“Well, what now?”
“Francisco’s rig!”
Hookey considered the suggestion, and finally accepted it, though with an evil grace.
“All right—out with them,” said he. “And you slip into them, young fellow, without more of your jaw. We sha’n’t wait for you. Saddle up there, saddle up, or we’ll never get off to-night!”
The little grey man was altogether changed. The long mellifluous word gave way to the monosyllable of short and sharp command; the horn spectacles seemed to kindle and flash to right, left and centre all at once; and yet, in three or four minutes, they were bent as benignly as ever upon Tom, who was now, however, another man himself.
Long spurs, longer boots and a bright blue jacket with enormous buttons, though some sizes too large, became him wonderfully upon the whole; and a straw hat, such as Dr. Sullivan wore and the convicts plaited, but wreathed with leaves and berries in a foreign fashion, crowned a disguise which only required the mask to render it complete.
“Be good enough to turn round,” said Hookey Simpson, with his former urbanity, and some perceptible amusement.
Tom did so; and there was De Gruchy still sitting in the moonlight, with his head between his hands; and the others as busy as bees.
“Now turn back again—and many thanks! That was an admirable idea of Slipper’s; they’ll take you for Francisco himself, and on the whole it’s just as well they should. Yet, mind you, he was a pretty hard nut! You mustn’t disgrace his cloth!”
