In Which The Terror Hitherto Known as Four Legs Justifies his New Name

Justifies his New Name The chill of dawn was in the air as the chaise began to rumble over
the London cobble-stones, whereupon Master Milo (who for the last
hour had slumbered peacefully, coiled up in his corner like a kitten)
roused himself, sat suddenly very upright, straightened his cap and
pulled down his coat, broad awake all at once, and with his eyes as
round and bright as his buttons.

"Are you tired, Imp?" inquired Barnabas, yawning.

"Tired, sir, ho no, sir--not a bit, I ain't."

"But you haven't slept much."

"Slep', sir? I ain't slep'. I only jest 'appened to close me eyes,
sir. Ye see, I don't need much sleep, I don't,--four hours is enough
for any man,--my pal Nick says so, and Nick knows a precious lot, 'e
do."

"Who is Nick?"

"Nick's a cobbler, sir,--boots and shoes,--ladies' and gents', and a
very good cobbler 'e is too, although a cripple wiv a game leg. Me
and 'im's pals, sir, and though we 'as our little turn-ups 'count of
'im coming it so strong agin the Quality, I'm never very 'ard on 'im
'count of 'is crutch, d'ye see, sir."

"What do you mean by the 'Quality,' Imp?"

"Gentle-folks, sir,--rich folks like you an' m'lud. 'I'd gillertine
the lot, if I'd my way,' he says, 'like the Frenchies did in
Ninety-three,' 'e says. But 'e wouldn't reelly o'course, for Nick's
very tender-hearted, though 'e don't like it known. So we 're pals,
we are, and I often drop in to smoke a pipe wiv 'im--"