"I—er—want to see one of the er—er—moving men."
"Certainly, sir," responded the man; "'ave you any choice?"
Sir Charles fixed his monocle more firmly in his left eye, and stared at the man in astonishment.
"We've got 'em from twenty-three to sixty-five. I'm forty-eight meself, but p'r'aps you'd like a young 'un. Fair or dark, sir, tall or short?"
Sir Charles gazed at the man as if dazed, then went very red, but controlling his wrath he replied:
"I do not know his name, I'm afraid. He has a green baize apron and is—er—bald, and—er—has a rather red nose."
The man smiled broadly, insolently, intolerably, Sir Charles thought.
"That won't 'elp us much, sir. Blessed if you 'aven't described the 'ole blessed perfession. Hi! Ginger?" This to Ginger, who was passing. He approached. "This is rather a tasty little lot, sir. 'E's got a red 'ead as well as a red nose. Not 'im? Well, let me see. Tell Bindle to come 'ere. I think Bindle may be your man, sir; 'e's got some pals in these 'ere parts, I think."
For nearly half a minute Sir Charles glared at the man before him, who grinned back with perfect self-possession.
