"Now, you run away!" he said. "'Op it! Sling yer 'ook, or I'll set the cat on you!"
"Is my niece here to-night?" asked Uncle Fred, employing the handle of his umbrella as a lever of the third order. "I am very anxious to have a few words with her, on a domestic matter. I see a notice outside, saying that the present entertainment concluded last week. But it has occurred to me that it is still possible—"
The stage-door man slid from his stool, came out of his den, and laid a heavy hand, not unkindly, on the orator's shoulder.
"What you want to do, ole friend," he said, "is to 'ire the Albert 'All, and make a night of it! That'll get it out of your system nicely. Good-bye!" He gently impelled his guest in the direction of the street.
"I want my niece's address," gasped Uncle Fred, clinging like a limpet to the door-post.
"Go along, you silly old sinner!" said the stage-door man, disengaging him. "I'm ashamed of you."
"I will pay you!" said Uncle Fred desperately.
The stage-door man relaxed at once.
"Now you're talking!" he announced.
Five minutes later, after a sordid commercial wrangle, Uncle Fred emerged from the stage door with a slip of paper in his hand. He walked straight into the arms of three members of His Majesty's Forces. They recognised him, and drew back in affected horror.