“You could see Mr. Cardomay was in a rage,” said Violet O’Neal.
“He’d have sworn if he hadn’t gone out,” returned Miss Fullar.
“Can’t think what Cartwright’s making such a fuss over.”
“Any fool could jump six feet into a net.”
“Wish they’d give me the part.”
“You can’t get away from it, old man, Cartwright’s no actor.”
With his back against the proscenium and fiddling with an unlighted cigarette, stood an isolated figure, over whom seemed to hover a spirit of tragedy. Ever and anon his eyes sought a wooden structure at the back of the stage. The structure was in the nature of a rostrum, about ten feet in height, beneath which was stretched a substantial net some thirty inches clear of the boards.
This young man was Mr. Aloysius Cartwright, the new jeune premier for the forthcoming production.
Up and down before him, his bowler hat eclipsing his right eye and the major portion of the right side of his face, walked Mr. Manning, the stage-manager. Presently he halted in his stride and addressed Mr. Cartwright.
“Look here, why don’t you have another packet at it while the Guv’nor’s away? Make up your mind to do it, and it’s as good as done.”