Pringle.
Then, my dear sir, why don't you? Why humour him?
Mr. Wackerbath.
Why, why? Because I can't help myself! Damn it, sir, do you suppose I'm doing this for my own amusement? [To Fakrash.] Here, turn off your will-power, or whatever it is, and let me up! Do let me up!
Horace.
[In disgust.] I'll not have it, Fakrash! Let him up at once!
Fakrash.
Far be this action from me! This son of a burnt dog hath dared to disdain a palace—therefore let his abode be in the dust for evermore!
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Crawling to Horace.] You—you quite misunderstood me—I haven't a word to say against the palace. It's the very place I wanted! [Crawling up to Fakrash.] If—if you'll only let me up, I—I'll live in it—'pon my honour I will!