“Wasn’t it his bedtime? But I _will_ say it’s not entirely the fault of your acting. I’ve noticed ever since that Crystal Palace loomed on the horizon, it’s unsettled the public within at least fifty miles from Hyde Park. I was talking to a showman who told me that in March and April this year business fell off everywhere—there was no interest in giants, dwarfs, fat men, pig-faced ladies, and even jugglers, animal magnetizers, lion-tamers, performing elephants, ventriloquists, prestidigitators, and professors of necromancy. Didn’t you hear of the fate of poor Wishbone, the conjurer, at Chelmsford Fair? Not even a kid dropped into his booth, so he went out to perform outside, but before he could ‘hey, presto!’ the purse back to the owner, the peeler copped him. The magistrate wouldn’t listen to his patter, and he can’t tap himself out of quod either, poor chap. Besides, we all remember the awful weather in March, yes and up to the very opening of the Crystal Palace—rain, rain, rain.” “Well, take the March of 1849,” said Duke, turning back his oblong pages, “and don’t forget people’ll sit in Assembly Rooms or a Corn Exchange when they won’t risk a draughty tent. Now look at the weather that year—when I pulled my own strings. Tuesday, W.S.—that is, wet, snow. Wednesday, R.N. (rough night). Thursday, S.H.T. (storm, hail, and thunder). Saturday, W.T. (wind, tilt OFF!). Come now, you could hardly have a worse week, could you? Everything except B.F.1 or B.F.2 (black fog or big funeral). Yet see, my takings for that week were——” Tony flipped away the book with his jewelled hand. “What you’ve got to compare with your Colchester week,” he said, “is not your marionette week in March ’49, but my Fit-Up week for that date.” “I don’t see that.” “It stands to reason.” They debated the point warmly: finally Tony referred it to Jinny: that was what she was there for, he recalled. “I certainly think,” arbitrated the little Carrier, “that we ought to see what Mr. Flippance’s live theatre could do in the same weather.” “Oh, very well,” acquiesced Duke sulkily. “And what _did_ you do that week?” “Heavens, man, how on earth can I remember?” “But haven’t you got it written down?” “What do you take me for?” asked Tony. “A tradesman? A bookkeeper? Unless Polly——” “You told me the other Christmas that you averaged twenty-five,” said Duke bitterly, “and I paid you one week’s takings by way of douceur.” “Well, then you do know my weekly takings,” said Tony loftily. “I can’t stay here for ever,” put in Jinny. “I’ve got my work.” “I’m paying you, ain’t I?” Tony rebuked her. “But not giving me work.” She assumed a judicial air. “Do you, Mr. Flippance, maintain that your theatre is a more valuable concern than Mr. Duke’s marionettes?” “Of course I do.” “Then,” said the young Solomon in petticoats, “surely if you get it back, you ought to pay him the difference in value.” “Bravo! Bravo!” Mr. Duke’s little pig-eyes gleamed. “A sensible girl!”