“Don’t be a fool (in agitated accents); you’re shoving me off the platform.”
“Why don’t you light up?”
“Long live the king.”
“Ah, here’s one. What’s become of the chair?”
Next moment, amid great applause, the gas was re-lit, and the thrilling tragedy proceeded.
It went on all right till the ghost enters, and here another calamity occurred. Padger was acting ghost, dressed up in a long sheet, and with flour on his face. Being rather late in coming on, he did so at a very unghostlike pace, and in the hurry tripped up on the bottom of his sheet, falling flop on the platform, which, being none of the cleanest, left an impression of dust on his face and garment, which greatly added to the horror of his appearance. He recovered the perpendicular with the help of two soldiers and a few friends, and was about to proceed with his part, when the door suddenly opened and Mr Rastle appeared.
He had evidently not come to see the show—indeed he hardly seemed aware that a show was going on. His face was grave, and his voice agitated, as he said—
“Has any one here seen Loman?”
No one had seen him since breakfast that morning.
“Is Greenfield senior here?”