You cannot.
CLOWN. And why not?
MAN OF THE WORLD. Because you are superseded.
CLOWN. What's that?
PANTALOON. I'll super if there's nothing better.
CLOWN. Where is the durn President?
MAN OF THE WORLD. I learn from the fashionable intelligence that he is at
present cruising the Mediterranean on his electric yacht.
CLOWN. Where's the author of the piece?
MAN OF THE WORLD. There ain't no author of the piece. This present item is
turned out by our Number Two Factory of Automatic Dramaturgy; Plunkville,
Tennessee.
CLOWN. Where are the other actors... God help 'em?
MAN OF THE WORLD. There ain't no actors; we froze all them out way back.
Where've you been that you've grown all these mossy ideas on you?
CLOWN. Never you mind. Tell us, what's come to the poor old 99th Street
Theayter... and how.
MAN OF THE WORLD. Well, I guess I need only quote you from Volume One of
the Life of Mr. Theodor B. Kedger, our esteemed President ...Nit! [And as
he says "Nit," if it were not for all the anti-expectoration notices hung
round he would certainly spit.
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