Bulger. (Blows out his candle.) Ah! When are you going to die?
Leggatt. (Testily.) Die! I’m not going to die.
Bulger. (Sleepily.) You’ll make a long job of it in this town, it’s so slow.
Leggatt. But I’m not here for that purpose, I say. What is your line, by the way?
Bulger. (Murmurs.) Line—cheapest way—I’ll ship your goods by Blue Line, same as before.
Leggatt. Blue Line! Are you drunk? (Pause.) Hang it he’s asleep. I wish I could go to sleep like that. I envy a drummer. (Blows out candle, lies down and covers up; caterwauling outside.) That infernal cat again! (Turns over with nervous motion of sleepless man and settles down. All still for say 15 seconds. B. begins to snore loudly. Leggatt sits up again, angrily.) That settles it! I shant sleep a wink to-night. I’ll read, I guess. (Lights candle.) Where is that book? (Dextrously fishes book toward him by means of a cane which stands at bedside, lays cane across table. Begins to read—any book—gets interested, makes comments.) This book is simply drivel, such character drawing. There are no great novelists anymore except myself and Tolstoi. (Reads paragraph.) That fellow has a wretched style. His cacophony is terrible. The true test of good writing is to read it aloud. (Reads aloud. B. rolls over as if about to wake.) All stuff, the poorest kind of slush. I can’t stand any more of that. (Throws book on table and accidentally knocks cane on floor with a rattle.)
Bulger. (Starts up and sits in bed.) What was that? Heh? (No reply.) Leggatt?
Leggatt. Only my cane, sir. I’m very sorry.
Bulger. So am I.
Leggatt. Ah, then we agree. Will you join me in a pipe since you are awake?