is your collar and necktie--"

"I don't want 'em. Where the dickens are my trousers?"

His face fell. "Being pressed, sir, God forgive me!"

"Get out another pair, confound you, Britton. What are we coming to?"

He began rummaging in the huge clothespress, all the while regaling
me with news from the regions below.

"Mr. Poopendyke has gone up to his room, sir, with his typewriter. The
young lady insisted on having it. She squealed with joy at seeing an
antique typewriter and he--he had to run away with it, 'pon my soul
he did, sir."

I couldn't help laughing.

"And your golf clubs, Mr. Smart. The young gentleman of the party is
perfectly carried away with them. He says they're the real thing, the
genuine sixteenth century article. They _are_ a bit rusted, you'll
remember. I left him out in the courtyard trying your brassie and
mid-iron, sir, endeavouring to loft potatoes over the south wall. I
succeeded in hiding the balls, sir. Just as I started upstairs I heard
one of the new window panes in the banquet hall smash, sir, so I take
it he must have sliced his drive a bit."

"Who let these people in?" I demanded in smothered tones from the
depths of a sweater I was getting into in order to gain time by omitting
a collar.