Then "Damn!" cried A Voice. "Steady on my feet, can't yeh? Bit more to the right. Whoa! Up your end a bit. 'At's it. When was she tuned last? Give us a scale."
Some one flourished, and then a bright door opened, and two young men in shirt-sleeves with tousled brows, appeared.
"Laddie," cried my friend, dramatically, "is this the apartment for the Young People's Society In Connection With The Falcon Road Miss——?"
"That's us!" cried, I imagine, Freddie.
"Then I am Victor Maulever."
"Oh, step inside, won't you. Bit early, I'm 'fraid. Mr. Diplock ain't here yet. But come in. We got a fire going, and it's sort of turning chilly out, eh?"
We stepped in, and Freddie introduced us. "Harold—this is Mr. Maulever, the actor. Mr. Maulever, may I introduce our sec't'ry, Mr. Worple—Mr. Harold Worple, I should say."
Mr. Worple came forward and shook hands. "'Scuse my shirt-sleeves, won't you, sir?"
"Certainly, laddie, cer-tain-ly," said Victor, with that empressement which has earned him so many drinks in Maiden Lane. "Cer-tain-ly. And how are you?"
"Nicely, thanks," said Harold. "How's 'self?"