write. "I," whatever your name is--

GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much.
You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant.

PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it.

BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and
Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and
prepares to write]._

PERCIVAL. Whats your name?

GUNNER. John Brown.

TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon
Robinson?

GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really
John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one?

BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you.

GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I
can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very
clean one]._

BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John
Brown.