AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT
The Mayor's parlor in the Town Hall of Little Pifflington. Lord Augustus Highcastle, a distinguished member of the governing class, in the uniform of a colonel, and very well preserved at forty-five, is comfortably seated at a writing-table with his heels on it, reading The Morning Post. The door faces him, a little to his left, at the other side of the room. The window is behind him. In the fireplace, a gas stove. On the table a bell button and a telephone. Portraits of past Mayors, in robes and gold chains, adorn the walls. An elderly clerk with a short white beard and whiskers, and a very red nose, shuffles in.
AUGUSTUS [hastily putting aside his paper and replacing his feet on the floor]. Hullo! Who are you?
THE CLERK. The staff AUGUSTUS. You the staff! What do you mean, man? THE CLERK. What I say. There ain't anybody else. AUGUSTUS. Tush! Where are the others?