There was a vacant seat on the other side of his, and half way
through the third act a late comer was heard growling and without saying
by your leave or with your leave attempted to force himself past Vane
into the empty seat.
Lance looked up angry at the rudeness of the fellow. He started. He
recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink,
very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him.
Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore,
his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices.
Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very
bad luck. A bullet from a coach passenger's pistol had struck his knee
and he now limped. He was nearly always drunk and when drunk all his old
hatreds were uppermost. Directly he saw Vane, his bleary eyes glistened
and his lips tightened over his uneven teeth and the ugly gaps between.
"Devil take me, if it isn't the cockerel whose feathers I've sworn to
pluck. Come to ogle the young trollop on the stage, I'll swear. If I
know anything about the hussy, she'll turn you down for the first spark
who flings a handful of guineas in her lap."
Jeremy's gruff rasping tones were heard all over the house. Polly and
Lucy were singing their duet "Would I might be hanged," and both cast
indignant looks at the side of the pit whence the interruption came.
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