"The matter," replied Mr. Stillbottle testily, "was that they was n’t _’ind_ legs. Not bein’ used to them, I stepped in wrong way round on the first night. We got shoved on the stage somehow, but every time we started to move I ran straight into the ’ind legs. In the end we broke the elephant’s back between us. What was more, we spoiled the Principal Boy’s best song. The audience was much too occupied watchin’ a elephant givin’ a imitation of a camel to listen to _’er_. Besides, she was sittin’ on the elephant ’erself at the time, and bein’ rather stout, ’ad ’er work cut out to ’old on. She got me fired next day. Said I was n’t sober." "That was a libel, of course," said Mr. Welwyn soothingly. "In a manner of speakin’," replied Mr. Stillbottle guardedly--"yes." He took up Mr. Welwyn’s sheet of note-paper again. "What is all this?" he enquired rather querulously. "Stage directions, or cues, or what?" "Everything," said Mr. Welwyn. "Your lines and business, in fact." Mr. Stillbottle nodded comprehendingly, and proceeded to read aloud:-- "_When front-door bell rings, answer door and show party up, asking their names and announcing them distinctly._" "You can do that?" "I’ll ’ave a dash for it, anyway. Then: _Bring in tea and put it on tea-table_." Mr. Stillbottle’s unsteady gaze wandered round the apartment until it encountered the table. "Tea-table, left centre," he remarked to himself. "_Then, at irregular intervals, come in and make the following remarks to me_:--that’s you, I suppose?" Mr. Welwyn nodded, and Mr. Stillbottle read the paper aloud to the end. Then he slowly folded it up, and remarked, not altogether unreasonably, that he was damned. He added a respectful rider in the French tongue, to the effect that Mr. Welwyn was _très moutarde_. "You understand," said his employer with great seriousness--he had crossed the Rubicon now, and was determined to risk nothing by imperfect rehearsal--"you must use your own discretion as to when you come in with your messages. About once every ten minutes, I should say." "Don’t you think, governor," suggested Mr. Stillbottle, almost timidly, "that that last stretcher--the one about the shover--is just a bit _too_ thick? Suppose your guests start askin’ to see the car--what, then? You’ll be in the cart, you know!" "It is all right," said Mr. Welwyn. "I am giving the car up, on account of recent taxation, and so on. It is in the market now, and may be sold at any moment--to-day, perhaps." "I beg pardon," said Mr. Stillbottle humbly. "I see I can teach you nothing." Then he added, conversationally: "Did you ever know a Captain Slingsby, by any chance?" "No. Who was he?"