Enter Paul wearing a bowler hat and false beard - his disguise for the day.
"'Ello there, midgit," he said in a low voice, approaching the receptionist desk.
"A-and, your name?" asked the receptionist timidly.
"Scurvy, s-c-u-r-v-y, Knave, n-n-o-a-i-v-e-e," said Paul gruffly. "You hear that? SCURVY KNAVE!" These last two words were bellowed at the top of his lungs. The receptionist flinched.
"Eerm, who are you here to see then, Mr., er, Knave," asked the receptionist. He was trying to stop himself from trembling at the malevolent snarl which rested on Paul's lips.
"My parole officer," growled Paul
"Uh, the p-parole officers aren't in this bu-building, sir," replied the receptionist. He didn't know why, but it seemed right to address this formidable former convict as "sir."
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" bellowed Paul, putting his hands up in front of him and making fists in a really fairly bad imitation of a boxer. The receptionist turned a deeper shade of green and sank further back into his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible so there was less of a target.
"H-have a seat," he mumbled. "You can g-go on up at five till three . . . ."
Paul sat down, mollified but still growling. How Paul with his baby face had managed to terrify the receptionist was a mystery.