"'When 'e bestrides the liezy-piecing clouds,
And siles upon the bosom of the air,'"
gabbled the prompter.
"'Bosom of the air'!" bellowed Mr. Quisby. "Pick up your cues, Miss Vavasour, for Gawd's sake!"
"I beg your pardon, I didn't hear it, Mr. Quisby," she stammered.
"Well, then, listen, my girl! What do you suppose we're here for? 'Bosom of the air'—caper down centre. Lightly—lightly! Great Scot! not like that. You come down like a sack o' coals."
"The girl has no experience," remarked Miss Jinman in a deep undertone to all about her.
"Go back," shouted Mr. Quisby. "'Bosom of the air,' now again! What have you to say as you run down?"
"I forget," she whimpered.
"What's the line, Mr.—er—you?"
"I—I'm just looking to see," said the prompter.