‘Don’t let him in, whoever it is,’ said Christopher.
Somebody kicked the door and roared ‘Rubach!’
‘It’s Milford,’ said Carl; ‘the manager. There’s going to be a row. A bit of a row will do you good, my poor fellow. I shall let him in.’
So said, so done. Enter Milford the lordly, in a towering rage, followed by Holt, evidently disposed to appease his manager’s wrath.
‘I have called,’ said the manager, blowing hard and fixing a savage eye on Carl, ‘to know what the devil you mean, sir, by turning the theatre into a bear-garden?’
‘My good sir——’ said Carl with Continental affability.
‘Don’t “good sir” me, sir,’ cried the manager. ‘What the devil do you mean, sir?’
‘This is a matter for commiseration, sir, not for anger,’ Carl began.
Then the great man began to swear, and did it well and fluently, with gusto. When he had done, he collected himself and shook his fist at Carl with a final admonition.
‘Don’t you come near my theatre again, you—you foreign rascal.’