The “mother” and “daughter,” friends of many preceding tours, strove nobly, but without avail, to keep the scene together, and were eventually driven from the stage in desperation, and genuine tears. Then the temper of the audience, who knew real tears from the acted variety, underwent a complete change, and became nasty. “’Ee! Tha’s droonk, man!” “Shame to un! Pull un orf.” “Booooo-booooo!” “Ought to ’ave our money back.” “Comin’ on like that.” “Spoiling of a fine play!” “Get orf—get orf!” “Sling summat at un!” “Shame! Booooo! Ssssss!!” While the tumult progressed Eliphalet leaned upon a palm pedestal and surveyed the house with a mystified expression. He thought they were applauding him, and bowed his acknowledgment (incidentally knocking over the palm and pedestal!). There was a fresh uproar. Evidently they were not applauding—something must be wrong. What? He held up his hand, and his great bass voice rang out with unexpected volume. “Silence!” And they were silent. “I was warned you’d want holding, and I’ll hold you.” A shout of derision was hurled from the gallery. “I’ll hold you yet,” said Eliphalet, rocking to and fro. Then a carrot whizzed through the air and fell with a plump at his feet. A carrot! The vegetable of derision—the symbol of contempt—the food of asses—to him, Eliphalet Cardomay! And the mists cleared from his brain and the waywardness from his limbs. “Ladies—gentlemen!” he cried. “I am ill—very ill! I can’t understand—never—never before have I failed my audience. Let me finish the play—give me a hearing, or break my heart.” There was a lull, and Freddie Manning, in the wings, seized the character with whom the next scene was played, and with, “Get on and don’t give him time to think,” hurled him on to the stage. Twice before the end of the act the mists rose before Eliphalet’s brain, but he battled them down by sheer force of will, though the effort brought beads of sweat to his brow. With grim determination he hammered out his lines until the last one had been spoken, and there remained naught else but the heart-attack—the clutching at his breast—the broken cry of “Mary!” and the fall into peace—oblivion. The curtain had barely touched the boards before Mr. Manning had thrust the manager before it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Dyson, “I have not come here to make an apology, but to say that you have been privileged to-night to witness a performance under, perhaps, the most remarkable circumstances under which a man has ever appeared.” And to the best of his ability he told them what had happened. When he had finished it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the applause savoured of the sceptical. “Won’t do,” said Freddie Manning, and pushed his way before the footlights.