"We do stand it, but we complain. I doubt whether an Anglo-Saxon can ever learn to like real hot weather. Oh, we prate about the sunny South and we like sunshine, but, by George, Sir, we hug the shade. Have you got a pretty good plot for your play?"
"Yes, I think so."
"We must have a good plot, you know; we must have everything turn out all right. Any fighting in it?"
"Well, there are several spirited scenes."
"That's good. But it strikes me that there ought to be some sort of a fight. One fellow ought to call another fellow a liar, or something of the sort. It would be a good thing for a fellow to snatch out his pistol and have it grabbed and turned against him, don't you see? That sort of a thing always catches the people."
"But you advocated the elevation of the stage, don't you remember?"
He got out of his chair, and walked up and down the room, with his collar unbuttoned, his broad, black cravat hanging loose.
"That's the point, Belford; that's the very point. To elevate the stage is to make it natural. Why, last season an actor ruined a play for this town by drawing a pistol with his left hand."
"But that was not so very unnatural," I replied. "He might have been left-handed. Many a left-handed man has had a fight."
He paused in his walk, to stand before me, and thoughtfully to balance himself alternately upon his heels and toes.