"But I want to see some one so particularly," the boy said eagerly. "Don't you think you could manage it for me, you know? He's an old friend of mine,––one of the supernu––what's–its–names?" added Edward, stumbling over the word. "He carried a banner in the tragedy, you know; and he's got such an awful cough, poor chap."
"Ze man who garried ze panner vith a gough," said the door–keeper reflectively. He was an elderly German, and had kept guard at that classic doorway for half–a–century or so; "Parking Cheremiah."
"Barking Jeremiah!"
"Yes, sir. They gall him Parking pecause he's berbetually goughin' his poor veag head off; and they gall him Cheremiah pecause he's alvays belangholy."
"Oh, do let me see him," cried Mr. Edward Arundel. "I know you can manage it; so do, that's a good fellow. I tell you he's a friend of mine, and quite a gentleman too. Bless you, there isn't a move in mathematics he isn't up to; and he'll come into a fortune some of these days––"
"Yaase," interrupted the door–keeper, sarcastically, "Zey bake von of him pegause off dad."
"And can I see him?"
"I phill dry and vind him vor you. Here, you Chim," said the door–keeper, addressing a dirty youth, who had just nailed an official announcement of the next morning's rehearsal upon the back of a stony–hearted swing–door, which was apt to jam the fingers of the uninitiated,––"vot is ze name off zat zuber vith ze pad gough, ze man zay gall Parking."
"Oh, that's Mortimore."
"To you know if he's on in ze virsd zene?"