And he made his way to the stage.
By a Herculean effort he struggled through Act II. His voice was a shade thick—his gait a thought unsteady—his rendering distinctly heterodox; but the audience was mainly composed of simple, uninitiated folk who accepted what was placed before them without much questioning. They had been assured for three weeks past, on every hoarding in the city, that Eliphalet Cardomay was a great actor. And since the ways of the great are ever incomprehensible, it behove them, as groundlings, to give genius its due and applaud exceedingly at the end of the act.
Unhappily, Mr. Dyson, manager and part owner of the theatre, did not reflect the feelings of his supporters. He had seen the act, with growing indignation, and realised he was not getting what he had paid for. In short, that Eliphalet Cardomay was giving a rotten show for the simple reason that he was “boosed.” Mr. Dyson was not a man to shirk duty, however unpleasant it might be. Accordingly he hurried round to Eliphalet’s dressing-room, pushed open the door and stalked inside.
“You get out,” he said to the dresser, and when the man had gone, “Look here, Mr. Cardomay. You’re boosed—boosed.”
“Boosed” was a favourite word of Mr. Dyson’s, and, on certain occasions, a favourite pastime. This circumstance, however, did not make him any more tolerant of the failing in others.
Eliphalet was lying full-length in a dilapidated arm-chair, his hands hanging limply over the sides. Certainly his general appearance gave ample excuse for Mr. Dyson’s charge.
Through a mental fog he became vaguely aware of the manager’s presence. With a faint smile he murmured:
“Whassay?”
“You’re boosed.”
“Boosed? Who’s boosed? Wha’s boose?”