Dr. C. (in tones of horror). O Deacon!
Dea. R. Hear me; hear me. There’s some strange mistake.
F. H. There’s no mistake about it. Bring the police.
(Police enter, L., and endeavor to handcuff him. Dea. R. struggles furiously.)
Dea. R. I won’t go to jail. Call the landlord.
Mrs. R. (earnestly). Yes; call the landlord. Perhaps he can explain about it.
(One of the policemen goes out, R., and immediately returns with the Landlord.)
F. H. This man—aw—has stolen my clothes, and I demand his arrest.
Dea. R. Well, landlord, you’ve known me a good many years. Do you think I should be likely to steal now—at my age?
L. Impossible; there must be some mistake.