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"They are stamping their feet, madame," the callboy once more cried. "They'll end by smashing the seats. May I give the knocks?" "Oh, bother!" said Nana impatiently. "Knock away; I don't care! If I'm not ready, well, they'll have to wait for me!" She grew calm again and, turning to the gentlemen, added with a smile: "It's true: we've only got a minute left for our talk."
The overture smote like a dirge on her ear, and when the callboy came to announce that the moment of her entrance was at hand, it reminded her of nothing so much as the feeling of mourners when the sable mute appears at the door, as a signal to form the procession to the tomb. But in a moment the ordeal was safely passed, and passed forever so far as an English audience is concerned.
I'm only the hired man around here anyhow," snapped the showman, jamming his hat down over his head and striding away, followed by the merry laughter of Little Dimples. "Bareback riders out!" shouted the callboy, poking his head into the dressing tent.
But the callboy had again made his appearance. He was out of breath, and in a singsong voice he called out: "All to go on the stage! It's your turn, Monsieur Fontan. Make haste, make haste!" "Yes, yes, I'm going, Father Barillot," replied Fontan in a flurry. And he ran after Mme Bron and continued: "You understand, eh? Six bottles of champagne in the greenroom between the acts.
Teddy Tucker, the tears streaming down his cheeks, was hopping about on one foot, vigorously kicking a shin with the other foot, trying to punish himself for his tears. "I'm a fool! I'm a fool! But but I can't help it," he sobbed, wheeling suddenly and dashing into his own dressing tent. "Call for Shivers!" bellowed the voice of the callboy, thrusting his head inside the entrance flap.
At that very moment the callboy was opening the door. "Monsieur Bosc!" he called. "Mademoiselle Simonne!" Simonne flung a fur-lined pelisse briskly over her shoulders and went out. Bosc, without hurrying at all, went and got his crown, which he settled on his brow with a rap.
Then boosting the lad to their shoulders, the painted clowns began marching about the dressing tent with him singing, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." "All out for the leaping act," shouted the callboy, poking his grinning countenance through between the flaps. "Leapers and clowns all out on the jump!"
It's the third time he's been this week, eh? That's Nana; well, she's in luck's way! I was willing to wager he wouldn't come again." Simonne opened her lips to speak, but her remarks were drowned by a fresh shout which arose close to the greenroom. In the passage the callboy was yelling at the top of his shrill voice, "They've knocked!"
He unlocked the door, went back into the room, and put down his cane, leaning it against the wall near the bureau. He reached the lobby in time to hear a callboy paging him. There was a telegram for him. It read: "Mr. S. S. Braceway, Willard Hotel, Washington, D. C. "Here. "What the devil does he mean?" he asked himself several times. "What's this 'here' about?"
His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. He sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. How else could Aubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to his mill.
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