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"Here I am, pickaninny!" retorted Miss Vere holding him fast in this
novel embrace, amid the laughter of the supers. "You're getting as blind
as Tommy! Steady, steady now, donkey!--steady--woa!" And in a thrice she
stood upright, one foot planted firmly on each of his shoulders.
"No weight, am I, darling?" she went on jeeringly, and with an
inimitably derisive air she put up an eye-glass and surveyed the top of
his head. "You want a wig, my dear--you do, indeed! Come with me
to-morrow, and I'll buy you one to suit your complexion. Your wife won't
know you!"
And with a vigorous jump she sprang down from her position, managing to
give him a smart hit on the nose as she did so--and leaping to the
centre of the stage, she posed herself to commence her dance--when Tommy
came creeping back in his slow and dismal fashion, bearing something in
a pewter pot.
"That's the ticket!" she cried as she perceived him. "I'm as dry as a
whole desert! Give it here!" And she snatched the mug from the feeble
hand of her messenger and began drinking eagerly.


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