Then things went on again until the moment arrived
for Cyril's big scene.
I was still a trifle hazy about the plot, but I had got on to the fact
that Cyril was some sort of an English peer who had come over to
America doubtless for the best reasons. So far he had only had two
lines to say. One was "Oh, I say!" and the other was "Yes, by Jove!";
but I seemed to recollect, from hearing him read his part, that pretty
soon he was due rather to spread himself. I sat back in my chair and
waited for him to bob up.
He bobbed up about five minutes later. Things had got a bit stormy by
that time. The Voice and the stage-director had had another of their
love-feasts--this time something to do with why Bill's "blues" weren't
on the job or something. And, almost as soon as that was over, there
was a bit of unpleasantness because a flower-pot fell off a
window-ledge and nearly brained the hero. The atmosphere was
consequently more or less hotted up when Cyril, who had been hanging
about at the back of the stage, breezed down centre and toed the mark
for his most substantial chunk of entertainment. The heroine had been
saying something--I forget what--and all the chorus, with Cyril at
their head, had begun to surge round her in the restless sort of way
those chappies always do when there's a number coming along.
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