“I’ve a machine downstairs in the stage-door office,” said Slump calmly. “Will you try the first act over again—with gas?”
Gormleigh groaned, but the other three nodded acquiescence; and the men in charge of the electrical oxygen-generator received instructions to bring the machine upstairs.
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Haw, haw, haw!”
“Ach, it is too funny for anydings!” This from Gormleigh, rocking in his chair, and mopping his streaming eyes with a red silk handkerchief. “Ach, ha, ha, ha!”
Mrs. Gudrun held up her jeweled hands for mercy. The laughing man who worked the machine stopped pumping, the laughing author ceased to read, Billy the bulldog, who had been grinning from ear to ear, wiped a wet nose on his mistress’s gown and sat down panting.
“How the deuce,” gasped De Hanna, “can oxygen make a stupid farce a funny one? I can’t understand it, for the life of me.”
“Because,” replied Slump, with brevity and clearness, “that’s my trade secret, and I don’t mean to give it away. Well, does Maggs go on, or do I take it to another management?”
The general assent was flattering in its unanimity. Maggs at Margate went into rehearsal at the “Sceptre” next day, and in a week was presented to the public. We refer you to the critiques published in the Daily Tomahawk, the Yelper, and other morning prints: