Porter. Oh, Graham? He’s sick, but he’s sent another fellow in his place. He’s out in the hall now.
Cashier. Tell him to come in. (The Porter goes out at the back, and beckons to someone in the hall. A moment later enter Percy, a respectable tramp. His clothes are well-worn, but not ragged, and they fit him rather tightly,—his trousers also are too short. He has not had a shave for some time. He tips his hat—an old “derby”—timidly, then walks slowly to the center of the stage, looking about uneasily. The Cashier addresses him somewhat sharply) So you have come to take Mr. Graham’s place? (Percy nods) You have been told the conditions, I believe; six shillings a day. Now understand, we want a good interpreter, serious and attentive to business. All you have to do is wait here until any foreigners come, and then help them. Understand? (Percy again nods) Good. (The Cashier goes out, up-stage left)
Percy. (To the Porter, after a short pause) Many foreigners come here?
Porter. Oh, I don’t know! Few French now and then; depends on the season.
Percy. (A little disturbed) Oh—many foreigners just now?
Porter. Not so many.
Percy. (A little more at ease) Do you think any’ll come to-day?
Porter. Can’t say—Here, take your cap. (He hands Percy a cap with the words “INTERPRÈTE” written on the front. The Porter then goes out at the back)
Percy. (Hat in hand, as he reads the inscription) In-ter-preet. (Puts on the cap) Good! Hope them blarsted frog-eaters keep away. Don’t know a single word of French, er German, er I-talian, er Spanish, er any of them dialects. Good thing for an interpreter! But I’m no millionaire, and them six shillin’s! Hm! But I mightily fear conversation may languish if I meet any o’ them foreigners.
(Re-enter the Cashier.)