“Don’t get fresh,” snapped the door man, making as if to slam the iron door in his face. Suddenly he recognised the applicant. “Oh, it’s you, is it?”
“You must be going blind, Bobby,” said Harvey, in a fine effort at geniality. “I’m taking a friend in to show him how it’s done. My friend, Mr. Butler, Bob.”
Mr. Butler stepped on Harvey’s toes and said something under his breath.
“Is Miss Duluth expecting you, Mr.—er—Mr.—Is she?” asked old Bob.
“No. I’m going to surprise her.”
Bob looked over his shoulder hastily.
“If I was you,” he said, “I’d send my card in. She’s—she’s nervous and a shock might upset her.”
“She hasn’t got a nerve in her body,” said Harvey. “Come on, Butler. Mind you 60 don’t fall over the braces or get hit by the scenery.”
They climbed a couple of steps and were in the midst of a small, bustling army of scene shifters and property men. Old Bob scratched his head and muttered something about “surprises.”
Three times Harvey tried to lead the way across the stage. Each time they were turned back by perspiring, evil-minded stage hands who rushed at them with towering, toppling canvases. Once Harvey nearly sat down when an unobserving hand jerked a strip of carpet from under his feet. A grand staircase almost crushed Mr. Butler on its way into place, and some one who seemed to be in authority shouted to him as he dodged:—