By a Herculean effort he struggled through Act II. His voice was a shade thick—his gait a thought unsteady—his rendering distinctly heterodox; but the audience was mainly composed of simple, uninitiated folk who accepted what was placed before them without much questioning. They had been assured for three weeks past, on every hoarding in the city, that Eliphalet Cardomay was a great actor. And since the ways of the great are ever incomprehensible, it behove them, as groundlings, to give genius its due and applaud exceedingly at the end of the act. Unhappily, Mr. Dyson, manager and part owner of the theatre, did not reflect the feelings of his supporters. He had seen the act, with growing indignation, and realised he was not getting what he had paid for. In short, that Eliphalet Cardomay was giving a rotten show for the simple reason that he was “boosed.” Mr. Dyson was not a man to shirk duty, however unpleasant it might be. Accordingly he hurried round to Eliphalet’s dressing-room, pushed open the door and stalked inside. “You get out,” he said to the dresser, and when the man had gone, “Look here, Mr. Cardomay. You’re boosed—_boosed_.” “Boosed” was a favourite word of Mr. Dyson’s, and, on certain occasions, a favourite pastime. This circumstance, however, did not make him any more tolerant of the failing in others. Eliphalet was lying full-length in a dilapidated arm-chair, his hands hanging limply over the sides. Certainly his general appearance gave ample excuse for Mr. Dyson’s charge. Through a mental fog he became vaguely aware of the manager’s presence. With a faint smile he murmured: “Whassay?” “You’re boosed.” “Boosed? Who’s boosed? Wha’s boose?” “You are—and you’ve got to pull yourself together. See?” Eliphalet blinked, then sat upright. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “D’you sugges’ I’m drunk?” “I know it—and what’s more, the audience’ll know it, too, if you aren’t jolly careful.” The old actor rose to his feet, his face working as under a great emotion. “You dare say that t’me! I—I’m a tee-to-tootler—for twenty—twenty-five years. Loathe drink—nev’ touch it. I’m—I’m one—one—” “You’re one of the rowdy-dowdy boys to-night,” cut in Mr. Dyson crisply. The fog descended again, and Eliphalet swayed on the back of the chair. “Tha’s it,” he said. “One of the dowdy boys—all in a row.” Mr. Dyson flung open the door, shouting: “Where’s your understudy?” At that moment Freddie Manning came down the corridor. “What’s the row?” he demanded. “He’s drunk!” “Drop that,” said the loyal S.M. “Look at him!” Eliphalet was leaning on the door, and he sang: “Then next morning before the beak we’re feshed.” “He’s ill,” came from Manning. “Ill! He’s boosed, and I won’t have him go on—see?” Mr. Manning shoved his hat on the back of his head and said: “If he is, no one is going to say so before me.” “Where’s his understudy?” “You look after the front of the house and leave the back to me. Clear out!” “He’s blind to the wide.”