“No, no! Drop it, Hirst,” said another man.
“Only for the joke,” said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. “I’ve got some things upstairs in which I am going to play in the Rivals—knee-breeches, buckles, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you’ll wait a bit I’ll give you a full-dress rehearsal, entitled, ‘Jerry Bundler; or, The Nocturnal Strangler.’”
“You won’t frighten us,” said the commercial, with a husky laugh.
“I don’t know that,” said Hirst, sharply; “it’s a question of acting, that’s all. I’m pretty good, ain’t I, Somers?”
“Oh, you’re all right—for an amateur,” said his friend, with a laugh.
“I’ll bet you a level sov. you don’t frighten me,” said the stout traveller.
“Done!” said Hirst. “I’ll take the bet to frighten you first and the old gentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges.”
“You won’t frighten us, sir,” said another man, “because we’re prepared for you; but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play.”
“Well, I’ll try you first,” said Hirst, springing up. “No gas, mind.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whom had been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. It ended in two of them going to bed.