"If you ask me," said the low comedian, taking part in the conference gloomily, "it puts the kybosh on the tour. We may as well pack up our props, and git. There's no good health for Miss Kiss-and-Tell after to-night's show."
"Git?" demanded Miss Jinman, "Git where? I shall have my rights; I've got a contract."
"Take it to your Uncle's!" said the low comedian. "See what he'll lend you on it. If you ask me, the Syndicate's a wrong 'un. If we strike it lucky, we'll get our fares; and if we don't strike it lucky, we can travel on our luggage. I see it sticking out a foot!"
A shudder ran through the players. They gathered about him dumbly.
"We can all claim a fortnight's salary in lieu of notice," asserted Miss Jinman, rallying. "That's the Law. It's the Rule of the Profession."
The company perked up a little. They turned their eyes to Miss Jinman.
"So I've been led to believe," said the low comedian. "And in such circs the pros always get it, I don't think! Claim? Oh, we can claim! We'll all get fat claiming, won't we? You're better off to claim from the Post Office than from a Syndicate—at all events you do know where St. Martin's le Grand is."
The company collapsed.
"The long and the short of it," he continued, "is that we're out with a stumour of a piece. Why didn't it go? Is there anything wrong with us? No! a jolly clever crowd, if you ask me. The piece has got no stamina—" "stamina" was not the word he used—"that's what's the matter; and that 'Iyde Park Corner cloth settled us. I'll lay anyone 'ere ten to one that the tour dries up, and the Syndicate does a guy. 'Oo's Quisby?"
"Quisby?" they gasped. "'Who's Quisby?'"