‘Mr. Merry will write the epilogue,’ he replied icily. ‘A very good man—for an epilogue,’ replied the manager drily. ‘Well, we must strike while the iron’s hot, or not at all. We must not give the public time to flag in its enthusiasm, or, what will be worse, perhaps, to alter its opinion. There is risk of this even now, but I am ready to run it, and I’ll take the play.’ ‘The devil you will!’ said Mr. Erin. ‘Yes, I will,’ continued the manager calmly, taking, or pretending to take, this explosion of his companion as an expression of admiration of his own courage; ‘it will cost a good bit of money, but I’ll take it and never charge you a farthing for placing it on the boards. It’s an offer you are not likely to get again, I promise you.’ ‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said the antiquary quietly; he had passed the glowing stage of indignation, into that white heat which looks almost like coolness. ‘I don’t think any other human being would venture to make so audacious a proposal. Have you really the impudence to ask me to give you a play of Shakespeare’s for nothing?’ ‘For nothing? What, do you call the advertisement nothing? How is an author’s name established? How does he acquire fame and fortune but through the opportunity of becoming known? And how could he get a better one than having his play acted at Covent Garden?’ ‘I was not aware that Shakespeare stood in need of an advertisement, Mr. Harris,’ returned the antiquary grimly. ‘And even supposing that, thanks to you, he becomes popular, he is not a rising young author; should “Vortigern and Rowena“ be ever so successful, that would not enable us to find another of his plays.’ ‘It would be a great encouragement to do it,’ answered the manager impudently. ‘However, there’s my offer!’ ‘And there’s my door, Mr. Harris.’ And Mr. Erin pointed to it with unmistakable significance. ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said the manager. ‘What do you want? How do you suppose plays are brought out, man? Come, what do you say to half profits?’ ‘No!’ ‘Then, look here—now, this is your last chance, as I’m a Christian man.’ ‘Then I shall have another,’ said Mr. Erin. It was the first approach to an epigram he had ever made in his life. Anger is a short madness, genius is a kind of madness, and so, perhaps, it came about that fury suggested to him that lively sally. ‘A hundred pounds down, and half profits: that is my last word,’ cried the manager. ‘No!’ thundered the antiquary. He was still upon his legs, with his outstretched arm pointing to the door like a finger-post. The manager walked into the passage, opened the front door, and held it in his hand. ‘A hundred and fifty, and half profits.’ ‘No.’ ‘Very good; more than a hundred and fifty pounds for the play of a Shakespeare who spells _and_ with a final _e_ I will not give.’