Mr. Goble's desire that the stage
should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of
recognition and a faint "What ho!" was all that Freddie was able to
bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the ensemble, they had to
go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It was only when
this had been run through four times and the stage left vacant for two
of the principals to play a scene that Jill was able to draw the Last
of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the question.

"Freddie, what are you doing here?"

Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller's idea of an opening
chorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, the ensemble
were supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, and Mr.
Miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposed
house-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victims of
St. Vitus' dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, and exhausted:
and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.

"Eh?" he said feebly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, ah, yes! I see what you mean! I suppose you're surprised to find
me in New York, what?"

"I'm not surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over.
But I am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by Mr.
Miller."

"I say," said Freddie in an awed voice. "He's a bit of a nut, that
lad, what? He reminds me of the troops of Midian in the hymn. The
chappies who prowled and prowled around. I'll bet he's worn a groove
in the carpet. Like a jolly old tiger at the Zoo at feeding time.
Wouldn't be surprised at any moment to look down and find him biting a
piece out of my leg!"

Jill seized his arm and shook it.

"Don't _ramble_, Freddie! Tell me how you got here."

"Oh, that was pretty simple. I had a letter of introduction to this
chappie Pilkington who's running this show, and, we having got
tolerably pally in the last few days, I went to him and asked him to
let me join the merry throng. I said I didn't want any money, and the
little bit of work I would do wouldn't make any difference, so he said
'Right ho!' or words to that effect, and here I am."

"But why? You can't be doing this for fun, surely?"

"Fun!" A pained expression came into Freddie's face. "My idea of fun
isn't anything in which jolly old Miller, the bird with the snowy
hair, is permitted to mix. Something tells me that that lad is going
to make it his life-work picking on