Loveland pricked all over, as if with a million stabs of tiny pins, but Jacobus only laughed, and said that it was a good advertisement. Business had been bad during the week at Modunk which would come to an end that night--Saturday; but he attributed this ill luck to the fact that the company had been forced, for lack of a juvenile lead, to choose plays which were not the most popular in their repertoire. Things would be different next week, he hoped, when they were going across the river into Kentucky, to a small but lively show town, whence the advance-agent sent encouraging accounts. He questioned Loveland sharply concerning his theatrical experience, seeming to incline towards distrust since the incident of the travelling bag. Very soon he found out, in all its nakedness, the truth which had been veiled in the letter dictated by Bill; that Mr. Perceval Gordon's experience had all been as an amateur, and not very extensive at that. However, as Bill had prophesied, he did not appear to think it mattered much, though he sniffed and "hum'd" a little, by way of curbing the new man's self-esteem. "You've got a good stage presence and voice," said he, "though I don't know what the folks here will think of that English accent of yours. Pity you can't talk United States. They're mighty sharp at guying anything foreign or affected, so don't be knocked silly if the little boys in the dime seats mock you a bit. Just keep your hair on, and go along as if nothing had happened, and they'll shut up in a minute or so, when they've got used to you." This was--as Bill would have said--a new "proposition" to Loveland; that he had an "English accent," which might be objected to on the ground of affectation. He had heard a good deal in England about the American accent, and had chaffed Jim Harborough because of it, but as after all the English nation had more or less invented the language current on both sides of the water, he had supposed that theirs was, without question, the only right way of using it. However, opinion seemed to differ over here, and he did not choose to argue with Mr. Jacobus. The actor-manager watched his new acquisition furtively as he plowed through the mud, and at last interrupted himself in describing with some acerbity the absent members of the company, to remark suddenly: "You look like a soldier." "I am a soldier," Loveland replied before he stopped to think. "Oh!" said Jacobus, regarding him keenly. "English army, of course?" "Yes," answered Val shortly, regretting his frankness. "H'm! What were you--sergeant?" Loveland could have broken out into savage laughter. He, a lieutenant in the Grenadier Guards, asked by this seedy theatrical man if he were a sergeant! But he kept his countenance, for fear of committing himself unwittingly under the catechismal fire. "No. I wasn't a sergeant," he replied. "H'm! See here. I hope you didn't leave the army--er--on short notice, eh? You know what I mean?"