"Well, Mas'r Jaggers," returned Mike, in the voice of a sufferer from a constitutional cold; "arter a deal o' trouble, I've found one, sir, as might do."
"Well, Mas'r Jaggers," said Mike, wiping his nose on his fur cap this time; "in a general way, anythink."
Mike looked hard at my guardian, as if he were trying to learn a lesson from his face, and slowly replied, "Ayther to character, or to having been in his company and never left him all the night in question."
Mike looked at his cap, and looked at the floor, and looked at the ceiling, and looked at the clerk, and even looked at me, before beginning to reply in a nervous manner, "We've dressed him up like--" when my guardian blustered out:
After some helpless casting about, Mike brightened and began again:
"I left him," said Mike, "a settin on some doorsteps round the corner."
Two of them feature a young woman called Philomena, while the other - taken by a passer-by - sees a young
Mike, then a trainee hairdresser at Andre Bernard's salon, in Church Street, pictured with friends John Seddon, fellow crimper
Mike Weinblatt, and John Gorman, then a post office engineer.