"I know it isn't. What's the matter?"
The momentary flicker of cheerfulness died out. Gloom once more claimed Hugo for its own.
"John, old man," he said. "We got the bird."
"Yes?"
"Don't say 'Yes?' like that, as if you had expected it," said Hugo, hurt. "The thing came on me as a stunning blow. I was amazed. Astounded. Absolutely nonplussed."
"Could I have knocked you down with a feather?"
"I thought we were going to be a riot. Of course, mind you, we came on much too early. It was criminal to bill us next to opening. An audience needs careful warming up for an intellectual act like ours!"
"What happened?"
Hugo rose and renewed the contents of his glass.
"There is a spirit creeping into the life of Rudge-in-the-Vale," he said, "which I don't like to see. A spirit of lawlessness and licence. Disruptive influences are at work. Bolshevik propaganda, I shouldn't wonder. Would a Rudge audience have given me the bird a few years ago? Not a chance!"