I
‚ÄúShame isn‚Äôt the word for it, it isn‚Äôt really, Miss Trant,‚Äù cried Miss Elsie Longstaff indignantly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been in work now since last April, five months and more, consecutive, and look at the position I‚Äôm in now‚ÅÝ‚Äîhaving to get a sub from home! In work since last April, Miss Trant, and haven‚Äôt been able to have my hair waved for three weeks! And this last week, my dear! The suspicion, the looks, the tone of voice, the things we‚Äôve had to put up with all through that dirty rotter! It‚Äôs wicked.‚Äù
“It’s the wickedest thing I ever heard of,” replied Miss Trant warmly. She really had begun to feel angry with this defaulting manager. “Have another cup of tea?”
‚ÄúYes, thanks, I will.‚Äù Then, with a dramatic change of tone, Miss Longstaff went on: ‚ÄúHe got us to sign on right through till next summer. It looked a good contract. What was the result? I‚Äôd a nice pantomime offer, came in early‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDandini for seven weeks, opening at Middlesbrough‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course I went and turned it down‚ÅÝ‚Äîflat. And now look at me!‚Äù
Miss Trant did, very sympathetically. Elsie was younger and prettier than her sister Effie, though neither so young nor so pretty as she appeared to be at a first glance. She was probably about thirty, a too determinedly golden blonde, with large blue eyes set wide apart, a face that narrowed sharply to a small pointed chin, and a discontented mouth. She looked like a knowing and slightly dishevelled doll.
“And apart from that,” Miss Longstaff added, rather tearfully, “he’s gone and broken up one of the best little shows on the road.”
“It really was a good pierrot troupe, was it?”
“Please don’t say ‘pierrot troupe,’ Miss Trant. It makes me think of being on the sands and rattling a box round the crowd. Call it a ‘concert party.’ ”
“I’m sorry. Concert party, then.”
“Well, honestly, Miss Trant, it was a good show. Don’t go and think I say that because I was in it. That’s nothing. I’ve been in shows, my dear, that I’d tell you frankly were dead rotten. I wouldn’t want anybody who knew me, or anybody who appreciated my work, to see some of the shows I’ve been in. But this was good. With any luck, we could have coined money with it.”
“What a shame!” cried Miss Trant, and then looked thoughtful. Perhaps it was at this moment that a certain crazy notion began bobbing in and out of her head.
“Yes, but what’s so aggravating, so fearfully maddening, my dear,” cried Miss Longstaff excitedly, “is that it’s a better show still, now those two are out of it, or anyhow it’s got the makings of a better show.”
“Weren’t they good?”
‚ÄúDuds, complete and unutterable duds. He did monologues and child impersonations. You never heard anything like it. He never got a hand. Mr.¬ÝCharles Mildenhall in his celebrated monologues and child impersonations! My dear, it was a scream. They used to think it was a skit, until he went on and on. As for that precious pianist he took away with him‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMarjorie Maidstone, she called herself, after the jail, I suppose‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was easily the world‚Äôs worst as a pianist. She daren‚Äôt have looked Little Nelly‚Äôs Instruction Book in the face. Thumping away with those big fat fingers of hers, playing slow when you wanted it fast, and fast when you wanted it slow, missing the repeats‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, ghastly! If she ruined my act once, she ruined it fifty times. With a decent pianist, we shouldn‚Äôt know ourselves. And now, because they‚Äôve gone and done the dirty on us, the show‚Äôs finished. Isn‚Äôt it sickening. It makes you lose heart.‚Äù
“But can’t you run it yourselves?” asked Miss Trant, who, in this new mood of hers, was dying to see somebody run something.
‚ÄúOh, we‚Äôve talked and talked and talked, but it‚Äôs no good. We‚Äôve no money not a bean. We‚Äôre four weeks owing as it is, and can‚Äôt settle for our digs here, most of us, let alone pay off for the show. They‚Äôve taken all our props at the hall here, to pay the rent. It‚Äôs wicked. Just let me see Mr.¬ÝDirty Charles Mildenhall. Just let me set eyes on him again, and will there be trouble? Oh won‚Äôt there just! Child Impersonator! Can you beat it!‚Äù And Miss Longstaff gave three dabs at her right eye before drinking her tea.
Miss Trant, after glancing round the curious assembled company, began to question her companion about these debts, and Miss Longstaff replied languidly and with a despairing sniff. Oh yes, if all that was paid off and there was some money left to pay immediate expenses, the show could go on. And if there was enough money behind to rent His Majesty’s Theatre, it could go on better still. It amounted to that. “What a hope!” she concluded bitterly, and evidently felt that all this talk was merely turning a knife in the wound.
‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Miss Trant hesitated. That crazy little notion was bobbing furiously now. She made an effort to pretend it was not there.
Miss Longstaff stared at her with widening eyes. Then she leaned forward, all eagerness now. “Look here, Miss Trant, you don’t happen to know anybody who could put the money up, do you? I can tell you this, honestly, there isn’t a more promising little show anywhere. With any luck at all, it could have been an absolute riot. I’m sure you do know of somebody, don’t you?”
Instead of making a direct reply to this, Miss Trant hesitated again, then finally murmured: ‚ÄúI wonder how much money it would take‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean paying all there is to pay already, and then carrying on.‚Äù Her voice trailed away into a speculative silence, broken at last by the voice of common sense, pointing out that she was a fool. But then, wasn‚Äôt it high time she was a fool? You can‚Äôt go on being cool and sensible all the time, forever.
Miss Longstaff leaned forward again and whispered: ‚ÄúJimmy Nunn could tell you‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs been working it out, I know, because he‚Äôs tried hard to get somebody to back us. He‚Äôs our comedian‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs him, over there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he‚Äôs one of the best comedians going in Concert Party work‚ÅÝ‚Äîclever, and keeps it clean‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he‚Äôs stiff with experience, knows it all from A to Z. You have a talk to Jimmy about it, Miss Trant. I‚Äôll bring him over.‚Äù And she slipped away to whisper to a queer-looking man in a brown tweed suit.
Miss Trant had never met a comedian before, and it seemed incredible that she should be meeting one now. If Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn had walked across to sing a song or crack a joke or two to her, she would not have been surprised; but that Mr.¬ÝJimmy Nunn should merely announce, in a rather husky voice, that he was very pleased to meet her and then quietly sit down, was astonishing. Nevertheless, there was something distinctly droll about Mr.¬ÝNunn. His manner was grave and dignified, almost pompous, but he had obviously spent so much of his time being a funny man that this other manner sat uneasily upon him, so that by merely refraining from singing songs and cracking jokes, by talking quite seriously, he seemed to be playing a part, thus remaining a droll fellow in spite of himself. Miss Trant found his appearance quite fascinating. He was really of medium height but had the body of a large stout man and the legs of a short man; he had a bald patch in front and grey stubble of hair surrounding it, little eyes set too close together, a shining bulbous nose, and an extraordinary expanse of upper lip enclosed between two deep wrinkles; and his whole face had a curious air of being a mask that had been painted and rubbed and painted again times without number.
‚ÄúNot in the profession yourself, Miss Trant?‚Äù he inquired, closing one eye and staring hard with the other. ‚ÄúNo? I thought not, though I used to know a Mrs.¬ÝTrant on the Macnaghten Circuit. No, I‚Äôm wrong; I‚Äôm lying. It was Brant. Brant‚Äôs Merry Chicks‚ÅÝ‚Äîjuveniles, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äînone of ‚Äôem over thirty. You‚Äôre not in management by any chance?‚Äù
“I’ve never managed anything except a house,” said Miss Trant.
‚ÄúIf you can do that as it ought to be done,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn observed, with some solemnity, ‚Äúand take it easy, keep smilin‚Äô, have a good word for one and all, then‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI say‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou couldn‚Äôt do better. Isn‚Äôt that so? Right.‚Äù He waved the whole matter aside. Then, lowering his voice a little, he went on: ‚ÄúYou were asking something about the show, what we‚Äôre down the river for, what it would take to run it. Am I right?‚Äù
Miss Trant wanted to laugh, for though Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs manner was quite pompous, it kept breaking down, and all the time he gave her the drollest looks out of the particular eye that happened to be open. ‚ÄúWell,‚Äù she faltered, ‚ÄúI was just‚ÅÝ‚Äîwondering‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúQuite right!‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn, and produced from his inside pocket a cheap and very soiled notebook. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve got figures in this,‚Äù he announced proudly. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs here‚ÅÝ‚Äîmost of it anyhow‚ÅÝ‚Äîin black-and-white.‚Äù
“That’s the stuff, Jimmy,” said Miss Longstaff brightly.
‚ÄúJust you run away and play, Elsie,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn commanded; and after making a little face at him and flashing a professional smile at Miss Trant, Elsie did go, joining the others, who had now formed one group at a neighbouring table.
‚ÄúA good girl,‚Äù remarked Mr.¬ÝNunn; ‚Äúlooks well and not as afraid of work as some of ‚Äôem; but‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here he lowered his voice and leaned forward‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúcan‚Äôt quite put it all over yet, hasn‚Äôt just got‚ÅÝ‚Äîy‚Äôknow‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Miss Trant nodded and really felt she did know. ‚ÄúI wish,‚Äù she said softly, ‚Äúyou would tell me about the people in this trou‚ÅÝ‚Äîparty‚ÅÝ‚Äîshow.‚Äù She almost felt herself blushing as she brought out this last word. It sounded so knowing and professional. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve had a lot of experience, haven‚Äôt you, Mr.¬ÝNunn?‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right. A lot of experience. C.P. work, halls, panto, low comedy in legit., know it all. And, mind you, whatever I may say about these boys and girls, I‚Äôll say this, as a show‚ÅÝ‚Äîor what might be a show if it was pulled together now‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs good.‚Äù He found a cutting in the notebook and handed it over. ‚ÄúHere‚Äôs one of our adverts. They‚Äôre usually all lies, but this one‚Äôs the solid truth.‚Äù
The advertisement, which was from The Stage, ran as follows:
In a Nonstop Programme of Clever Comedy and Exquisite Vocalism. Played to enormous business at Little Sandmouth, last. Many thanks T. Browning, Esq., for hearty welcome, and Mrs.¬ÝJames, G. Hudson, Esq., and R. A. Mercer, Esq., for inquiries. Refer. Refer. Refer. Next, Pav. Shingleton.
Miss Trant read it through once, wrinkled her forehead, then read it again.
‚ÄúWrote that myself,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn remarked, not without pride. ‚ÄúAlways wrote the adverts for Mildenhall. Neat and effective, don‚Äôt you think?‚Äù
“Yes, I should think so. But tell me, what does ‘Wanted Known’ mean?” she inquired. “Why ‘Known’?”
‚ÄúOh, I always put that in. And, of course, ‚ÄòKnown‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs ‚ÄòKnown‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt it, you see?‚Äù
This was not very clear to Miss Trant, but she said she supposed it was. And after that, she thought, it would not do to ask what “Refer” meant, nor even to hint that it must be difficult to play to “enormous business” in a place called Little Sandmouth, of which she had never heard before. “But you were going to tell me something about the people here.” She dropped her voice. “Who is that very tall, thin man in the loud, check suit?”
Mr.¬ÝNunn glanced across, then shook his head. ‚ÄúNot one of us,‚Äù he whispered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been introduced to him. Name of Mitcham. A pro. Banjo-player.‚Äù
“I remember. He came in when I did, with that rather pleasant-looking, untidy youth with the lock of hair.”
‚ÄúThat is so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn. ‚ÄúNot our lot at all, just visiting. But you see that other boy who‚Äôs talking to ‚Äôem, that nice-looking one?‚Äù Miss Trant did see him, and had indeed been thinking for some time that he was an astonishingly handsome youth. He had a small head, carefully waved dark hair, and fine regular features, and was beautifully dressed. It was a pleasure to look at him, though Miss Trant decided she had no particular desire to know him. He was not the type of young man she admired. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs Jerry Jerningham, our light comedian and dancer,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn continued. ‚ÄúAnd I don‚Äôt mind telling you, he‚Äôs a find. Works hard, got personality, puts it over all the time. You couldn‚Äôt want a better dancer. If he plays his cards properly, he‚Äôll be up in the West End before long. They‚Äôve only got to see him. The only thing is, he won‚Äôt feed. I never struck a worse feed.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝNunn paused impressively.
Miss Trant stared. This seemed a curious complaint to make. “Do you mean that he won’t eat?”
Mr.¬ÝNunn leaned back, banged his thigh, and gave a sudden guffaw. Then he looked grave again. ‚ÄúNot at all. It doesn‚Äôt mean eating. Far as that goes, there‚Äôs only one member of this show that can‚Äôt eat, and that‚Äôs me. Got a wicked stomach‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, downright wicked!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwon‚Äôt look at a thing. Bacon, eggs, ham, chops, steak and chips, bit o‚Äô pie‚ÅÝ‚Äîanything you really fancy, y‚Äôknow‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wouldn‚Äôt believe what they are to me. Poison, that‚Äôs what they are. Give me a good supper,‚Äù he pursued earnestly, ‚Äúand you might as well fill me up with red-hot pins and needles. I haven‚Äôt had a square meal for three years, just toast and charcoal-biscuits and beef-tea and bits of fish and chicken and jellies and shapes. And I‚Äôve got to be funny on that, got to make a lot o‚Äô people laugh who are filled up with roast beef and Yorkshire and baked potatoes and greens and apple pie. Dear, dear, dear!‚Äù
He wagged his head so comically that Miss Trant had to laugh even while she was crying “What a shame!”
‚ÄúBut this feeding I‚Äôm talking about,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn went on, ‚Äúis a name in the profession for working up to gags. The chap that feeds has to ask the comedian questions and get angry with him and all that. You know the business.‚Äù
Yes, Miss Trant did know it.
‚ÄúAnd I give you my word, Miss Trant, it‚Äôs not so easy as it looks, and a comedian‚Äôs got to have a good feeder. Now young Jerningham there hates it and so can‚Äôt feed for nuts. That‚Äôs good, isn‚Äôt it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîcan‚Äôt feed for nuts. And properly speaking, it‚Äôs his job to feed, but as luck will have it, Joe over there‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs our bariton, Courtney Brundit, but everybody calls him Joe‚ÅÝ‚Äîis as good a feed as you could wish for.‚Äù He indicated a powerfully built man, with a broad and pleasantly stupid face, who was smoking a short pipe and staring at nothing. ‚ÄúI won‚Äôt say I‚Äôve not heard better baritone singers than Joe. I‚Äôve heard a lot better, and so have you. But if you or anybody else told me you wanted to run this show and leave Joe out, I‚Äôd say, ‚ÄòWell, you can leave me out too.‚Äô That‚Äôs how I feel about Joe. He‚Äôs not one of the brainy ones, Joe isn‚Äôt, and you‚Äôll never hear him at Covent Garden, but he‚Äôs got a heart of gold. You can‚Äôt rile him, and he‚Äôll do anything for a pal, Joe will. Easiest-tempered man I ever knew, and a good job too because he‚Äôs as strong as a horse. He was in the Navy one time and a heavyweight champion. If you ask me, that‚Äôs what started him off as a singer. If he wanted to sing, he sang, and nobody could tell him to shut up.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn chuckled a little over this, then drew a long breath and became serious again.
“That’s his wife there, our contralto,” he began.
“What, the woman in the purple hat?” It was a peculiarly revolting purple hat and Miss Trant had been shuddering at it for some time. It completely dominated its wearer, a vague plumpish sort of woman who was knitting in a rather detached and stately manner.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the one. Stella Cavendish she calls herself, but she‚Äôs Mrs.¬ÝJoe Brundit. Big voice, a good classy rep, plenty of experience, and a real nice woman, though a bit inclined to put it on, y‚Äôknow, now and again. Keeps Joe well in hand. But they‚Äôre a nice couple to work with. They‚Äôve got a little boy named George‚ÅÝ‚Äîlives with his aunt in Denmark Hill‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you‚Äôd think there‚Äôd never been another kid in the world. But it‚Äôs hard on them, this bust-up, I can tell you.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd who is that young dark girl who‚Äôs got such a merry face? I like the look of her.‚Äù The girl in question was listening to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who appeared to be telling her all about his adventures.
‚ÄúAh, I was coming to her.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs face brightened at once. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs Susie‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîour comeedeeyen and the baby of the show. I knew her father and mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîboth pros‚ÅÝ‚Äîdead now. That little girl‚Äôs got it in her blood, absolutely born for it.‚Äù
“Do you mean that she’s very good?” asked Miss Trant, who was interested.
‚ÄúGood! She‚Äôs a wonder. Mind you, she‚Äôs young, and I don‚Äôt say she‚Äôs nothing to learn, but she‚Äôs picking it up like greased lightnin‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîbetter every week. There‚Äôll be no stopping Susie once she‚Äôs got a toe on the ladder. If we don‚Äôt see her name in electric lights in Shaftesbury Avenue before we‚Äôre ten years older, I‚Äôll eat‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll never touch another bottle of magnesia!‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to see her on the stage,‚Äù said Miss Trant, glancing across at the piquant little dark face. ‚ÄúShe looks interesting‚ÅÝ‚Äîcomical and clever. How old is she?‚Äù
‚ÄúTwenty. And you can take it from me, my‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Trant, I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe is comical and clever. She‚Äôs all over this show. The way she can get laughs! You‚Äôve only got to let her sniff an audience‚ÅÝ‚Äîif it‚Äôs only six free passes in four rows of chairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she‚Äôs bubbling over. A lot of comedians wouldn‚Äôt have stood for the way she gets laughs, I can tell you‚ÅÝ‚Äîlot of jealousy in the profession, Miss Trant; it‚Äôs the curse of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I don‚Äôt mind, bless her! Susie and me‚Äôs the best of pals.‚Äù He looked across at the girl as he spoke, his queer lined face alight with affection; and Miss Trant, following his glance, saw the girl look up and blow a kiss to him. Miss Trant smiled, rather wistfully.
‚ÄúIf this show had gone as it ought,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn continued dejectedly, ‚Äúshe‚Äôd have had a big chance. Somebody‚Äôd have seen her and snapped her up. Now she‚Äôll have to take what comes, and ten to one be jumped on because she‚Äôs too good for the bit of business they‚Äôll tell her to do. She‚Äôs taken it well, best of the lot, Susie has, kept her spirits up all the time, but it‚Äôs rotten hard lines. And I‚Äôll tell you this, Miss Trant,‚Äù he was very impressive now, ‚ÄúI blame myself for this.‚Äù
“Why surely not!” cried Miss Trant. “I don’t see how it could be your fault.”
“I don’t suppose you do, but nevertheless you can take it from me it is my fault,” he replied, gloomily triumphant. “Who’s had most experience here? I have. I ought to have known. Who’d heard one or two queer things about Charlie Mildenhall? I had. I ought to have known. Who looked at the bookings and saw he’d gone and fixed up rentals right and left? I did. I ought to have known.” He looked at her with the air of one who has made everything plain.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Miss Trant looked apologetic. “What are rentals?”
‚ÄúAh, you see, it‚Äôs like this. As a rule a Concert Party works on a percentage basis. It gets‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôll say‚ÅÝ‚Äîsixty percent of the gross takings, and the people who own the pavilion or hall or theatre or whatever it is take the other forty. Sometimes there‚Äôs a guarantee‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor thirty or forty pounds maybe‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhich means‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“That your share will amount to at least the thirty or forty pounds,” put in Miss Trant, who was no fonder of being a pupil than the next person.
‚ÄúRight! Well, that‚Äôs fair enough, gives everybody a chance. But we don‚Äôt like renting places in the C.P. world, I can tell you, and that‚Äôs what I mean by rentals. You just pay out your money, and the people who‚Äôs running the hall or pavilion don‚Äôt care tuppence about your show so long as they get their money. This was a rental here in Rawsley‚ÅÝ‚Äîand half of ‚Äôem was rentals, like this. I did point it out at the time, five-and-twenty pounds! And you oughter see the place! Not worth five-and-twenty shillings! And he hadn‚Äôt just taken it for one week, he‚Äôd taken it for two. Two at five-and-twenty a week, here, in this place! I ought to have known. He never meant to stay, not him. Didn‚Äôt matter to him if it was twenty-five hundred pounds a week here‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wasn‚Äôt going to pay it, and he knew it‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh yes, he knew all right!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝNunn raised his voice. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôve got every prop we have, and there they stop till we can pay the fifty pounds, so we‚Äôve said goodbye to ‚Äôem. We‚Äôve not had a treasury for four weeks.‚Äù
“Yes, Miss Longstaff told me.”
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJimmy Mug, that‚Äôs me! I could kick myself from here to the dirty Assembly Rooms and back every time I think of it.‚Äù He was very excited now. ‚ÄúA man of my experience! And seeing those dates too! I tell you, Miss What‚Äôs-it, I can‚Äôt look these boys and girls in the face. I give you my word I can‚Äôt.‚Äù He gave a groan.
“There’s Jimmy going on again,” said a voice.
‚ÄúNow then, Jimmy, now then!‚Äù This was from Mr.¬ÝCourtney Brundit, otherwise Joe, who now came lumbering across to them. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you take any notice of him, ma‚Äôam,‚Äù he said to Miss Trant, and he gave Mr.¬ÝNunn a tremendous slap on the back.
‚ÄúHoi!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝNunn ‚ÄúSteady, Joe, steady! You‚Äôve got a hand like a sledgehammer. Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTrant, this is Mr.¬ÝBrundit, Courtney on the stage, and Joe off.‚Äù
‚ÄúVery pleased to meet you, Miss Trant,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝBrundit, taking her hand in his huge fist and shaking it heartily. ‚ÄúNow don‚Äôt you let Jimmy start blaming himself,‚Äù he added in his slow good-humoured growl, ‚Äúbecause it‚Äôs no more his fault than it‚Äôs my fault or anybody else‚Äôs fault.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, Joe, but‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúBut nothing, Jimmy! We can‚Äôt have a chap with a stomach like yours‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs got an awful bad stomach, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîworst in the profession‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoing and upsetting himself for nothing. Here, you people,‚Äù he roared, ‚Äúwe‚Äôre not blaming Jimmy, are we?‚Äù
“No,” they chorused, to Miss Trant’s astonishment.
“Who’s been keeping our hearts up?” roared Joe again.
“Jimmy!” they cried.
“Good old Jimmy!” Joe prompted them.
‚ÄúGood old Jimmy!‚Äù they all cried. Even Mr.¬ÝOakroyd who was not the man to be left out of anything so hearty and friendly, came in at the end with ‚ÄúAy, good owd Jimmy!‚Äù
Then before Jimmy or Joe or anyone else could make another sound, they found themselves confronted by the proprietor of these Station Refreshment Rooms, Mrs.¬ÝMounder, who stood there, terribly compressed now in face and arms and body, all erect and folded up, but with a head trembling with indignation.
‚ÄúI can‚Äôt do with yer,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝMounder was crying. ‚ÄúNot another minute! Outside, everyone.‚Äù
“Now then, ma,” began Joe.
Mrs.¬ÝMounder glared at him. ‚ÄúOne-and-fourpence and one-and-eightpence and two shillings, that‚Äôs what one or other of yer owes me, and yer can pay me now, at once, and take yerselves somewhere else, sitting about and making yer commotion!‚Äù And from the torrent of speech that followed, they were at liberty to gather that she never, never did, couldn‚Äôt keep a door open, couldn‚Äôt do with them, and would show them trouble if it was trouble they were asking for. By this time she had lashed herself into such a rage that she made a mistake in her tactics. She singled out Miss Trant, crying: ‚ÄúYou too, Miss! I thought you was different, a lady, but seemingly you‚Äôre another of ‚Äôem.‚Äù
“What!” cried Miss Trant.
“You ’eard what I said.”
Miss Trant rose from her chair, drew herself up to her full height, and marched towards Mrs.¬ÝMounder as steadily as the old Colonel and the other fighting Trants had marched upon earthworks and counter-scarps. She was pale and there was a kind of glitter in her fine clear eyes, but there was not the ghost of a tremble or a waver or a wobble.
“What did you say we owed you?” she demanded icily.
At this there was some expostulation from the company behind, but she turned round quickly and even held up a hand: “One moment, please. I’ll explain later.” Then there was not a whisper among them.
She faced Mrs.¬ÝMounder again, looking her straight in the eyes. Mrs.¬ÝMounder tried to compress herself into a yet smaller, tighter, harder mass of disapproval, and when she discovered it could not be done, she began to weaken. After a sniff or two, she replied: ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs one and fourpence and one-and-eightpence and two shillings altogether owing, though, upon my word, what with the hot water that‚Äôs been called for‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Miss Trant cut her short. She took out a ten-shilling note and lightly tossed it towards the woman. “There you are,” she said, raising her chin another inch, “and please bring me the change at once.”
The note had fallen on to the floor, and Mrs.¬ÝMounder looked at it now, with her head trembling away. Miss Trant neither spoke nor moved, and the others at the back never made a sound. Then Mrs.¬ÝMounder suddenly dipped, took the note, muttered something that nobody could catch, and hurried out.
Miss Trant turned round, quite slowly this time, quite calmly, smiled vaguely at everybody, and said ‚ÄúLet‚Äôs go now, shall we?‚Äù And off she went to the door, to receive her change and to give Mrs.¬ÝMounder a last annihilating lift of eyebrow, while the others, bursting into talk again, came trooping after her. Between the doorway and the road, where they had met before, the untidy youth with the lock of hair caught up to her and introduced himself as Inigo Jollifant. ‚ÄúThat was magnificent, absolutely,‚Äù he remarked. ‚ÄúBut you paid for my tea, you know.‚Äù
“I was going to explain to everybody why I did that,” said Miss Trant. Then she hesitated.
‚ÄúThe gesture, of course, the gesture asked for it,‚Äù said Inigo sympathetically. ‚ÄúOne-and-fourpence here, one-and-eightpence there‚ÅÝ‚Äîno gesture! Pay for the lot‚ÅÝ‚Äîtake that and get out‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe only way to do it! As a matter of fact, I was thinking of that myself. But I haven‚Äôt the style, you know.‚Äù
Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho suddenly felt lighthearted, free, gay‚ÅÝ‚Äîlaughed. ‚ÄúThis is my car. We‚Äôll stop here and wait for the others. The point is, though,‚Äù she went on hastily, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve suddenly decided to‚ÅÝ‚Äîto run this troupe‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean concert party. That horrid woman decided me.‚Äù
‚ÄúSplendid, absolutely!‚Äù cried Inigo enthusiastically. ‚ÄúI was only wishing I could do it. But I‚Äôve only got forty pounds to spare. I‚Äôve told them, though, I was ready to join up‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust for a lark, you know. I‚Äôve been teaching in a prep school, but I can play the piano, and from what I can gather, my sort of piano stuff is just what they want.‚Äù
“I wish you would,” said Miss Trant. “I’d been wondering about it for the last half-hour and trying to find out things, and then when that woman talked like that, I suddenly thought, ‘All right then, I will.’ I don’t know anything about it, so nothing could be more crazy.”
“Oh, hatter-mad, I agree,” said Inigo cheerfully. “But a lark of colossal dimensions. And here we all are, rogues and vagabonds together.”
“I’m wondering now what we ought to do,” said Miss Trant, quickly, as the others came up.
“I know. Leave it to me.” Inigo turned to face the entertainers, and called out: “I say, is there a place here where we might all have some supper and a sort of meeting?”
‚ÄúWhy, what‚Äôs the idea, Jollifant?‚Äù This was from Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham.
‚ÄúThe idea is, I want everybody to have supper or dinner or whatever they decide to call it, with me tonight,‚Äù Inigo explained. ‚ÄúYou see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he glanced at Miss Trant.
‚ÄúThe fact is,‚Äù said Miss Trant, rather shy again now, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm rather thinking of‚ÅÝ‚Äîof running‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe show. That is, if you‚Äôll let me,‚Äù she added hastily.
There was an excited cry from everybody, but Miss Susie Dean was first. “You darling!” she flashed out, and then added, when the others had done: “I don’t know you, but I’m sure you are.” And everybody laughed at this, and Miss Trant blushed and shook her head.
“Now, about this supper then?” said Inigo, after the excitement had died down.
‚ÄúWhat about that hotel in the marketplace, Jimmy?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝBrundit. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôd do it. Might be a bit dearish, though.‚Äù
‚ÄúNever mind about that,‚Äù cried Inigo, who guessed that his own ideas of expense might be different from the homely Mr.¬ÝBrundit‚Äôs. ‚ÄúWhat is the place? Would it do?‚Äù He turned to Mr.¬ÝNunn.
‚ÄúYou mean The Royal Standard, don‚Äôt you, Joe?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝNunn. ‚ÄúYes, they‚Äôd do it all right. Good room upstairs too, they tell me. Though if there‚Äôs a man on this earth who‚Äôd make a worse show at a supper or dinner or anything where there‚Äôs real eating than me, I‚Äôd like to meet him. You know, it‚Äôs all poison to me, Mr.¬ÝWhat‚Äôs-it,‚Äù he said to Inigo earnestly.
“Shame! Well, then,” cried Inigo, “let’s say half past seven at The Royal Standard, everybody! I’ll go and fix it up. That’s all right, isn’t it, Miss Trant?”
Then the newcomers remembered they had rooms to find, and there was some excited talk about this. Finally, Inigo and Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham departed with the Brundits, who thought there would be room for one of them in their own lodgings and a place for the other next door. They were accompanied by Messrs. Nunn and Jerningham. Miss Trant, having Elsie‚Äôs hamper in the car, suggested that Elsie herself should come in too, and as Miss Susie Dean shared lodgings with Elsie, it was agreed that she should join them, whereupon Miss Susie scrambled in at the back, which was rather full of things, with the remark that it would do Rawsley good to see her there. So that was settled.
“Well, Miss,” said a voice, gruff but diffident, perhaps a trifle wistful, “I’d better have them traps o’ mine out o’ t’car and be getting on like.”
‚ÄúOh, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù cried Miss Trant, who had forgotten all about him. ‚ÄúWhere are you going?‚Äù
“Na, I don’t know fairly.”
“He doesn’t know where he’s going,” cried Miss Susie Dean excitedly. “He told me in there. Oh, he mustn’t go, must he, Miss Trant?”
‚ÄúOf course you mustn‚Äôt go, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. You don‚Äôt want to go, do you?‚Äù
‚ÄúWell‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝOakroyd rubbed his chin reflectively‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI don‚Äôt say I‚Äôve owt on, as you might say. But I‚Äôm nobbut i‚Äô t‚Äôroad here. You can‚Äôt do wi‚Äô me.‚Äù
“I’m sure we can,” said Miss Trant. “I’m sure there’s something for you to do. Isn’t there, Miss Longstaff? Isn’t there, Miss Dean?”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure I don‚Äôt know really,‚Äù began Miss Longstaff, who was not interested in Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and was surprised that a lady like Miss Trant should be.
“Of course there is,” put in Miss Dean, who had heard already about the Great North Road and Lily and all manner of things. “And he must come to supper, mustn’t he? If he doesn’t, I shan’t. We’ll stand outside making noises. We’ll throw things at the window.”
‚ÄúHurry up and get in, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, if you can find room,‚Äù Miss Trant commanded, and without another word Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did get in, and after a struggle with the hamper and various bags, in which he was assisted energetically by Miss Dean, he did find room.
“Well,” he said, his honest broad face alight as they moved down the road, “this is a do, this is.” He ruminated for a minute or two, then, catching some droll glances that his companion shot at him out of her lively dark eyes, he grinned afresh and banged his right fist into his left palm several times. “This caps t’lot, this does.”
“Tha’s reight, lad,” said Miss Dean coolly.
‚ÄúYond‚Äôs a caution,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told himself. Then he looked at Rawsley with the air of a man who has seen many other and better places.