“What statue?” said Harris.
George looked at Harris; but Harris is a man who might, with care, have been a fair amateur actor. His face merely expressed friendly sorrow, mingled with alarm. Next, George turned his gaze on me. I endeavoured, so far as lay with me, to copy Harris’s expression, adding to it on my own account a touch of reproof.
“Will you have a cab?” I said as kindly as I could to George. “I’ll run and get one.”
“What the devil do I want with a cab?” he answered, ungraciously. “Can’t you fellows understand a joke? It’s like being out with a couple of confounded old women,” saying which, he started off across the bridge, leaving us to follow.
“I am so glad that was only a joke of yours,” said Harris, on our overtaking him. “I knew a case of softening of the brain that began—”
“Oh, you’re a silly ass!” said George, cutting him short; “you know everything.”
He was really most unpleasant in his manner.
We took him round by the riverside of the theatre. We told him it was the shortest way, and, as a matter of fact, it was. In the open space behind the theatre stood the second of these wooden apparitions. George looked at it, and again stood still.
“What’s the matter?” said Harris, kindly. “You are not ill, are you?”
“I don’t believe this is the shortest way,” said George.