“Yes, I thought you were Britishers. I’m Under-Sheriff McMorris.” With this he seated himself, hugging the two nymphs on either side of him like a Dionysius in his chariot.
“Actor folk?” he asked.
They nodded.
“Yes, I thought you were actor folk. Ever read Shakespeare? Some boy, eh? Gee! I used to be able to spout Parsha without taking breath.”
Forthwith he delivered the speech about the quality of mercy.
“Wal?” he demanded at the end.
The English actors congratulated him and called for another round. Mr. McMorris turned to one of the nymphs:
“Wal, honey?”
“Cut it out, you fat old slob; you’re tanked!” said honey.
Mr. McMorris recited several other speeches, including the vision of the dagger from “Macbeth.” From Shakespeare he passed to Longfellow, and from Longfellow to Byron. After an hour of recitations he was persuaded by the bartender to give some of his reminiscences of criminals in New York, which he did so vividly that Sylvia began to suppose that at one time or another he really had been connected with the law. Finally about six o’clock he became pathetic and wept away most of what he had drunk.