"You're a beaut, you are. It's a mighty lucky thing Fogg didn't catch you, let me tell you. If he had, it's dollars to doughnuts there would be a funeral in the Smith family in the near future; and what's more, you wouldn't have a word as to choice of vehicle in which you went to the cemetery. But say, why on earth are you masquerading about the streets in that get-up?"
"Oh, cut all that!" replied Smith, "and tell me how I'm going to get my street togs. They are in the dressing-room at the theatre, and I can't go gallivanting through the streets in this rig. Do you want to have me pinched and locked up, eh?"
"Didn't you come from there in 'em?"
"Sure I came in 'em. I had to. I would have come out without anything, I was so scared of that lunatic Fogg. But, say, you got through with the show all right."
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes! We got through with the show all—wrong, but——"
"But what?"
"The season is closed."
"Closed!" repeated Smith anxiously. "You don't mean it?"
"Yes, but I do mean it. The game is up. No more 'Camille.' The 'angel' has fallen. She has had all the starring she wants, and starts heavenwards to-morrow on the Pennsylvania limited for the Lord knows where."
"An' Fogg—whither goest he?"