. . I really don't
know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . .
VICAR [impatiently]. Come, come, come, what is it?
ROGERS. _It's a man, sir_!
VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to
see me, eh?
ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to _bring
'im in_!
VICAR. Well, why don't you?
ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains!
_It's the same chap as come an' made so free 'ere this mornin'_!
[There is a general rapturous excitement.]
VICAR. Praise God! Shew him in at once!
ROGERS [flabbergasted]. What! In '_ere_, sir? . . .
VICAR. Come, come, come!
[ROGERS'S cosmos is fast slipping away: he crawls abjectly to the
door: his hand on the knob, he turns once more a face of bewildered
inquiry upon the VICAR, who snaps his fingers impatiently.]
ROGERS [with a sickly smile]. 'E's just outside, sir.
[Opening the door, he whines.]
Oh, do come in.
[ROBERT enters, amply fulfilling the lad's description. The latter
lags out, nauseated with the world.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119