present; pay me when you are richer. Nay, never be coy about it,—debts of honour are not paid now as they used to be. We lads of the Fish-Lane Club have changed all that. Well, well, if I must."
And Long Ned, seeing that Paul insisted, pocketed the guinea. When this delicate matter had been arranged,
"Come," said Pepper—"come, get your hat; but, bless me! I have forgotten one thing."
"What?"
"Why, my fine Paul, consider, the play is a bang-up sort of a place,—look at your coat, and your waistcoat, that's all!"
Our hero was struck dumb with this argumentum ad hominem. But Long Ned, after enjoying his perplexity, relieved him of it, by telling him that he knew of an honest tradesman who kept a ready-made shop, just by the theatre, and who would fit him out in a moment.
In fact, Long Ned was as good as his word; he carried Paul to a tailor, who gave him for the sum of thirty shillings, half ready money, half on credit, a green coat with a tarnished gold lace, a pair of red inexpressibles, and a pepper-and-salt
