“Where’s your understudy?”
At that moment Freddie Manning came down the corridor.
“What’s the row?” he demanded.
“He’s drunk!”
“Drop that,” said the loyal S.M.
“Look at him!”
Eliphalet was leaning on the door, and he sang:
“Then next morning before the beak we’re feshed.”
“He’s ill,” came from Manning.
“Ill! He’s boosed, and I won’t have him go on—see?”