“Why, you came up like a bird,” Worsley assured him. “What are you talking about?”
“Yes, I know I did come up,” Bram replied irritably, for he was feeling thoroughly tired. “But it did stick for a second or two, and you know what it would mean if I got caught.”
“Oh, Mr. Worsley,” Nancy exclaimed in a panic, “for God’s sake see it’s all right to-night.”
“Now, don’t you worry yourself, Miss O’Finn,” the stage-manager begged. “Good Lord, you don’t suppose I want to have an accident?”
“I wish you’d speak to that blasted limelight man about getting his red spot on me,” said the Demon King. “He ruined every entrance I’ve got—and I haven’t got too many.”
The stage-manager decided that he should be happier elsewhere, and left the assembled diners.
“Have a drink, old man,” somebody called after him. But Mr. Worsley suspected a quid pro quo and shouted back:
“Haven’t time now, old man. I’ll join you after the evening show. I’ve got to see the property man.”
And they heard his voice go shouting along the corridors.
“Props! Props! Where the deuce is Props?”