"That's what I can't see."

"I mean to say, it's nothing to Jeeves what sort of a face you have!"

"No!" said Cyril. He spoke a little coldly, I fancied. I don't know
why. "Well, I'll be popping. Toodle-oo!"

"Pip-pip!"

It must have been about a week after this rummy little episode that
George Caffyn called me up and asked me if I would care to go and see a
run-through of his show. "Ask Dad," it seemed, was to open out of town
in Schenectady on the following Monday, and this was to be a sort of
preliminary dress-rehearsal. A preliminary dress-rehearsal, old George
explained, was the same as a regular dress-rehearsal inasmuch as it was
apt to look like nothing on earth and last into the small hours, but
more exciting because they wouldn't be timing the piece and
consequently all the blighters who on these occasions let their angry
passions rise would have plenty of scope for interruptions, with the
result that a pleasant time would be had by all.

The thing was billed to start at eight o'clock, so I rolled up at
ten-fifteen, so as not to have too long to wait before they began. The
dress-parade was still going on. George was on the stage, talking to a
cove in shirt-sleeves and an absolutely round chappie with big
spectacles and a practically hairless dome. I had seen George with the
latter merchant once or twice at the club, and I knew that he was
Blumenfield, the manager. I waved to George, and slid into a seat at
the back of the house, so as to be out of the way when the fighting
started. Presently George hopped down off the stage and came and joined