“Don’t bother about it,” said Steadfast.  “Never mind the book.  I’ll come down early to the house, and as we’re not wanted till the third act we can easily go over our scenes quietly together before we go on.  We shall be all right, never fear.  It’s a race-night; the house will be full and noisy.  Little of the play will be heard, and we need not be over and above particular as to the syls” (syllables).

But Steadfast came down to the theatre very late, instead of early, and troubled with a thickness of speech and an unsteadiness of gait that closely resembled the symptoms of intoxication.  “Sober!” he said, in reply to some insinuation of his comrade, “I’m sober as a judge.  I’ve been running to get here in time, and that’s agitated me.  I shall be all right when I’m on.  Take care of yourself, and don’t fret about me.”

The curtain was up, and they had to face the foot-lights.  Moreland waited for Steadfast to begin.  Steadfast was gazing vacantly about him, silent save for irrepressible hiccups.  The audience grew impatient, hisses became audible, and an apple or two was hurled upon the stage.  Moreland, who had gathered something of the subject of the scene, found it absolutely necessary to say something, and began to gag: 

“Well, Steadfast” (aside to him, “Stand still, can’t you?"), “here we are in England, nay, more, in London, its metropolis, where industry flourishes and idleness is punished.” (A pause for thought and reply; with little result.) “Proud London, what wealth!” (Another pause, and a hiccup from Steadfast.) “What constant bustle, what activity in thy streets!” (No remark could be extracted from Steadfast.  It was necessary to proceed.) “And now, Steadfast, my inestimable friend, that I may find my father and my Caroline well and happy, is the dearest, the sole aspiration of my heart!” Steadfast stared and staggered, then suddenly exclaiming gutturally, “Amen!” reeled from the stage, quickly followed by Henry Moreland, amid the derision and hisses of the spectators.  “Treat you cruelly!” said Steadfast, incoherently in the wings.  “Nothing of the sort.  You quite confounded me with your correctness.  You told me you didn’t know your words, and I’ll be hanged if you were not ‘letter perfect.’  It went off capitally, my dear boy, so now let’s go over our next scene.”  But the manager deemed it advisable to omit from the play all further reference to Moreland and Steadfast.

To performers who gag either wantonly, or by reason of imperfect recollection of their parts, few things are more distressing than a knowledge that someone among the audience is in possession of a book of the play to be represented.  Even the conscientious and thoroughly-prepared actor is apt to be disconcerted when he hears the flutter of leaves being turned over in the theatre, and discovers that his speeches are being followed, line for line and word for word, by critics armed with the author’s text.  On