On the Right is a writing-bureau at
right angles to the footlights, with a chair behind it. At its back
corner stands HARRIS, telephoning.
HARRIS. What--[Pause] Well, it's infernally awkward, Sergeant. . . .
The Mayor's in a regular stew. . . . [Listens] New constable?
I should think so! Young fool! Look here, Martin, the only thing to do
is to hear the charge here at once. I've sent for Mr Chantrey; he's on
his way. Bring Mr Builder and the witnesses round sharp. See? And, I
say, for God's sake keep it dark. Don't let the Press get on to it. Why
you didn't let him go home--! Black eye? The constable? Well, serve
him right. Blundering young ass! I mean, it's undermining all
authority. . . . Well, you oughtn't--at least, I . . . Damn it
all!--it's a nine days' wonder if it gets out--! All right! As soon as
you can. [He hangs up the receiver, puts a second chair behind the
bureau, and other chairs facing it.] [To himself] Here's a mess! Johnny
Builder, of all men! What price Mayors!
The telephone rings.
Hallo? . . . Poaching charge? Well, bring him too; only, I say, keep
him back till the other's over. By the way, Mr Chantrey's going
shooting.
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