III
On the following night, Wednesday, Inigo was sauntering through the streets of Nottingham. He had not gone there to look for Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, though he had reminded himself with a certain quickening of interest, that this was Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs destination, where, like the gentleman of leisure he was, he had decided to look up a few old friends. At any moment, Inigo told himself, he might be passing an old friend of Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs. Inigo was there, however, because at the breakfast table that morning Freda had declared that she must go to Nottingham to visit a dentist. It then appeared at once that Inigo, who had been rather vague about his movements, was really on his way to Nottingham too. This astonishing coincidence had landed the pair of them on the same motorbus from Oxwell, given them the same table for lunch, and finally, at Freda‚Äôs request, had condemned them to spend the afternoon together, and some of it unnecessarily close together, in a huge sensuous cavern that called itself a picture palace.
Inigo did not care very much for films, especially in the middle of the afternoon, when their bludgeoning sentimentality, their glycerine tears, seemed downright blasphemy. This picture palace had an organ that was nothing but one gigantic, relentless, quavering vox humana stop, and listening to it was like being forcibly fed with treacle. However, Freda, having escaped from the wilderness of Oxwell, the captivity of the Second Resurrectionists, enjoyed it all. She munched chocolates, drank tea, ate little cakes, and coughed her way through two cigarettes; she laughed when the screen told her to laugh, stared mournfully when all was lost save love and the vox humana stop, shuddered and gasped and clutched at Inigo at all appropriate crises; and filled in the duller intervals in the programme by flirting with him. They were in there so long that Inigo was surprised to emerge, blinking, into broad daylight, and for a moment or so the sane and three-dimensional world about him looked quite unreal. It also made him feel rather foolish, and somehow he said goodbye to Freda, still rosy and smiling as she mounted the 6:15 motorbus, with a feeling that was more like relief than regret. He returned to the mournful little commercial hotel where he had left his knapsack and there had a very bad dinner.
After wandering about the streets for quarter of an hour or so, Inigo turned into the nearest tavern for a glass of bitter. The place was almost empty, fortunately, for he wanted to be quiet and to think. What was he going to do? Should he wander on like this for a few days more, then return to his uncle’s place at Dulwich and, once there, go the rounds of the scholastic agents? Did he want to go on teaching? No, he did not. But what did he want to do? He didn’t know. He could afford to give himself a little holiday, but sooner or later he would have to decide about a job. This was an opportunity to experiment, certainly, but what was he going to experiment in? Journalism? His soul revolted, absolutely. It was while he was still telling himself how much his soul revolted or was prepared to revolt that the landlord came in and nodded to him.
“Breakin’ up now,” said the landlord. “But we can’t grumble, can we? ’Ad a good month.”
Inigo never knew what to reply to remarks of this kind about the weather. People who made them always seemed to belong to a society of weather observers or even weather owners, and he always felt that he himself was too much of an outsider to do more than merely mumble something in response. He mumbled now, then hesitated, and finally remarked: “I’ve just been wondering what to do. Now what would you do if you were a young man like me, with a little, just a very little, money of your own?”
“I wouldn’t go into this business again,” replied the landlord promptly.
“You wouldn’t, eh?”
‚ÄúWouldn‚Äôt touch it, wouldn‚Äôt have it given. Nothing in it now. All to pieces. What with dogs, football, pitchers, one thing and another‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can‚Äôt sell beer, can‚Äôt get ‚Äôem regular, yer know. Oh I wouldn‚Äôt look at it.‚Äù He straddled in front of the fireplace and jingled some coppers in his pocket.
“Well, what would you do?” asked Inigo.
‚ÄúIf I‚Äôd my time over again, I wouldn‚Äôt ‚Äôesitate,‚Äù replied the landlord, lowering his voice. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd make a book, go in the ring. It‚Äôs money for dust. They can‚Äôt give it to you fast enough. Why, there‚Äôs fellers come in ‚Äôere‚ÅÝ‚Äîtut‚Äët‚Äët‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he tut-tutted away and wagged his head to show that mere words were failing him.
“Be a bookie, eh? That’s no good to me, I’m afraid. Nothing in my line. I don’t understand racing and I couldn’t shout loud enough.”
“Don’t need to shout, don’t need to know anything,” cried the other. “Some o’ these fellers ’ardly know where they live. Doesn’t matter. They get it all the same. Rolling in it, rolling! And where do they get it from, where do they get it from?” He walked right across the room to ask this momentous question and stood over Inigo, who told him he didn’t know where they got it from. “All right, I’ll tell you,” said the landlord. “They get it from mugs, like you and me. Mugs! Don’t they, Charlie?” This was to a man who had just entered the room.
“That’s right, Jack,” said Charlie, winking at Inigo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but that’s right.” And he sat down, pushed his cap to the back of his head, and began whistling very loudly.
“ ’Ere, Charlie,” said the landlord, “what’s this about old Fred telling Jimmy you said I’d picked up a tenner on Cherry Lass?”
Inigo made his escape. The streets were lighted now and livelier, but the only entertainment they offered him was that of watching innumerable youths ogle innumerable pairs of over-powdered and undernourished young girls, who took care to parade within easy reach of the various picture theatres. He soon came to the conclusion that these streets were not lively at all. They began to depress him. He thought once of going in, to add a few sentences to “The Last Knapsack,” but the image of that melancholy commercial hotel daunted him. No good literature could be composed in that hotel. “It would all come out wrong,” he told himself. “I should be putting down ‘as per yours’ and things like that.”
He stopped outside a large and glittering tavern. It announced that it had a Singing Room, and Inigo did not remember ever having been inside a Singing Room. He walked in, to find himself facing a long curved bar that had far too many mirrors and electric lights. Business was brisk, so brisk that the bar counter was flooded, the change he received was all wet, and the beer itself had a nasty rinsed look. There were several swing doors, gorgeous with leaded lights, opening out of this bar, but there was nothing to indicate the one that would admit him to the Singing Room. He took a sip of beer, put the glass down, and determined to forget about it, and began dodging through the throng, to find the Singing Room. It was then that he heard, behind the back of a man who held one of the swinging doors open, the voice. “In the absence of the pianist, ladies and gentlemen,” said the voice, “I will not give you one of my famous banjo solos, but I will, with the kind permission of one and all, endeavour to entertain you with a few feats of sleight of hand.”
There was no mistaking it. This was the voice of that returned traveller, that gentleman of leisure, that looker-up of old friends in Nottingham, Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham.
Inigo pushed his way in. This was the Singing Room, and there, at the far end of it, near the piano, addressing an audience of about twenty men, youths, and girls, who did not seem particularly interested in him, was Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. He wore the same light check suit, the same Mad Hatter collar and tie; and his eyebrows seemed larger, his nose richer, and his chin longer and bluer than they did before. ‚ÄúI will open,‚Äù he was saying, ‚Äúwith a little trick I‚Äôve performed in all parts of the world, America, Australia, India, and every important place in the U‚Äënited Kingdom‚ÅÝ‚Äîexcept Nottingham. Notice that, ladies and gentlemen‚ÅÝ‚Äîexcept Nottingham.‚Äù He held out a pack of cards. ‚ÄúNow I want a lady or gentleman to take a card‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Any orders,” cried a waiter suddenly springing up from nowhere.
“Wairer, I wanternother double.” This was from a very ripe gentleman, who was sprawling at a little table by himself.
Inigo told the waiter to bring him a bottle of Bass and sat down not far from the ripe gentleman and near a middle-aged man and a little woman with eyeglasses who were sitting over two glasses of stout and placidly holding hands. Mr.¬ÝMitcham stared at the newcomer, brought his immense eyebrows down and pursed up his lips. Inigo grinned at him and at last got a nod and a grin in return. Mr.¬ÝMitcham, who clearly did not want to begin his trick until the waiter had returned, crossed over and calmly remarked to Inigo: ‚ÄúI know you, my boy, and I see you know me. I‚Äôm just trying to place you.‚Äù
“We met the other midnight at Dullingham Junction,” said Inigo.
“Of course we did. And you had the chocolate and biscuits. And a merry little session we had, didn’t we?” He lowered his voice. “I’m just filling in the evening here, you know, just amusing myself. This isn’t my kind of thing at all.”
“No, I should think not. Have a drink?”
‚ÄúThank you, my boy, I will. I‚Äôll have a whisky, just a‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you might as well make it a double Scotch.‚Äù He lowered his voice again. ‚ÄúIf you told most people you‚Äôd seen Morton Mitcham here, they wouldn‚Äôt believe, simply wouldn‚Äôt believe you. But it amuses me, you know. And I like to show these boys and girls a thing or two. They‚Äôve seen nothing, absolutely nothing.‚Äù
The waiter having returned and departed again for the double whisky, Mr.¬ÝMitcham began his performance. A man in a brown hat far too small for him was persuaded to take a card. ‚ÄúLook at that card, sir,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham impressively, ‚Äúexamine it carefully. You may show it to any other members of the audience but don‚Äôt let me see it, ha-ha! Now take this envelope, an ordinary plain white envelope, you observe, and place the card in the envelope and put the flap inside. Don‚Äôt lick the envelope, sir, I may want it again. Now I take the envelope. It is impossible for me to see what the card is. Now follow me closely. I shall place the envelope‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But here the ripe gentleman created a diversion. “Never mind about cards,” he cried thickly. “I wanner a bit o’ music.”
‚ÄúI say, I shall place the envelope underneath this handkerchief‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I wanner a bit o’ music.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham frowned at him. ‚ÄúAll in good time, sir, all in good time. Just now I‚Äôm trying to entertain the company with this trick. I shall be much obliged, sir,‚Äù he said severely, ‚Äúif you will not interrupt.‚Äù
“Thaz all ri’, thaz all ri’!” He waved a hand, and a large and idiotic smile slowly spread over his rubicund face.
‚ÄúIt is, you will observe, an ordinary handkerchief. I slip the envelope underneath‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Ber I like a bit o’ music.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham stopped and glared. Two or three members of his audience laughed, but a young man in a green cloth cap was very annoyed. ‚ÄúOh, put a sock in it,‚Äù he said to the ripe gentleman, who immediately and very loudly asked him what he meant by it.
‚ÄúNow then, gentlemen, give order if you please,‚Äù cried the waiter, who had returned with Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs double whisky. They gave order, and Mr.¬ÝMitcham was able to finish the trick, which he did by producing the card that was placed in the envelope from the middle of the pack, to the astonishment and admiration of everybody except the ripe gentleman and the two people who were holding hands. Inigo himself thought it a very good trick indeed. The young man in the green cap was loud in his admiration. ‚ÄúClever!‚Äù he cried aggressively. ‚ÄúAnd new to me. Clever!‚Äù
“I seen it done once before,” said the man who had first taken the card. “Fellow at the Hippodrome ’ere done it.”
‚ÄúMay I ask his name, sir?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, frowning. ‚ÄúBecause that‚Äôs my trick. I think you must be mistaken.‚Äù
“No, I’m not,” replied the other, mildly though firmly. “I seen it all right. And I’ll tell you his name. The Great Julius, that was him. The Great Julius. He was a Yank.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre right, you‚Äôre right,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham, with hearty condescension. ‚ÄúIf it was the Great Julius, you‚Äôre right. I taught him that trick in Philadelphia in 1910. There was no Great Julius about him then, I can tell you. He was just plain Julius Isenbaum, and nobody could be plainer. Yes, I taught him that trick.‚Äù
Inigo gazed at him in admiration, caught his eye, and indicated the presence of the whisky. The great man strode across, gave him a wink and ‚Äúthe best, my boy!‚Äù and halved the liquor in one gulp. Then he produced a number of cards from his elbow, his knee, and the empty air, and finally asked the young man in the green cap, who still said ‚ÄúClever!‚Äù at intervals, to put the four queens wherever he liked in the pack. Mr.¬ÝMitcham then shuffled the pack, held it up in one hand, held it up in the other hand, and put it down on the nearest table. The four queens, however, he produced from the pocket of the ripe gentleman, who had fallen into a doze. This delighted everybody except the ripe gentleman himself, who hit the table and cried: ‚ÄúAll a lorrer bunkum! Lessav a birrer music.‚Äù
“That’s right. Where’s Joe?” asked someone.
‚ÄúJoe‚Äôs the pianist,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham explained to Inigo. ‚ÄúRegular job here, you know, but hasn‚Äôt turned up tonight. Here‚Äôs the vocalist,‚Äù and he waved a hand at a rather short and flat-faced man who had just entered the room. ‚ÄúHe can‚Äôt do anything, either. But I shall try ‚Äôem with the banjo soon, pianist or no pianist. I‚Äôve kept a whole room going with that banjo in places where there wasn‚Äôt a piano within two or three hundred miles. Believe me, my boy, I‚Äôve travelled a hundred and fifty miles just to play it at a wedding party. That was up in Saskatchewan one time, Ninety-five or Ninety-six, I think it was.‚Äù He finished the whisky, then added: ‚ÄúNo, it wasn‚Äôt. I‚Äôm not telling you the truth.‚Äù Inigo gasped. ‚ÄúIt was in Ninety-four,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham concluded triumphantly.
Inigo glanced across at the piano, which was an ancient grand. “Look here,” he said finally, “I think I could knock something out of that, if you really want a pianist.”
‚ÄúOf course you could,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham enthusiastically. ‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt you tell me the other night you played? You‚Äôre the very man we‚Äôre looking for. Let me see‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour name‚Äôs just slipped‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, Jollifant, is it? Of course it is.‚Äù He beckoned the vocalist and rose impressively at his approach. ‚ÄúMeet Mr.¬ÝJollifant, an old friend of mine, who‚Äôs just turned up and who‚Äôs one of the finest pianists that‚Äôs ever stepped into this town. He‚Äôs just promised to help us out.‚Äù
Five minutes later Inigo found himself sitting at the piano with some tattered sheets of music in front of him. It had been arranged that the vocalist should take his turn first. Inigo ran his fingers over the keys, which were very yellow, burned in places, and far too loose. The piano itself, however, was better than he had imagined it to be, and was certainly capable of making a terrific din. He dashed into the opening bars of the first tattered song, and the vocalist, in a voice so hard and so high that it hurt, proclaimed to the Singing Room that he lived in a la‚Äëand of rer‚Äëhoses but he drer‚Äëheamed of a la‚Äëand of sner‚Äëhow. At the conclusion of this astonishing ballad there was a certain amount of applause, led by the ripe gentleman who had been beating time and humming in a vague sort of way. The vocalist treated his ravaged throat to a draught of stout, waited until six newcomers had sat down and given orders, then nodded to Inigo and declared, in his highest and hardest notes, that the woman for him in all the world was just his dear old mother. This was a sentiment that aroused the enthusiasm of the company, and one after another of them joined in until at last they were all asserting that the one woman for them was just their dear old mothers. By the time it was ended, the room was nearly full, and there was so much applause that the vocalist, now purple in the face, had ‚Äúto thank them one and all‚Äù and burst into an encore. Here again it appeared they had all a common enthusiasm, this time for dear old Ireland, especially the colleen in the cabin back in Connemara. Only Inigo, Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, and the waiter appeared to have no tender memories of this colleen.
The vocalist departed; Mr.¬ÝMitcham began tuning his banjo; the waiter collected orders and told Inigo to give it a name; more people came crowding in and filled the room with smoke and babble; Mr.¬ÝMitcham whispered instructions and hummed tunes in Inigo‚Äôs ear; the waiter dumped glasses of beer and whisky on the piano; the ripe gentleman vainly demanded more double Scotches; and Inigo emptied the glass in front of him and began to feel excited.
Off they went, softly at first, Mr.¬ÝMitcham wagging his head to his lilting twanka-pang, twanka-pang, Inigo vamping away and putting in artful variations. More and more people came crowding in, to tapper-tap-tap with their feet. Mr.¬ÝMitcham wagged furiously, quickening the pace. Inigo never lagged behind for a second and the louder and faster they went, the crazier were his elaborations. He would bring down both hands to crash and rumble in the bass and then would send them tinkling like hey-go-mad in the treble. ‚ÄúQuiet!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham, and then played as softly and solemnly as it is possible to play a banjo; indeed, you would not have thought it possible. Then after a minute of this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúlet her go!‚Äù he cried. And they let her go, in a triumph of twanging and panging and tinkling and crashing. And when it was done, the Singing Room let itself go too. There was such a din that the landlord himself looked in and was delighted to see how enthusiastic and hot and thirsty everybody appeared to be.
‚ÄúWith your permission, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, after he acknowledged the applause, mopped his face, and drained his glass, ‚Äúa little impression of a military patrol. I may say that I first thought of this number when listening to some of our own brave boys up at‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAllahabad.‚Äù
There was a great stamping of feet and banging of glasses, and a red-faced man roared out that the banjoist was a good old something-or-other ‚Äúwallah.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham bowed his acknowledgements, then produced his impression of a military patrol, which he did simply playing a quickstep very softly at first and gradually increasing the tone. As no accompaniment was necessary, Inigo took another drink from those that were still steadily finding their way to the top of the piano, looked about him, and tried, not very successfully, to simmer down and give the appearance of being an old hand. The military patrol was a tremendous success, and Mr.¬ÝMitcham had to give the latter half of it all over again. He then waved a hand to show that he was completely exhausted. ‚ÄúYou give ‚Äôem something,‚Äù he told Inigo, and emptied several glasses.
Inigo promptly played some of his own little tunes, finally arriving at the one we all know too well now, his ‚ÄúSlipping Round the Corner.‚Äù While he was still strumming it quietly, he heard a queer clinking sound and saw the long lean figure of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham moving about the crowded room. That gentleman of leisure was undoubtedly going round with the hat. Inigo had a shock, but it did not last long. ‚ÄúIn for a penny, in for a pound,‚Äù he told himself, and then added: ‚ÄúIf it is a pound.‚Äù He could hear the feet tapping to his tune. Perhaps he did not play it as well as he had done at Washbury Manor‚ÅÝ‚Äînow a little dark place thousands of miles away‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he ended by playing it even faster and louder. Nor did he end alone, for Mr.¬ÝMitcham, presumably with the hat, returned to join in with admirable gusto, having picked up the tune. The whole Singing Room was slipping round the corner.
‚ÄúTime, gentlemen, please!‚Äù the waiter shouted, but nobody appeared to take any notice of him, except the two performers, who came to a triumphant conclusion. There was no doubt about their reception. The Singing Room had not heard so enthusiastic applause for years. Three glasses were broken. There were cries of ‚ÄúEncore‚Äù and ‚ÄúKeep on, boys.‚Äù But Mr.¬ÝMitcham, still the dignified performer in spite of his dripping face and the innumerable drinks he had consumed, shook his head at Inigo.
‚ÄúTime, gentlemen, if you please!‚Äù cried the waiter again now in an agony of supplication. Several moist enthusiasts insisted upon shaking the musicians by the hand, and there was trouble with the ripe gentleman, who was crawling about the floor looking for his hat; but gradually the room was cleared. Inigo felt rather dazed. He saw Mr.¬ÝMitcham very carefully counting a heap of small change. Then he discovered the landlord at his elbow.
“You can tickle ’em all right,” said the landlord, pointing to the keyboard. “ ’Ere, ’alf a minute.” And he dragged Inigo to one side. “If thirty bob a week’s any good to you,” he said, lowering his voice, “and all the drinks you want, the job’s yours and Joe can go to ’ell.”
“Thanks,” Inigo found himself muttering, “but I don’t want the job, if that’s what you mean.”
“What’s the matter with it?” the landlord demanded. “You won’t get better money in this town, let me tell you.”
“But I’m not staying on in this town.”
‚ÄúAh, that‚Äôs different, that is. Well, you can tickle ‚Äôem all right. Give us a call and a tune any time you‚Äôre round this way. ‚ÄôEre.‚Äù And he dragged Inigo back again, to where Mr.¬ÝMitcham was counting his coppers. ‚ÄúThis is my little contribution, gentlemen.‚Äù He threw a ten shilling note on the heap, drew Mr.¬ÝMitcham on one side to whisper to him, then shouted to the waiter and walked away.
Mr.¬ÝMitcham wrapped up the money in a handkerchief. ‚ÄúI know a place where they‚Äôll give us a decent little feed, that is, decent for these parts. There‚Äôs no food really here, of course; you mustn‚Äôt expect it. Now what about giving ourselves a little supper? I‚Äôve hardly had a bite all day, didn‚Äôt want it, you know. I‚Äôm so used to feeding late. Come on then; it‚Äôs not far, just near the station.‚Äù
They sat in the window of the upstairs room of the unpretentious little restaurant, which was almost empty. Inigo ordered a mere snack, but Mr.¬ÝMitcham, who gave Inigo the impression of having been on short commons for a day or two, asked for large steaks and bushels of onions and potatoes. As soon as the waitress had gone, he brought out the handkerchief containing the money. ‚ÄúNow, then,‚Äù he began, ‚Äúthe landlord made it ten, didn‚Äôt he? And the takings in the room were twenty-three shillings and ninepence ha‚Äôpenny. That‚Äôs exactly thirty-three shillings and ninepence ha‚Äôpenny. Now what‚Äôs half of that?‚Äù
“Sixteen and something,” replied Inigo. “But why do you want to know? Are you thinking of dividing it between us?”
‚ÄúNaturally, my boy, naturally! Like an honest trouper! No quibbling about shares, either. I don‚Äôt say,‚Äù he added thoughtfully, ‚Äúthat some of this might not have been a little appreciation of my sleight of hand, and of course you‚Äôd nothing to do with that. That card in the envelope trick went devilishly well, you know. But‚ÅÝ‚Äîshare and share alike, I say, and no quibbling.‚Äù
“I can’t take any of it. It’s jolly good of you, but I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
‚ÄúNo. You see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝMitcham patted him on the arm and at the same time, with great dexterity, swept all the money away with the other hand. ‚ÄúMy dear boy, of course I see. You‚Äôve no need to tell me.‚Äù
‚ÄúI did it for a lark, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúJust for the fun of the thing and to oblige a friend,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham enthusiastically. ‚ÄúAnd naturally you wouldn‚Äôt touch a penny of it. I know, because that‚Äôs just how I feel myself. Done it myself many a time. Ask them in Toronto what Morton Mitcham did at old Reilly‚Äôs benefit, or for that fire concert in ‚ÄôFrisco, or the time when the stage hands went out at Melbourne. I know your feelings, know them to a hair, my dear boy. They‚Äôre the feelings of a gentleman, a musician, a true artist. You remind me‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverything you‚Äôve done has reminded me of Captain Dunstan-Carew‚ÅÝ‚Äîplayed for me, played with me, scores of times out in India, and ‚ÄòProud to do it, Mitcham,‚Äô he‚Äôd say, and he was the best amateur pianist out there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a Dunstan-Carew. You‚Äôve both got the same touch‚ÅÝ‚Äîrecognized it in a minute‚ÅÝ‚Äîa gentlemanly touch, but full of fun, plenty of devil in it.‚Äù
Inigo said he was proud to have the same touch as Captain Dunstan-Carew.
‚ÄúBut I‚Äôll tell you one thing, my boy,‚Äù continued Mr.¬ÝMitcham. ‚ÄúYou may not let me give you a share of the takings, but you‚Äôre going to let me pay for this supper. I insist. I don‚Äôt care what you‚Äôre having tonight, I insist. The supper is mine.‚Äù He looked first at Inigo and then round the room with such an air of noble generosity that Inigo found it difficult to remember that his own share of the supper would only amount to about tenpence.
‚ÄúFor that matter, of course,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, after he had wolfed in silence the greater part of his steak, ‚Äúthe business tonight‚Äôs been a mere piece of foolery with me. As I told you before, I think, it‚Äôs not at all my line of country. But, the fact is, I‚Äôve been unlucky just lately. You know what it is. Twenty years ago I was landed in the same damned hole. No, it was worse. I was down there in Memphis‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Not Memphis!” cried Inigo in delight.
‚ÄúMemphis,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝMitcham firmly. ‚ÄúAnd I hadn‚Äôt a nickel to my name. And you can imagine what a hole Memphis is when you haven‚Äôt a cent.‚Äù
“Rather!” cried Inigo. “You couldn’t be in a worse place, could you?” He said this with conviction, though actually all that he knew about Memphis was that it is a city somewhere in the United States.
‚ÄúYou couldn‚Äôt. Well, three months afterwards, exactly three months‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere was I? I‚Äôll tell you. I was in a suite on the first floor of the best hotel in all New Orleans, and telegrams pouring in, just pouring in. Go here, go there, go everywhere! Three syndicates all eating out of my hand! I don‚Äôt say it will be the same all over again exactly. Times have changed, my boy, you can take it from me. There‚Äôs not enough money in this country. But as I was saying, I‚Äôve been unlucky just lately. Vaudeville‚Äôs gone to pieces here, absolutely to pieces. And what with one thing and another, these last few weeks I‚Äôve just been living from hand to mouth; on little engagements picked up here and there, some of it damned near to busking. If it was summer, I wouldn‚Äôt mind, but winter‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know what it is. You want a cast-iron contract in winter. I tell you, things have been so bad, I‚Äôve even considered band work, but I couldn‚Äôt get near, couldn‚Äôt get near. The Union, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôve a union and it won‚Äôt let an outsider come within a mile. Then I thought of concert-party work, pierrot stuff. It‚Äôs a hell of a drop, of course. Mind you, I won‚Äôt say I‚Äôve never done it before. I‚Äôve even done the blackface business, though that was in the days when it still had style.‚Äù
“But these concert parties or pierrots or whatever they call themselves, don’t they just go round, hopping from pier to pier, so to speak, in summer? Won’t they all have just finished?” And it struck Inigo that he had not seen any of these troupes for years. Did the men still bend their knees in an idiotic way when they sang choruses? What a life!
“Most of them have finished now, but some keep on through the winter, doing small inland towns, you know, where people are glad to see anybody.”
“They must be,” said Inigo, who was still turning over his memories.
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll tell you what I‚Äôm going to do, and I want you to listen very carefully, my boy. I‚Äôm going to see a concert party tomorrw. And I‚Äôll tell you why. I ran across two people I know‚ÅÝ‚Äîdecent nice folks, man and wife, vocalists, but not, I think, absolutely bursting with talent‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they told me they were in a troupe that was running on through the winter and there might be a vacancy or two in the autumn. I saw a notice in The Stage saying they were at Rawsley for two weeks, that‚Äôs not too far from here, and so tomorrow I‚Äôm running over to have a look at ‚Äôem. Now if you‚Äôre doing nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut look here, what are you doing?‚Äù
Inigo gave a brief but spirited sketch of his own position.
‚ÄúIf you do anything but play the piano,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham earnestly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre just throwing yourself away. I was watching your work tonight, and I said to myself, ‚ÄòThat boy was born with it. A bit of experience, a few tips from an old hand, and he can go anywhere.‚Äô And believe me, I know. I‚Äôve seen and heard thousands.‚Äù Inigo laughed. ‚ÄúDid you like my tunes?‚Äù
“Catchy stuff, very catchy stuff, and new to me. Where did you pick ’em up?”
“Out of the ether.”
‚ÄúAh, I never bother with this wireless myself,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham judiciously, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôve no doubt you can pick up a good tune or two occasionally if you listen long enough.‚Äù
“No, no, I don’t mean that. I mean, they’re my own tunes. I make ’em up myself.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham stared at him. Then he extended a long yellow hand. ‚ÄúShake that,‚Äù he commanded, ‚Äúand as hard as you like. Now you listen to me. There‚Äôs a pot of money in those tunes if they‚Äôre properly handled. You‚Äôve got the gift, though, mind you, I don‚Äôt say you don‚Äôt need experience or a little advice from people who‚Äôve had experience. After this, I can‚Äôt let you go, I just can‚Äôt. It would be a crime. You‚Äôve just got to stick to the old man, my boy. Come with me tomorrow. If there‚Äôs an opening for me, there‚Äôll have to be one for you too. If there isn‚Äôt, we can move on. We‚Äôll try that stuff out somewhere.‚Äù
Inigo had come to the conclusion that it really would be rather a lark. “But what do they call this pierrot troupe?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” replied the other. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and finally produced a little newspaper cutting. “Here it is. They call themselves ‘The Dinky Doos.’ ”
Inigo gave a yell. “But I couldn’t be a Dinky Doo,” he gasped. “Don’t ask me to be a Dinky Doo.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham lowered his great eyebrows. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the matter? Do you know the show?‚Äù
“No, but the name, the name! It would hurt, absolutely.”
‚ÄúNo, a mere nothing, that!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs face cleared, and it was as if the sun had risen upon those black hills of South Dakota he had once mentioned. He stood up, then patted Inigo on the shoulder. ‚ÄúIf I don‚Äôt mind the name, you shouldn‚Äôt. At your age, my dear boy, it doesn‚Äôt matter what they call you or make you wear; you can get away with it. But look at me, at my age! I ask you, do I look like a Dinky Doo?‚Äù
He looked fantastic enough for anything, Inigo thought. All that he said, however, was that they might put it to the waitress, who was approaching with the bill. “Now would you say,” Inigo solemnly inquired of her, “that either of us looked like a Dinky Doo?”
“Get on with you!” said the waitress, who understood this to be some sort of chaff but was too sleepy to bother her head about it.
‚ÄúAnd that‚Äôs the answer all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham as they walked down the stairs. ‚ÄúGet on with it. I‚Äôll look you up in the morning. Where are you staying?‚Äù
And in the morning, quite early, Mr.¬ÝMitcham arrived at Inigo‚Äôs hotel, accompanied by his banjo-case and his large and disreputable bag. He did not say where he had been sleeping, and had the appearance of not having slept anywhere except in his check suit. Two little cross-country trains finally landed them in Rawsley, and in the early afternoon they walked past those Station Refreshment Rooms to which, later, they had to return. Mr.¬ÝMitcham did not know where his acquaintances, whose name was Brundit, were staying, in the town, and it took some time to find their lodgings. Inigo did not see how it was to be done at all, but Mr.¬ÝMitcham, pointing out once more that he was an old hand, declared that everybody in these small towns knew everybody else‚Äôs business and succeeded in uncovering a trail that brought them at last to the temporary home of the Brundits. There, a little woman with five curling-pins stuck round her furrowed forehead gave them cheerless news. The ‚ÄúDinky Doos‚Äù were no more.
‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm sure I‚Äôm right sorry for them. Mr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝBrundit, too. Very nice people, and them with a little boy of their own,‚Äù said the bepinned landlady breathlessly. ‚ÄúOff he goes on Sunday, this chap that‚Äôs running it all, and the young woman that plays the piano for them going with him, and not a penny they‚Äôve had for weeks. And people in the town‚Äôs saying all sorts of things about them‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course you do want your money, don‚Äôt you, especially these days, when everything‚Äôs top price‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut as I say, and I‚Äôm as much out as anybody, I feel right sorry for them, and didn‚Äôt know where to look when they came and told me, and Mrs.¬ÝBrundit, such a dignified and ladylike person, not like some of them, crying the eyes out of her. And now they‚Äôve gone down to the station to see about something, and they told me they‚Äôd be all having a cup of tea and a bit of a meeting down at Mrs.¬ÝMounder‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the Station Refreshment Rooms, a tin place, just opposite‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that‚Äôs where you‚Äôre likely to find them, if you ask me.‚Äù
That is how they came to be at the Station Refreshment Rooms, entering them‚ÅÝ‚Äîor rather it‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor there was only one large public room in the hut‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the same time as a slender fair woman and her surprising companion, a short but sturdy man who looked like a workman of some kind or other. The four of them seemed to Inigo to make a very odd quartette indeed.
There were only six people in the tearoom, and they were all sitting together at the far end. Obviously these were the forlorn entertainers, though they did not sound very forlorn, for they all seemed to be talking at the top of their voices and laughing a great deal. Mr.¬ÝMitcham marched up the room to them, and he was followed by the fair woman who had just come out of the car. Inigo, for once unaccountably shy, hesitated, took off his knapsack, then stopped where he was. He turned to find that the little man who looked like a workman had also stopped. Their eyes met. Inigo raised his eyebrows and gave a little grin. The other replied with a wink.
‚ÄúAre these here,‚Äù he began, in a kind of hearty whisper, ‚Äúthe thingumjybobs‚ÅÝ‚Äîpier‚Äërots?‚Äù
“They are,” replied Inigo. “They call themselves the Dinky Doos.”
“Eh, they get some daft names!” Then he added ruminatively: “I know nowt about a Dinky Doo, but it seems to be a queer do all right. But it’s been nowt but a queer do all t’week wi’ me.”
Inigo was amused by his impressive tones and broad accent and earnest open face. “Oh, how’s that?” he asked.
‚ÄúIt began o‚Äô Monday night, when you were i‚Äô bed and fast asleep, lad‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúHalf a minute, my dear sir, half a minute! Let me tell you,‚Äù said Inigo, with mock solemnity, ‚ÄúI was not in bed and fast asleep on Monday night. I never saw a bed that night‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Ner more did I. Nobbut a sofa.”
“I was in the waiting-room of a Godforsaken place called Dullingham Junction, listening to my friend over there playing his banjo. What do you think about that?”
“I nivver knew there were so many folk wandering about. Once you’ve fairly set off, you come on ’em all over t’place. Do you know where I was o’ Monday night?”
“I give it up.”
‚ÄúOn a lorry wi‚Äô two o‚Äô t‚Äôbiggest rogues you ivver clapped eyes on, coming down t‚ÄôGreat North Road.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs blue eyes fairly shone with pride. This time he had a listener worthy of him.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the stuff, absolutely the stuff!‚Äù cried Inigo, beaming upon this droll little Yorkshireman, who was evidently a Romantic like himself. Then he looked down the room, to see Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham beckoning him with waves of his gigantic arm.
At that moment a voice came ringing from the centre of the group. ‚ÄúCome on, you two,‚Äù it cried. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be shy. Hurry up and join in.‚Äù It was a girl‚Äôs voice, casual but a trifle mocking. Inigo heard it with a curious little thrill of excitement that afterwards he was at great pains to explain. He has not forgotten it yet, and perhaps he never will. It came ringing‚ÅÝ‚Äîand up went a curtain.
‚ÄúNowt shy about yon lass,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWell, we‚Äôve come a fair way, we mun join in.‚Äù
And that will do very well for the last word now. It is the tag of the first higgledy-piggledy piece, with its glimpses of too familiar backgrounds, scenes that are undoubtedly set scenes, and of roads jogging invitingly out of them, with its scattered hints of discontent and rebellion and escape. Here they all are, our people, and for a little space we darken the stage that holds them, leaving them staring at one another.