"So I've been led to believe," said the low comedian. "And in such circs the pros always get it, I _don't_ think! Claim? Oh, we can claim! We'll all get fat claiming, won't we? You're better off to claim from the Post Office than from a Syndicate--at all events you do know where St. Martin's le Grand _is_." The company collapsed. "The long and the short of it," he continued, "is that we're out with a stumour of a piece. _Why_ didn't it go? Is there anything wrong with _us_? No! a jolly clever crowd, if you ask _me_. The piece has got no stamina--" "stamina" was not the word he used--"that's what's the matter; and that 'Iyde Park Corner cloth settled us. I'll lay anyone 'ere ten to one that the tour dries up, and the Syndicate does a guy. 'Oo's Quisby?" "Quisby?" they gasped. "'Who's Quisby?'" "Quisby!" repeated the low comedian emphatically; "I say, 'Oo's Quisby? I'll lay anybody 'ere ten to one that Quisby calls us to-morrow to say he ain't responsible. Now? I wish all Syndicates were in 'ell." The dispute between the powers had ended, and suddenly the prompter's voice rang through the passage. He bawled, "Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus are wanted on the stige!" The eyes met for a moment, and then the players trooped away, with sinking hearts. The cold, bare stage was in shadow, for the floats and battens had been extinguished, and the only light was shed by a single burner of the T-piece. By the T-piece Mr. Quisby stood, his back to the dark emptiness of the auditorium. The prompter was still heard calling in the distance;-- "Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus on the stige!" Shivering, they flocked there, some in their plumes and spangles, others already in their shabby street clothes; many were in a state of transition--the faces daubed with grease, the undergarments and naked necks revealed by hasty ulsters. Nobody spoke. When the last comer had scrambled to the crowd, all looked at Mr. Quisby. The suspense that held them mute was pitiable. Outside, the thirty young men had collected to accost the merry chorus girls. "Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Quisby, "there will be no performance to-morrow." He forced a hearty air. "I'm going to talk to you like a pal. Things look a bit rocky, but we must hope for the best. I won't disguise from you that there may be no tour. Now you all know as much as _I_ do--there _may_ be no tour. Whether there is, or not, I've no doubt we shall all get what's due to us. I hope we shall, I'm sure--God knows _I_ can't afford to lose what they owe me!" He made a slight pause, to let this sink. "As soon as I hear from London what the Management intends to do, we'll put our heads together again. You worked nobly to-night, nobly--one and all! Some of you ought to be in London, getting your thirty, and forty, quid a week! If the thing's a frost, it won't be the fault of the artists, and I mean to let the Management know it!"