A stout man in evening dress with a red handkerchief worn ambassadorially athwart his shirt-front stepped out from the wings.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
“’Ush!” cried the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
A Voice: “Good ole Tod!” (“Cheese it!”)
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the ambassador for the third time. He scanned the house apprehensively. “Deeply regret have unfortunate disappointment to announce. Tod Bingham unfortunately unable to appear before you to-night.”
A howl like the howl of wolves balked of their prey or of an amphitheatre full of Roman citizens on receipt of the news that the supply of lions had run out greeted these words. We stared at each other with a wild surmise. Could this thing be, or was it not too thick for human belief?
“Wot’s the matter with ’im?” demanded the gallery, hoarsely.
“Yus, wot’s the matter with ’im?” echoed we of the better element on the lower floor.
The ambassador sidled uneasily towards the prompt entrance. He seemed aware that he was not a popular favourite.