"Patriot, scholar, king of horsemen,"
Agnes scratched herself heartily on a property rock.
"Speed ye, speed ye, speed ye onward!"
The business of the scene called for a spirited exit by Paul Revere, waving his cocked hat. But Agnes had other plans. She liked the taste of scenery. She did not budge. In vain did the scion of the Gulicks beat with frantic heels upon her flat flanks.
"Speed ye onward, or we'll be late," he improvised cleverly.
She masticated a canvas leaf from a convenient shrub and did not speed onward.
"Gid-ap, Agnes," shrilled the boy in the gallery. "The folks is waitin' for their milk."
The audience grew indecorous.
Even his ruddy make-up could not conceal the fact that Mr. Wendell Gulick, Junior, was very red in the face, and that his lips were forming words not in that, or any other pageant. His leathern heels boomed hollowly on Agnes's barrel of body. To ring down the curtain was impossible; Agnes had taken her place directly beneath it.
Paul Revere turned a passionate face to the wings,