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CAMPBELL, scrutinizing them critically as he holds them: “Well, look here, Roberts, we may have to come to these yet. Stand up, old fellow.” Roberts mechanically stands up, and Campbell tries the top of the trousers against his waistband. “May need a little slitting down the back, so as to let them out a third, or two thirds, or so. But I guess we’ll try an ice-pick first.” He flings the clothes on the bed, and touches the electric bell.

ROBERTS. “Ice-pick?”

CAMPBELL. “Yes; nothing like it for prying open bureau drawers.” To Bella, the maid, who appears at the door in answer to his ring: “The ice-pick, please.”

BELLA. “Ice-pick, sir?”

CAMPBELL. “Yes. The–ice–pick–here–quick.”

Bella, vanishing, with a gesture of wonder at the pile of clothing on the bed: “All right, sir.”

ROBERTS. “But, Willis! Won’t it bruise and deface the bureau? Agnes is very careful of this bu–“

CAMPBELL. “Not at all. You just set the pick in here over the lock, and pry. I sha’n’t leave a scratch.” They stoop down together in front of the bureau, and Campbell shows him how. “But what are you going to do? You’ve got to have your clothes if you’re going to the musicale. Ah, here we are! Thanks,” as Bella comes with the ice-pick, which he pushes in over the lock of the lowest drawer. “We’ll begin with the lowest, because that’s where Amy keeps mine, and if Agnes has got onto it through her, she’ll be sure to do exactly the same. Now, then, I just scratch the bolt down with my knife, and Open, Sesame! What do you say to bruising your old bureau now?”

ROBERTS, as Campbell pulls out the drawer and sets it on a chair: “Perfect! Only”–he lifts the things from the drawer, and places them on another chair–“there don’t seem to be anything here but underclothes.”

CAMPBELL. “Well, then, we must get the next out. No time to lose. Come! Keep shoving the pick in, and I’ll scratch the bolt down with my knife. See? It’s nothing.” They pull the drawer out and set it on the floor, and Roberts ruefully contemplates it.

ROBERTS. “Nothing but shirts, collars, cuffs and neckties.”

CAMPBELL. “Ah, I don’t know that. It’s a deep drawer”–he begins taking the linen out, and laying it on the floor–“and the dress-suit may be at the bottom. No! Nothing here. You’re right, Roberts. Well, now for the top drawer and the last. If we’d taken that out first, we needn’t have taken out the second; we could have seen it in place. You ought to have thought of that, Roberts.”

ROBERTS, with injury: “You suggested taking out the lowest first, yourself, Willis. You said Agnes would be sure to have put them there.”

CAMPBELL. “Did I? Well, I knew I must have a reason for it. But come along now, Roberts, and push the ice-pick in.” After a season of experiment with the pick and the penknife: “The bolt won’t scratch down. What are you going to do now, Roberts?”

ROBERTS. “I don’t know.”

CAMPBELL. “But you’ve got to do something, you know. We can’t just give it up. Where are those dress-trousers and waistcoat?” He begins tumbling the things on the bed, laying some on chairs, letting others drop to the floor. “Ah, here they are! Now, I’ll tell you what, Roberts, you’ve got to wear these. Go into your dressing-room there and put them on, and then we can tell how much they have to be slit up the back.”

ROBERTS. “But where’s the coat, even if I could get the other things on?”

CAMPBELL. “We’ll think about that later. We haven’t got any time to lose in talk. We can pin back the skirts of your frock-coat, as the travelling Americans used to do when they went to the opera in London. Hurry up!” He gives Roberts the garments, and pushes him into the door of his dressing-room, and walks impatiently up and down amidst the chaos of clothing till Roberts reappears. “Why, that isn’t bad!”