"Busy," said Bean. He arose and went into the hall where Cassidy stood.
"He would have in," explained Cassidy. "Say th' wor-r-d if he's no frind, an' he'll have out agin. I'll put him so. 'T would not be a refined thing to do, but nicissary if needed."
"'S all right," said Bean. "Friend of mine." He closed the door on Cassidy.
Inside, he found the waster interestedly poking with his stick at a roundish object on the floor.
"Dog's been at it," explained the waster brightly. "What's the idea? Private theatricals?"
"Yes," said Bean, "private theatricals," and resumed his place on the couch, staring dully at the closet door.
"But, look here, old chap, you must liven up. She would have it I should come for you. My word! I believe you're funking! You look absurdly rotten like it, you know."
"Toothache, right across here," muttered Bean. "Have to put it off."
"But that's not done, old top; really it's not done, you know. It ... it ... one doesn't do it at all, you know."
"Never?" asked Bean, brightening a little with alarm.