Janet (glancing at clock again). It's half-past nine, and neither of they men back yet.
[Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted, the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind. This is called realism.
Mrs. B. Listen! Yer feyther's comin' now.
[A door in the far distance is heard to bang. At the same instant John Bullyum enters quickly. He is the typical British parent of repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a gamekeeper and an undertaker.
Bullyum (He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks scornfully). Well, here's a fine thing happened.
Mrs. B. What is it, feyther?
Bully, (showing letter). That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the impudence to write me asking for our Janet. But I've told him off to rights. He's nobbut a boot-builder.
Janet (in a level voice). Ye're wrong there, feyther. Bob Inkslinger's a dramatist now.
Bully, (thunderstruck). What?
Janet (as before). He's had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.