_Janet_ (_glancing at clock again_). It's half-past nine, and neither of
they men back yet.

[_Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted,
the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind.
This is called realism._

_Mrs. B._ Listen! Yer feyther's comin' now.

[_A door in the far distance is heard to bang. At the same instant_
John Bullyum _enters quickly. He is the typical British parent of
repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a
lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a
gamekeeper and an undertaker._

_Bullyum_ (_He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks
scornfully_). Well, here's a fine thing happened.

_Mrs. B._ What is it, feyther?

_Bully_, (_showing letter_). That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the
impudence to write me asking for our Janet. But I've told him off to
rights. He's nobbut a boot-builder.

_Janet_ (_in a level voice_). Ye're wrong there, feyther. Bob Inkslinger's
a dramatist now.

_Bully_, (_thunderstruck_). What?