Up leaps Mr. Garrick, so suddenly as to knock the paint-pot from Gast's hand.
“Nay, your Lordship jests, surely!” he cried, his voice shaking.
“Jests!” says my Lord, very serious; “do I jest, Carlisle?” And turning to Mr. Cross, the prompter, who stood by, “Fetch me the St. James's Evening Post,” says he.
“'Ods my life!” continues poor Garrick, almost in tears; “I have loaned Foote upwards of two thousand pounds. And last year, as your Lordship remembers, took charge of his theatre when his leg was cut off. 'Pon my soul, I cannot account for his ingratitude.”
“'Tis not Foote,” says Carlisle, biting his lip; “I know Foote's mark.”
“Then Johnson,” says the actor, “because I would not let him have my fine books in his dirty den to be kicked about the floor, but put my library at his disposal—”
“Nay, nor Johnson. Nor yet Macklin nor Murphy.”
“Surely not—” cries Mr. Garrick, turning white under the rouge. The name remained unpronounced.
“Ay, ay, Junius, in the Evening Post. He has fastened upon you at last,” answers Comyn, taking the paper.
“'Sdeath! Garrick,” Carlisle puts in, very solemn, “what have you done to offend the Terrible Unknown? Talebearing to his Majesty, I'll warrant! I gave you credit for more discretion.”