"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."
At these words Mr. Garrick seized the chair for support, and swung heavily into it. Whereat the young lords burst into such a tempest of laughter that I could not refrain from joining them. As for Mr. Garrick, he was so pleased to have escaped that he laughed too, though with a palpable nervousness.
[Note by the editor. It was not long after this that Mr. Garrick's punishment came, and for the self-same offence.]