MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that!
|
BENTLEY. | What a liar!
|
HYPATIA. | Oh!
|
TARLETON. | Oh, come!
PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to
the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand.
_[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now
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.
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