Phoebus, what a name!"
It drummed for some seconds in the Major's ear like an echo.
"Yes, yes . . . the theatre," he murmured.
"The theatre? You were in the theatre? Then you saw _me_?"
"I beg your pardon."
"_Me_--Orlando B. Sturge. Yes, sir, if it be any consolation to you,
know that I, Orlando B. Sturge, of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden,
am your temporary partner in adversity, your co-mate and brother in
exile, with the added indignity of handcuffs; and all by an error
which would be absurd if it weren't so infernally serious."
"There has been some horrible mistake."
"A mistake, sir, for which these caitiffs shall pay dearly,"
Mr. Sturge promised in his deepest tragedy voice.
"A Justice of the Peace!"
"Eh?"
"With a Major's commission!"
"Pardon, I think you must be confusing me with some other person.
Orlando B. Sturge is my name, sir, and familiar--as I may say without
vanity--wherever the Thespian art is honoured. But yesterday the
darling of the public; and now, in the words of our national bard:"
"'--Now lies he here,
And none so poor to do him reverence.'
"You are familiar with the works of Shakespeare, sir? Your speech, if
you will allow me to say so, suggests a respectable education."
"I have dipped into them," answered the Major inattentively, absorbed
in his own woes.
"My consolation is, this will get into the newspapers; and then let
these ignorant ruffians beware!"
"The newspapers! God forbid!" The Major shuddered.
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