Tearing off my canvas coat and white apron and tossing them in a heap upon a chair, I shot into, rather than got into, my reefer jacket, and snatching at my hat was down the stairs and out in the street before my visitor was half-way to the first corner, which led to an unfrequented side street. The instant he had turned it I was after him like the wind, and, looking warily round, saw him making for a narrow lane that ran at right angles to the direction in which he was going. No sooner was he hidden by the corner than I was after him once again, but not so hurriedly as to forget to stop and peer cautiously round before exposing my own person to view. The sight which met my eyes put me, I must confess, fairly out of countenance, for there, just round the corner, with the crush hat pushed to the back of his head, the muffler thrown open and the blue spectacles in the hand which he pointed derisively at me, was none other than the Professor, literally rolling about with uncontrollable laughter. “Oh, my poor korf! it is so bad I ain’t able to speak!” he gasped between his convulsions of merriment. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, you ’a’porth o’ pigeon’s milk wot thought you could get up early enough in the mornin’ to take a rise out of old Tom Lawrance! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, you feedin’-bottle fool and mug as thought yer’d got the bulge on Downy Tom! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Come and laugh at him, sonnies, for the biggest fool and mammy’s-milk Juggins and Johnny in all Stanby!” CHAPTER XX HOW JAMES MULLEN AND MYSELF ALMOST MET The Professor was in such huge good humour at the success of his ruse that when we returned together to the hair-cutting establishment he was almost inclined to be genial, especially as I took the joke in good part, and frankly admitted that I had never been so “let through” before. So friendly was he, in fact that he readily agreed to my proposal that I should go over the way and bring back a bottle of something to ease his cough; and after I had pledged “Downy Tom,” and expressed the intention of getting up a little earlier in the morning the next time I meant trying to steal a march upon him, and “Downy Tom” had pledged me in what--in delicate allusion to recent events--he humorously termed pigeon’s milk, but which was in reality the best Old Tom, we fell to discussing events almost confidentially. “So it _is_ Jeanes as yer after--as I always suspected, though you never harsked questions about him direct, but only as if by haccident and among the others” he said, as he lit his pipe. “It ’ud have saved a lot of trouble if yer’d told me so at fust.” “What do you mean by ‘saved trouble’?” I asked.