Peter’s face went red. He didn’t think he’d been so obvious. To escape further pursuit, he turned the corner rapidly, “When are you going to start being vulgar?”
“Ah, yes!” The Faun Man came back. He struck a pose, his left hand resting on his hip, his right beating against his breast. “To-night,” he said. “To-night I lose my identity. I cease to be Lorenzo Arran and become Bill Willow, with his performing troupe of eccentric minstrels. I wear a red nose. My clothes might have been picked out of any ash-barrel.”
Peter interrupted. “From where do you get the eccentric minstrels?”
The Faun Man grabbed him by the shoulder, as though he feared he might dash away when the full glory of the project was divulged. “My boy, you’re one of them. You operate upon a bun-bag folded over a hair-comb. You wear—let me see? You wear a sheet, with holes cut in it for your eyes and mouth. Your nose may remain incognito; I’ve seen better. In a word, you play the ghost to my Hamlet.”
“And Harry and the girls?”
The Faun Man passed his hand over his forehead and reflected. “Let me see! Harry blacks his physiognomy; the mouth-organ disguises the rest of him—it always does. And as for the girls—they hang their hair before their faces and sing through it. Believe me, nothing alters a woman’s appearance so much as letting down her hair; that’s why all divorces occur after marriage. Now, with me it’s different; I look my best in bed. Of course I can’t ask anyone to see me there—that’s why I’m a bachelor.—But to get back to vulgarity; we start to-night in a punt. We’ll wait till it’s dusk, and we’ll have lanterns. We’ll collect money for the private insane asylums of Alaska. I’ll make a little speech explaining our philanthropy. Young feller, Bill Willow and his minstrels are going to make this Old Regatta rememberable for years to come.”
“You mean it?”
The Faun Man grinned; all the boy in him was up.
“Peter, don’t look so pop-eyed; of course I mean it—I mean it just as truly as Martin Luther did when he said, ‘Here I take my stand, because I’ve got nowhere to sit down.’ A profound utterance! I’m tired of watching all these people spooning under trees, wearing Leander ties, comparing their girls’ eyes to the stars and being afraid to touch each other. They’re too much of ladies and gentlemen; even we are. To-night I’m going to be a ruffian. Cut along and fetch the girls. I’ve got to write another song and it’s almost time for rehearsal.”
“A dress rehearsal?”