stronghold of philosophy, the author of this chronicle looked down on everything.
“Here we go, Hal,” said Doc Hines, nudging Eugene.
“Give’em hell, son,” said Julius Arthur. “You’re dressed for the part.”
“He looks it, you mean,” said Ralph Rolls. “Boy, you’ll knock’em dead,” he added with an indecent laugh.
They descended into the hollow, accompanied by a low but growing titter of amazement from the audience. Before them, the doctor had just disposed of Desdemona, who parted with a graceful obeisance. He was now engaged on Othello, who stood, bullish and shy, till his ordeal should finish. In a moment, he strode away, and the doctor turned to Falstaff, reading the man by his padded belly, briskly, with relief:
"Now, Tragedy, begone, and to our dell Bring antic Jollity with cap and bells: Falstaff, thou prince of jesters, lewd old man Who surfeited a royal prince with mirth, And swayed a kingdom with his wanton quips—"
Embarrassed by the growing undertone of laughter, Doc Hines squinted around with a tough grin, gave a comical hitch to his padded figure, and whispered a hoarse aside to Eugene: “Hear that, Hal? I’m hell on wheels, ain’t I?”
Eugene saw him depart in a green blur, and presently became aware that an unnatural silence had descended upon Doctor George B. Rockham. The Voice of History was, for the moment, mute. Its long jaw, in fact, had fallen ajar.
Dr. George B. Rockham looked wildly about him for succor. He rolled his eyes entreatingly upwards at Miss Ida Nelson. She turned her head away.
“Who are you?” he said hoarsely, holding a hairy hand carefully beside his mouth.
“Prince Hal,” said Eugene, likewise hoarsely and behind his hand.
Dr. George B. Rockham staggered a little. Their speech had reached the stalls. But firmly, before the tethered chafing laughter, he began:
