Oh, well, what's the odds what we do? We're only amateurs,
anyhow. Yardsley can put on a pair of tight boots, and give us an
impression of Irving, or perhaps an imitation of the Roman army at
the battle of Philippi, and the audience wouldn't care, as long as
they had a good supper afterwards. It all rests with Martenelli
whether it's a go to-night. If he doesn't spoil the supper, it'll be
all right. I have observed that the principal factors of success at
amateur dramatics are an expert manipulation of the curtain, and a
first-class feed to put the audience in a good-humor afterwards.
Even if Martenelli does go back on us, you'll have me with the
curtain--
Mrs. Perkins. Thaddeus!
Yardsley. By Jove! that's a good idea--we have got you. You can
read Henderson's part!
Perkins. What--I?
Barlow. Certainly.
Bradley. Just the very thing.
Miss Andrews. Splendid idea.
Perkins. Oh--but I say--I can't, you know. Nonsense! I can't read.
Yardsley. I've often suspected that you couldn't, my dear Thaddeus;
but this time you must.
Perkins. But the curtain--the babies--the audience--the ushing--the
fire department--it is too much.
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