“MAGGS AT MARGATE
A Seaside Farce,
In Three Whiffs of Ozone.”
“What funny fool has written this?” snorted the manageress.
“De name of de author.... Ach so! De name of de author is Slump—Ferdinand Slump.”
“I know the chap, or of him. He’s a business man who owns a half share in some chemical gasworks at Hackney, and does comic literature in off hours. He writes the weekly theatrical page of Tickles,” said De Hanna, “and——”
“Dickles is a stupid halfpenny brint,” said Gormleigh, “dat sdeals all its chokes from de Chairman babers.”
“Really? It struck me that there must be some existing reason,” said Candelish, “for the wonderfully level flow of dullness the publication manages to maintain——”
“Well, I suppose somebody is going to read this farce, since that is what he calls it, by this Slump, since that is what he calls himself,” said Mrs. Gudrun, removing her hat from Shakespeare and pinning it on.
“Certainly. De Hanna, as the Representative of the Syndicate——” began Candelish eagerly.