"Ye're too drunk yit fur this biz, pard." A hoarse, half-suppressed voice issued from the wings.
A short, thickset, bow-legged man was emerging thence, and the figure on the stage turned to meet him.
"Pshaw!" said the tall apparition contemptuously. "I'm as sober as the bishop."
And what was this? A familiar voice; and now that Ned looked again, a familiar figure. No ghost,—only the sorry "first player," whom Ned had imagined as lying dead outside on the flagging of the alley.
"I mus' be gittin' weak in the upper story!" the boy said to himself.
He was so rejoiced to be freed from his superstitious terrors, so glad, too, to see the "first player" in full life and to know that no tragedy had that night been enacted under this roof save the tragedy of Hamlet, that he laughed slyly as he rested his chin on the high arm of the chair, and with merry eyes watched the men. He hardly cared to speculate upon the strange fact of their presence here at this hour. He was only waiting for them to be gone that he might make his escape at last.
"I don't want no mo' o' these crazy shines, though, ef ye do be so mighty sober," said the short man sulkily. "Somebody out there—the night watchman, mebbe—will hear ye trampling in 'ere, an' then wher' will we be?"
"A-scootin' up the alley," with a free gesture of his right arm. The "first player" was difficult to repress.
The surly, thickset man—Ned could not see his face, but his slouch, his voice, his manner were full of malignant intimations—evidently thought best to change his tone with his tipsy companion. He put down a five-gallon galvanized iron can that he had been carrying, and stared with an admirable imitation of surprise at the "first player."
"Why,—look-a-here, if ye jes' wanter have a little aggervation with the perlice an' skeer Gorham by lettin' him know that we hev broke into his theatre, I'm with ye every time! He warn't mean enough, nohow, for the way that ye have laid off ter pay him back! He never done nothin' but kick ye like ye were a cur, an' beat ye half blind, an' fling ye out o' the window! 'Twould have been assault with intent ter kill if a pore man had done all that, but rich Gorham,—pshaw! that's nothin'. Jes' let's stir up a little fuss an' fetch the perlice,—ter skeer him! Ho! Ho! We ain't afeared of the peelers. 'Ere goes the ballet."