an elbow onthe mantel. "The management knows me," he offered explanation of hisunceremonious appearance; "so I took the liberty of following on the heelsof the bellhop, dear boy. And how are you? Why are you in London, enjoyingour abominable spring weather? And why the anxious undertone I detected inyour note?"
He continued to stare curiously into Kirkwood's face. At a glance, thisMr. Brentwick was a man of tallish figure and rather slender; with acountenance thin and flushed a sensitive pink, out of which his eyes shone,keen, alert, humorous, and a trace wistful behind his glasses. His yearswere indeterminate; with the aspect of fifty, the spirit and the verve ofthirty assorted
oddly. But his hands were old, delicate, fine and fragile;and the lips beneath the drooping white mustache at times trembled, almostimperceptibly, with the generous sentiments that come with mellow age. Heheld his back straight and his head with an air--an air that was not aswagger but the sign-token of seasoned experience in the world. The mostcarping could have found no flaw in the quiet taste of his attire. To sumup, Kirkwood's very good friend--and his only one then in London--Mr.Brentwick looked and was an English gentleman.
"Why?" he persisted, as the younger man hesitated. "I am here to find out.To-night I leave for the Continent. In the meantime ..."
"And at midnight I sail for the States," added Kirkwood. "That is mainlywhy I wished to see you--to say good-by, for the time."
"You're going home--" A shadow clouded Brentwick's clear eyes.
"To fight it out, shoulder to shoulder with my brethren in adversity."
The cloud lifted. "That is the spirit!" declared the elder man. "For themoment I did you the injustice to believe that you were running away. Butnow I understand. Forgive me.... Pardon, too, the stupidity which I mustlay at the door of my advancing years; to me the thought of you as aParisian fixture has become such a commonplace, Philip, that the news ofthe disaster hardly stirred me. Now I remember that you are a Californian!"
"I was born in San Francisco," affirmed Kirkwood a bit sadly. "My fatherand mother were buried there ..."
"And your fortune--?"
"I inherited my father's interest in the firm of Kirkwood & Vanderlip; whenI came over to study painting, I left everything in Vanderlip's hands. Thebusiness afforded me a handsome living."
"You have heard from Mr. Vanderlip?"
"Fifteen minutes ago." Kirkwood took a cable-form, still damp, from hispocket, and handed it to his guest. Unfolding it, the latter read:
"_Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good coming backeverything gone no insurance letter follows vanderlip_."
"When I got the news in Paris," Kirkwood volunteered, "I tried the banks;they refused to honor my drafts. I had a little money in hand,--enoughto see me home,--so closed the studio and came across. I'm booked on the_Minneapolis_, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves ateleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and see meoff."
In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a thoughtfullook, "You are sure this is wise?" he queried.
"It's the only thing I can see."
"But your partner says--"
"Naturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned to paint wellenough to support myself for a few months, until he can get things runningagain. Perhaps I might." Brentwick supported the presumption with a decidedgesture. "But have I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone? ForVanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support; I--"
"Your genius!"
"My ability, such as it is--and that only. It can wait.... No; this meanssimply that I must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on solid earth,and get to work."
"The sentiment is sound," admitted Brentwick, "the practice of it, folly.Have you stopped to think what part a rising young portrait-painter cancontribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated city?"
"The painting can wait," reiterated Kirkwood. "I can work like other men."
"You can do yourself and your genius grave injustice. And I fear me youwill, dear boy. It's in keeping with your heritage of American obstinacy.Now if it were a question of money--"
"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood protested vehemently. "I've ample for my presentneeds," he added.
"Of course," conceded Brentwick with a sigh. "I didn't really hope youwould avail yourself of our friendship. Now there's my home in AspenVillas.... You have seen it?"
"In your absence this afternoon your estimable butler, with commendablediscretion, kept me without the doors," laughed the young man.
"It's a comfortable home. You would not consent to share it with meuntil--?"
"You are more than good; but honestly, I must sail to-night. I wanted onlythis chance to see you before I left. You'll dine with me, won't you?"
"If you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together not once butmany times; as it is, I myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a week,on business. I have many affairs needing attention between now and thenine-ten train from Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen Villas--"
"Please!" begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure because of theother's insistence. "I only wish I could. Another day--"
"Oh, you will make your million in a year, and return scandalouslyindependent. It's in your American blood." Frail white fingers tapped anarm of the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire. "I confess Ienvy you," he observed.
"The opportunity to make a million in a year?" chuckled Kirkwood.
"No. I envy you your Romance."
"The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years ago.... No, mydear friend; my Romance died a natural death half an hour since."
"There spoke Youth--blind, enviable Youth!... On the contrary, you are butturning the leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip."
"Romance is dead," contended the young man stubbornly.
"Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to thefire. "Myself when young," he said softly, "did seek Romance, but neverknew it till its day was done. I'm quite sure that is a poor paraphrase ofsomething I have read. In age, one's sight is sharpened--to see Romance inanother's life, at least. I say I envy you. You have Youth, unconquerableYouth, and the world before you.... I must go."
He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious of his age. The old eyespeered more than a trifle wistfully, now, into Kirkwood's. "You will notfail to call on me by cable, dear boy, if you need--anything? I ask it asa favor.... I'm glad you wished to see me before going out of my life. Onelearns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip. Good-by, and good luckattend you."
Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his window. The disappointment hefelt at being robbed of his anticipated pleasure in Brentwick's company atdinner, colored his mood unpleasantly. His musings merged into vacuity,into a dull gray mist of hopelessness comparable only to the dismal skiesthen lowering over London-town.
Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken. There was really nothingfor Kirkwood to do but to go ahead. But one steamer-trunk remained to bepacked; the boat-train would leave before midnight, the steamer with themorning tide; by the morrow's noon he would be upon the high seas, withinten days in New York and among friends; and then ...
The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirkwood more than he cared toown. Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that he would be practicallyuseless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the thought of goingback, only to become a charge upon Vanderlip. No; he was resolved thatthenceforward he must rely upon himself, carve out his own destiny.But--would the art that he had cultivated with such assiduity, yield him alivelihood if sincerely practised with that end in view? Would the mentaland physical equipment of a painter, heretofore dilettante, enable him tobecome self-supporting?
Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to divine the future, hedoubted himself, darkly questioning alike his abilities and his temperunder trial; neither ere now had ever been put to the test. His eyes becamesomberly wistful, his heart sore with regret of Yesterday--his Yesterday ofcare-free youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable, evanescent glamourof Romance--of such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows whohas wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.
Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, thestorm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrousand unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon thecity.
Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow, whisperingsubtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold and cruel.
The gloom deepened
.
In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel, beheldhesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Plesspages.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat perplexed. Encouraged, the childadvanced, proffering a silver card-tray at the end of an unnaturally rigidforearm. Kirkwood took the card dubiously between thumb and forefinger andinspected it without prejudice.
"'George B. Calendar,'" he read. "'George B. Calendar!' But I know no suchperson. Sure there's no mistake, young man?"
The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was agitated in vigorousnegation, and "Card for Mister Kirkwood!" was mumbled in dispassionateaccents appropriate to a recitation by rote.
"Very well. But before you show him up, ask this Mr. Calendar if he isquite sure he wants to see Philip Kirkwood."
"Yessir."
The child marched out, punctiliously closing the door. Kirkwood tampeddown the tobacco in his pipe and puffed energetically, dismissing theinterruption to his reverie as a matter of no consequence--an obviousmistake to be rectified by two words with this Mr. Calendar whom he did notknow. At the knock he had almost hoped it might be Brentwick, returningwith a changed mind about the bid to dinner.
He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a curious sort offriendship--extraordinarily close in view of the meagerness of either'sinformation about the other, to say nothing of the disparity between theirages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood knew little more than that they hadmet on shipboard, "coming over"; that Brentwick had spent some years inAmerica; that he was an Englishman by birth, a cosmopolitan by habit, byprofession a gentleman (employing that term in its most uncompromisinglyBritish significance), and by inclination a collector of "articles ofvirtue and bigotry," in pursuit of which he made frequent excursions to theContinent from his residence in a quaint quiet street of Old Brompton. Ithad been during his not infrequent, but ordinarily abbreviated, sojourns inParis that their steamer acquaintance had ripened into an affection almostfilial on the one hand, almost paternal on the other....
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel,beheld hesitant upon the threshold a rather rotund figure of medium height,clad in an expressionless gray lounge suit, with a brown "bowler" hat heldtentatively in one hand, an umbrella weeping in the other. A voice, whichwas unctuous and insinuative, emanated from the figure.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the name, so detached had beenhis thoughts since the disappearance of the page.
"Yes, Mr. Calendar--?"
"Are you--ah--busy, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Are you, Mr. Calendar?" Kirkwood's smile robbed the retort of any flavorof incivility.
Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he would detain his host but amoment, and readily surrendering hat and umbrella. Kirkwood, putting thelatter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which Brentwick hadoccupied by the fireplace.
"It takes the edge off the dampness," Kirkwood explained in deference tothe other's look of pleased surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. "I'mafraid I could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp room--or a dampcold room--such as you Britishers prefer."
"It is grateful," Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading plump and well cared-forhands to the warmth. "But you are mistaken; I am as much an American asyourself."
"Yes?" Kirkwood looked the man over with more interest, lessmatter-of-course courtesy.
He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable Mr. Calendar; he wasdressed with some care, his complexion was good, and the fullness of hisgirth, emphasized as it was by a notable lack of inches, bespoke a naturegenial, easy-going and sybaritic. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded, wereactive--curiously, at times, with a subdued glitter--in a face large,round, pink, of which the other most remarkable features were a mustache,close-trimmed and showing streaks of gray, a chubby nose, and duplicatechins. Mr. Calendar was furthermore possessed of a polished bald spot,girdled with a tonsure of silvered hair--circumstances which lent somefactitious distinction to a personality otherwise commonplace.
His manner might be best described as uneasy with assurance; as though hefrequently found it necessary to make up for his unimpressive stature byassuming an unnatural habit of authority. And there you have him; beyondthese points, Kirkwood was conscious of no impressions; the man wasapparently neutral-tinted of mind as well as of body.
"So you knew I was an American, Mr. Calendar?" suggested Kirkwood.
"'Saw your name on the register; we both hail from the same neck of thewoods, you know."
"I didn't know it, and--"
"Yes; I'm from Frisco, too."
"And I'm sorry."
Mr. Calendar passed five fat fingers nervously over his mustache, glancedalertly up at Kirkwood, as if momentarily inclined to question his tone,then again stared glumly into the fire; for Kirkwood had maintained anattitude purposefully colorless. Not to put too fine a point upon it, hebelieved that his caller was lying; the man's appearance, his mannerisms,his voice and enunciation, while they might have been American, seemed allun-Californian. To one born and bred in that state, as Kirkwood had been,her sons are unmistakably hall-marked.
Now no man lies without motive. This one chose to reaffirm, with a show ofdeep feeling: "Yes; I'm from Frisco, too. We're companions in misfortune."
"I hope not altogether," said Kirkwood politely.
Mr. Calendar drew his own inferences from the response and mustered up ashow of cheerfulness. "Then you're not completely wiped out?"
"To the contrary, I was hoping you were less unhappy."
"Oh! Then you are--?"
Kirkwood lifted the cable message from the mantel. "I have just heard frommy partner at home," he said with a faint smile; and quoted: "'Everythinggone; no insurance.'"
Mr. Calendar pursed his plump lips, whistling inaudibly. "Too bad, toobad!" he murmured sympathetically. "We're all hard hit, more or less."He lapsed into dejected apathy, from which Kirkwood, growing at lengthimpatient, found it necessary to rouse him.
"You wished to see me about something else, I'm sure?"
Mr. Calendar started from his reverie. "Eh? ... I was dreaming. I begpardon. It seems hard to realize, Mr. Kirkwood, that this awful catastrophehas overtaken our beloved metropolis--"
The canting phrases wearied Kirkwood; abruptly he cut in. "Would asovereign help you out, Mr. Calendar? I don't mind telling you that's aboutthe limit of my present resources."
"Pardon _me_." Mr. Calendar's moon-like countenance darkened; he assumed atransparent dignity. "You misconstrue my motive, sir."
"Then I'm sorry."
"I am not here to borrow. On the other hand, quite by accident I discoveredyour name upon the register, down-stairs; a good old Frisco name, if youwill permit me to say so. I thought to myself that here was a chanceto help a fellow-countryman." Calendar paused, interrogative; Kirkwoodremained interested but silent. "If a passage across would help you, I--Ithink it might be arranged," stammered Calendar, ill at ease.
"It might," admitted Kirkwood, speculative.
"I could fix it so that you could go over--first-class, of course--and payyour way, so to speak, by, rendering us, me and my partner, a triflingservice."
"Ah?"
"In fact," continued Calendar, warming up to his theme, "there might besomething more in it for you than the passage, if--if you're the right man,the man I'm looking for."
"That, of course, is the question."
"Eh?" Calendar pulled up suddenly in a
full-winged flight of enthusiasm.
Kirkwood eyed him steadily. "I said that it is a question, Mr. Calendar,whether or not I am the man you're looking for. Between you and me and thefire-dogs, I don't believe I am. Now if you wish to name your _quidpro quo_, this trifling service I'm to render in recognition of yourbenevolence, you may."
"Ye-es," slowly. But the speaker delayed his reply until he had surveyedhis host from head to foot, with a glance both critical and appreciative.
He saw a man in height rather less than the stock size six-feet so muchin demand by the manufacturers of modern heroes of fiction; a man a bitround-shouldered, too, but otherwise sturdily built, self-contained,well-groomed.
Kirkwood wears a boy's honest face; no one has ever called him handsome. Afew prejudiced persons have decided that he has an interesting countenance;the propounders of this verdict have been, for the most part, feminine.Kirkwood himself has been heard to declare that his features do not fit;in its essence the statement is true, but there is a very real, ifundefinable, engaging quality in their very irregularity. His eyes arebrown, pleasant, set wide apart, straightforward of expression.
Now it appeared that, whatever his motive, Mr. Calendar had acted uponimpulse in sending his card up to Kirkwood. Possibly he had anticipated avery different sort of reception from a very different sort of man. Even inthe light of subsequent events it remains difficult to fathom the mysteryof his choice. Perhaps Fate directed it; stranger things have happened atthe dictates of a man's Destiny.
At all events, this Calendar proved not lacking in penetration; men of hisstamp are commonly endowed with that quality to an eminent degree. Not slowto reckon the caliber of the man before him, the leaven of intuition beganto work in his adipose intelligence. He owned himself baffled.
"Thanks," he concluded pensively; "I reckon you're right. You won't do,after all. I've wasted your time. Mine, too."
"Don't mention it."
Calendar got heavily out of his chair, reaching for his hat and umbrella."Permit me to apologize for an unwarrantable intrusion, Mr. Kirkwood." Hefaltered; a worried and calculating look shadowed his small eyes. "I _was_looking for some one to serve me in a certain capacity--"
"Certain or questionable?" propounded Kirkwood blandly, opening the door.
Pointedly Mr. Calendar ignored the imputation. "Sorry I disturbed you.G'dafternoon, Mr. Kirkwood."
"Good-by, Mr. Calendar." A smile twitched the corners of Kirkwood'stoo-wide mouth.
Calendar stepped hastily out into the hall. As he strode--or rather,rolled--away, Kirkwood maliciously feathered a Parthian arrow.
"By the way, Mr. Calendar--?"
The sound of retreating footsteps was stilled and "Yes?" came from thegloom of the corridor.
"Were you ever in San Francisco? Really and truly? Honest Injun, Mr.Calendar?"
For a space the quiet was disturbed by harsh breathing; then, in astrained voice, "Good day, Mr. Kirkwood"; and again the sound of departingfootfalls.
Kirkwood closed the door and the incident simultaneously, with a smart bangof finality. Laughing quietly he went back to the window with its drearyoutlook, now the drearier for lengthening evening shadows.
"I wonder what his game is, anyway. An adventurer, of course; the woods arefull of 'em. A queer fish, even of his kind! And with a trick up his sleeveas queer and fishy as himself, no doubt!"