Pat was, in a word, stupid. He had a boyish face and a most handsome turn of the mouth, and mud-coloured hair that was long and fell with whimsical negligence over his roguish blue-eyes. He bore, in some aspects — such as the winsome cleft in the chin — a striking similarity in appearance to our comely young Molly. But unlike the youngest member of the five sewing circle sisters, who had a head upon her shoulders that would serve her well (whenever she took a mind to use it), Pat, on the other hand, was, and forever would be, an amusing dolt — a silly pup to be either kicked or snuggled as circumstance required.
Whether Tom or Pat should be deemed the best-looking of the five is entirely a matter of opinion. Tom’s looks tended slightly to the feminine and Pat’s to the fuzz-faced man-child, and neither of the two had any idea as to which of them was the better favoured, nor did they necessarily care, as most men generally do not, unless they be foppish and overbred. Yet there was one of the other three who was neither of these two things, and who, in fact, cared a great deal, for he was drawn to male pulchritude as part and parcel of his exceptional nature, this verity placing him in league with Ruth, who had a similar affinity for her own sex. For what it is worth, this young man, whose identity shall later be revealed, found Pat to be the better-looking of the two, and so treated him with demonstrably more fondness than he did his other mates.
“If you shilly-shally a moment longer, Tom Cat,” bawled Holborne, “you will find yourself unveiling your brilliant scheme just as its intended recipients come trooping out to take their little turn in the fresh air. It should be an awkward moment, largely avoidable by any man with half a brain. Speak, sir!”
Tom Catts responded by placing a silencing finger to his lips. Then he said softly, “If you would kindly keep your own voice down to a chick-peep, Holborne, the gossiping wife of a certain shoemaker won’t have opportunity to spread intelligence of my plan all the way from here to Manchester.”
“Then let us discuss the matter elsewhere,” offered Holborne, who belied his suggestion by moving not an inch from his spot whilst falling to his repast of crusty loaf and butter and cold loin of mutton as if it were the finest feast ever put before him.
“There’s to be no discussion,” pronounced Catts, “until I receive a sign from the modiste’s front window. Without it, the plan will expire in the cradle.”
“What manner of sign?” asked Pardlow, looking up from his book. Though the studied absorption of what he was reading generally proceeded apace without regard to where he was or how the world was spinning round him, Pardlow possessed a valuable facility for keeping himself peripherally attentive to anything being said within earshot that might redound either to his benefit or misfortune. For he was not the sort of young man to immerse himself so deeply in a book that he should be flattened in the lane by a runaway gig or have the wall of a house fall down upon him unawares until he be dead.
Catts replied: “A sign proffered by the delightful Miss Higgins.”
“The delightfully ill-favoured Miss Higgins,” croaked Castle with callous merriment. “Of the five, this is the one who has drawn your strongest interest? Powers above, Catts! Have you suddenly become struck with the same disease of acute myopia which afflicts our friend Pardlow?”
“I will have you know, sir,” readily protested that very object, “that there are things I can see quite clearly without even need of my eye-glasses!”
“Things two inches from your peeps!” croaked Castle again.
This statement propelled Pardlow from his seat. He moved his own face to within two or three inches of Castle’s, so the two men nearly touched noses. “What I see at this distance, Castle, is a boor who is constitutionally incapable of keeping his tongue inside his lip-flapping mouth. Miss Higgins may not possess so beautiful a countenance as her fellow seamstresses, but she is nevertheless wholly undeserving of your disapprobation.”
“Duly noted,” said Tom Catts, as he retrieved his bespectacled friend from the provocative vicinity of the group’s most inflammatory member and eased him back down upon the bench. “Jerry means only that Miss Higgins isn’t the loveliest flower in the spray. Yet to me she possesses charm and wit and there’s a twinkle in her eye, which our friend might catch if he paid better attention to all the maidens in their daily promenade.”
Castle wrinkled his lips in annoyance over having been so hastily confronted by the one among them least given to provocation (for Pardlow generally kept his own displeasure to an all-but-silent simmer). “I would not know, Catts, if Miss Higgins or any of the other maidens has charm or wit or just what their eyes do when one beholds them, with the singular exception of the bonny-faced Miss Barton who would command my attention from even the greatest distance.”
Holborne laughed whilst interlocking his large arms across his expansive chest. The picture was one of near Michelangelic statuary (beclothed, of course). “So, Catts, you have yet to set forth the rules of the game to the others, and already at least one of them has selected his victim.”
Castle cocked his head and looked queerly at Catts. “You’ve discussed the game with Holborne before the rest of us? What entitles our esteemed Norseman to this especial privilege?”
Catts shrugged. “I sought to put it to at least one of you in embryo to see if it was a proposition worthy of pursuit.”
“And what, pray, was the all-wise Holborne’s verdict?” asked Castle, grinning curiously. “Did it meet with his approval?”
Holborne grinned as well. “It did, sir. It did indeed. And it will meet with yours, depend on it. But let us suspend here, gentlemen. The scheme is too precarious at this early juncture to be exposed in such a public place as this.” He turned to Catts. “Where is Miss Higgins? Do I take this as a sign that your opening gambit has been inadvertently checked?”
“Alas, it was all too good to be true,” concurred Castle with a comically theatrical sigh, “whatever the gambit was.”
“Patience, gentlemen,” said Catts. “And do not fear. Miss Higgins is but momentarily delayed. Return to your book, Pardlow. And as for you, Master Harrison, feel free to proceed with your wonted woolgathering. Let no one disturb you.”
“What is that you say?” asked Harrison, shaken from a reverie.
Castle laughed heartily. “Paddy, my boy, have you been deaf to every word spoken here this morning?”
Pat Harrison’s face became a vacancy. “I was watching the shaping of the clouds. See the one just overhead? Don’t it resemble a fluffy white rabbit? Can you not make out its floppy ears?”
Castle could not contain his mirth. “And here are your ears—” He pinched at both of Harrison’s ears, as the latter emitted a boyish yelp. “And if there is aught betwixt them but sawdust, I’ll play the monkey for the next fortnight.”
“And how should that be any different from your present simian-like behaviour?” mumbled Pardlow without raising his eyes from his book.