"I suggested to the manager that he should write that on the play bill, but he replied that that would be an impertinence. I also advised him to take the play bill to your honour himself and was almost kicked out of the room for my pains. Did I take him for a bill poster? he said."
"This manager of yours seems to have a pretty good opinion of himself."
"Oh, he is frightfully proud, your honour. He will play no other pieces but sword pieces because, says he, they are classical. The poor fellow is so very young you know. When he grows a little older and learns to starve a bit he will soon lower his crest."
"I like him none the less for holding up his head. I will come to the play."
"But you must be there at seven o'clock sharp. He always begins punctually; whether there is any audience or not."
"The lad has character, I see; pray give him this"—and he handed the innkeeper half a sovereign. He quickly returned with the reply that the manager could not for the moment give change.
"But I meant him to keep the whole of it as an admittance fee."
"Ah, yes."
A short time afterwards, the innkeeper reappeared with a whole bundle of admission tickets for Szilard, saying that the manager thanked him for his sympathy, but as he was not in the habit of accepting presents from anyone, he assumed that his honour meant to engage the whole house for himself that evening and he, the manager, would therefore give a representation for his honour's sole benefit.
Szilard laughed heartily at this comical conscientiousness, and after dressing, he went about his official business with as much dispatch as possible in order to arrive at the play at seven o'clock sharp, for he was now the whole public and the public ought always to be punctual.