I

“Shame isn’t the word for it, it isn’t really, Miss Trant,” cried Miss Elsie Longstaff indignantly. “I’ve been in work now since last April, five months and more, consecutive, and look at the position I’m in now⁠—having to get a sub from home! In work since last April, Miss Trant, and haven’t 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’ve had to put up with all through that dirty rotter! It’s wicked.”

“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?”

“Yes, thanks, I will.” Then, with a dramatic change of tone, Miss Longstaff went on: “He got us to sign on right through till next summer. It looked a good contract. What was the result? I’d a nice pantomime offer, came in early⁠—Dandini for seven weeks, opening at Middlesbrough⁠—and of course I went and turned it down⁠—flat. And now look at me!”

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?”

“Duds, complete and unutterable duds. He did monologues and child impersonations. You never heard anything like it. He never got a hand. Mr. Charles 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—Marjorie Maidstone, she called herself, after the jail, I suppose⁠—she was easily the world’s worst as a pianist. She daren’t have looked Little Nelly’s 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—oh, ghastly! If she ruined my act once, she ruined it fifty times. With a decent pianist, we shouldn’t know ourselves. And now, because they’ve gone and done the dirty on us, the show’s finished. Isn’t it sickening. It makes you lose heart.”

“But can’t you run it yourselves?” asked Miss Trant, who, in this new mood of hers, was dying to see somebody run something.

“Oh, we’ve talked and talked and talked, but it’s no good. We’ve no money not a bean. We’re four weeks owing as it is, and can’t settle for our digs here, most of us, let alone pay off for the show. They’ve taken all our props at the hall here, to pay the rent. It’s wicked. Just let me see Mr. Dirty Charles Mildenhall. Just let me set eyes on him again, and will there be trouble? Oh won’t there just! Child Impersonator! Can you beat it!” 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.

“Well, I don’t know⁠—” 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: “I wonder how much money it would take⁠—I mean paying all there is to pay already, and then carrying on.” 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’t it high time she was a fool? You can’t go on being cool and sensible all the time, forever.

Miss Longstaff leaned forward again and whispered: “Jimmy Nunn could tell you⁠—he’s been working it out, I know, because he’s tried hard to get somebody to back us. He’s our comedian⁠—that’s him, over there⁠—and he’s one of the best comedians going in Concert Party work⁠—clever, and keeps it clean⁠—and he’s stiff with experience, knows it all from A to Z. You have a talk to Jimmy about it, Miss Trant. I’ll bring him over.” 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. Jimmy 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. Jimmy 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. Nunn. 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.

“Not in the profession yourself, Miss Trant?” he inquired, closing one eye and staring hard with the other. “No? I thought not, though I used to know a Mrs. Trant on the Macnaghten Circuit. No, I’m wrong; I’m lying. It was Brant. Brant’s Merry Chicks⁠—juveniles, you know⁠—none of ’em over thirty. You’re not in management by any chance?”

“I’ve never managed anything except a house,” said Miss Trant.

“If you can do that as it ought to be done,” Mr. Nunn observed, with some solemnity, “and take it easy, keep smilin’, have a good word for one and all, then⁠—I say⁠—you couldn’t do better. Isn’t that so? Right.” He waved the whole matter aside. Then, lowering his voice a little, he went on: “You were asking something about the show, what we’re down the river for, what it would take to run it. Am I right?”

Miss Trant wanted to laugh, for though Mr. Nunn’s 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. “Well,” she faltered, “I was just⁠—wondering⁠—”

“Quite right!” said Mr. Nunn, and produced from his inside pocket a cheap and very soiled notebook. “I’ve got figures in this,” he announced proudly. “It’s here⁠—most of it anyhow⁠—in black-and-white.”

“That’s the stuff, Jimmy,” said Miss Longstaff brightly.

“Just you run away and play, Elsie,” Mr. Nunn 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.

“A good girl,” remarked Mr. Nunn; “looks well and not as afraid of work as some of ’em; but”⁠—and here he lowered his voice and leaned forward⁠—“can’t quite put it all over yet, hasn’t just got⁠—y’know⁠—”

Miss Trant nodded and really felt she did know. “I wish,” she said softly, “you would tell me about the people in this trou⁠—party⁠—show.” She almost felt herself blushing as she brought out this last word. It sounded so knowing and professional. “You’ve had a lot of experience, haven’t you, Mr. Nunn?”

“That’s 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’ll say this, as a show⁠—or what might be a show if it was pulled together now⁠—it’s good.” He found a cutting in the notebook and handed it over. “Here’s one of our adverts. They’re usually all lies, but this one’s the solid truth.”

The advertisement, which was from The Stage, ran as follows:

Wanted Known

Offers from 3 Sept, onward

The Dinky Doos

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. James, 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.

“Wrote that myself,” Mr. Nunn remarked, not without pride. “Always wrote the adverts for Mildenhall. Neat and effective, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I should think so. But tell me, what does ‘Wanted Known’ mean?” she inquired. “Why ‘Known’?”

“Oh, I always put that in. And, of course, ‘Known’⁠—well, you see⁠—it’s ‘Known’⁠—isn’t it, you see?”

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. Nunn glanced across, then shook his head. “Not one of us,” he whispered. “I’ve just been introduced to him. Name of Mitcham. A pro. Banjo-player.”

“I remember. He came in when I did, with that rather pleasant-looking, untidy youth with the lock of hair.”

“That is so,” said Mr. Nunn. “Not our lot at all, just visiting. But you see that other boy who’s talking to ’em, that nice-looking one?” 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. “That’s Jerry Jerningham, our light comedian and dancer,” Mr. Nunn continued. “And I don’t mind telling you, he’s a find. Works hard, got personality, puts it over all the time. You couldn’t want a better dancer. If he plays his cards properly, he’ll be up in the West End before long. They’ve only got to see him. The only thing is, he won’t feed. I never struck a worse feed.” And Mr. Nunn paused impressively.

Miss Trant stared. This seemed a curious complaint to make. “Do you mean that he won’t eat?”

Mr. Nunn leaned back, banged his thigh, and gave a sudden guffaw. Then he looked grave again. “Not at all. It doesn’t mean eating. Far as that goes, there’s only one member of this show that can’t eat, and that’s me. Got a wicked stomach⁠—oh, downright wicked!⁠—won’t look at a thing. Bacon, eggs, ham, chops, steak and chips, bit o’ pie⁠—anything you really fancy, y’know⁠—you wouldn’t believe what they are to me. Poison, that’s what they are. Give me a good supper,” he pursued earnestly, “and you might as well fill me up with red-hot pins and needles. I haven’t 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’ve got to be funny on that, got to make a lot o’ people laugh who are filled up with roast beef and Yorkshire and baked potatoes and greens and apple pie. Dear, dear, dear!”

He wagged his head so comically that Miss Trant had to laugh even while she was crying “What a shame!”

“But this feeding I’m talking about,” Mr. Nunn went on, “is 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.”

Yes, Miss Trant did know it.

“And I give you my word, Miss Trant, it’s not so easy as it looks, and a comedian’s got to have a good feeder. Now young Jerningham there hates it and so can’t feed for nuts. That’s good, isn’t it?⁠—can’t feed for nuts. And properly speaking, it’s his job to feed, but as luck will have it, Joe over there⁠—he’s our bariton, Courtney Brundit, but everybody calls him Joe⁠—is as good a feed as you could wish for.” He indicated a powerfully built man, with a broad and pleasantly stupid face, who was smoking a short pipe and staring at nothing. “I won’t say I’ve not heard better baritone singers than Joe. I’ve 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’d say, ‘Well, you can leave me out too.’ That’s how I feel about Joe. He’s not one of the brainy ones, Joe isn’t, and you’ll never hear him at Covent Garden, but he’s got a heart of gold. You can’t rile him, and he’ll do anything for a pal, Joe will. Easiest-tempered man I ever knew, and a good job too because he’s as strong as a horse. He was in the Navy one time and a heavyweight champion. If you ask me, that’s what started him off as a singer. If he wanted to sing, he sang, and nobody could tell him to shut up.” Mr. Nunn 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.

“That’s the one. Stella Cavendish she calls herself, but she’s Mrs. Joe Brundit. Big voice, a good classy rep, plenty of experience, and a real nice woman, though a bit inclined to put it on, y’know, now and again. Keeps Joe well in hand. But they’re a nice couple to work with. They’ve got a little boy named George⁠—lives with his aunt in Denmark Hill⁠—and you’d think there’d never been another kid in the world. But it’s hard on them, this bust-up, I can tell you.”

“And who is that young dark girl who’s got such a merry face? I like the look of her.” The girl in question was listening to Mr. Oakroyd, who appeared to be telling her all about his adventures.

“Ah, I was coming to her.” Mr. Nunn’s face brightened at once. “That’s Susie⁠—Miss Susie Dean⁠—our comeedeeyen and the baby of the show. I knew her father and mother⁠—both pros⁠—dead now. That little girl’s got it in her blood, absolutely born for it.”

“Do you mean that she’s very good?” asked Miss Trant, who was interested.

“Good! She’s a wonder. Mind you, she’s young, and I don’t say she’s nothing to learn, but she’s picking it up like greased lightnin’⁠—better every week. There’ll be no stopping Susie once she’s got a toe on the ladder. If we don’t see her name in electric lights in Shaftesbury Avenue before we’re ten years older, I’ll eat⁠—I’ll never touch another bottle of magnesia!”

“I’d like to see her on the stage,” said Miss Trant, glancing across at the piquant little dark face. “She looks interesting⁠—comical and clever. How old is she?”

“Twenty. And you can take it from me, my⁠—Miss Trant, I mean⁠—she is comical and clever. She’s all over this show. The way she can get laughs! You’ve only got to let her sniff an audience⁠—if it’s only six free passes in four rows of chairs⁠—and she’s bubbling over. A lot of comedians wouldn’t have stood for the way she gets laughs, I can tell you⁠—lot of jealousy in the profession, Miss Trant; it’s the curse of it⁠—but I don’t mind, bless her! Susie and me’s the best of pals.” 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.

“If this show had gone as it ought,” Mr. Nunn continued dejectedly, “she’d have had a big chance. Somebody’d have seen her and snapped her up. Now she’ll have to take what comes, and ten to one be jumped on because she’s too good for the bit of business they’ll tell her to do. She’s taken it well, best of the lot, Susie has, kept her spirits up all the time, but it’s rotten hard lines. And I’ll tell you this, Miss Trant,” he was very impressive now, “I blame myself for this.”

“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?”

“Ah, you see, it’s like this. As a rule a Concert Party works on a percentage basis. It gets⁠—we’ll say⁠—sixty 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’s a guarantee⁠—for thirty or forty pounds maybe⁠—which means⁠—”

“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.

“Right! Well, that’s fair enough, gives everybody a chance. But we don’t like renting places in the C.P. world, I can tell you, and that’s what I mean by rentals. You just pay out your money, and the people who’s running the hall or pavilion don’t care tuppence about your show so long as they get their money. This was a rental here in Rawsley⁠—and half of ’em 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’t just taken it for one week, he’d 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’t matter to him if it was twenty-five hundred pounds a week here⁠—he wasn’t going to pay it, and he knew it⁠—oh yes, he knew all right!” Mr. Nunn raised his voice. “They’ve got every prop we have, and there they stop till we can pay the fifty pounds, so we’ve said goodbye to ’em. We’ve not had a treasury for four weeks.”

“Yes, Miss Longstaff told me.”

“Mr. Jimmy Mug, that’s me! I could kick myself from here to the dirty Assembly Rooms and back every time I think of it.” He was very excited now. “A man of my experience! And seeing those dates too! I tell you, Miss What’s-it, I can’t look these boys and girls in the face. I give you my word I can’t.” He gave a groan.

“There’s Jimmy going on again,” said a voice.

“Now then, Jimmy, now then!” This was from Mr. Courtney Brundit, otherwise Joe, who now came lumbering across to them. “Don’t you take any notice of him, ma’am,” he said to Miss Trant, and he gave Mr. Nunn a tremendous slap on the back.

“Hoi!” cried Mr. Nunn “Steady, Joe, steady! You’ve got a hand like a sledgehammer. Miss⁠—er⁠—Trant, this is Mr. Brundit, Courtney on the stage, and Joe off.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Trant,” said Mr. Brundit, taking her hand in his huge fist and shaking it heartily. “Now don’t you let Jimmy start blaming himself,” he added in his slow good-humoured growl, “because it’s no more his fault than it’s my fault or anybody else’s fault.”

“That’s all right, Joe, but⁠—”

“But nothing, Jimmy! We can’t have a chap with a stomach like yours⁠—he’s got an awful bad stomach, Miss⁠—worst in the profession⁠—going and upsetting himself for nothing. Here, you people,” he roared, “we’re not blaming Jimmy, are we?”

“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.

“Good old Jimmy!” they all cried. Even Mr. Oakroyd who was not the man to be left out of anything so hearty and friendly, came in at the end with “Ay, good owd Jimmy!”

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. Mounder, who stood there, terribly compressed now in face and arms and body, all erect and folded up, but with a head trembling with indignation.

“I can’t do with yer,” Mrs. Mounder was crying. “Not another minute! Outside, everyone.”

“Now then, ma,” began Joe.

Mrs. Mounder glared at him. “One-and-fourpence and one-and-eightpence and two shillings, that’s 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!” And from the torrent of speech that followed, they were at liberty to gather that she never, never did, couldn’t keep a door open, couldn’t 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: “You too, Miss! I thought you was different, a lady, but seemingly you’re another of ’em.”

“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. Mounder 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. Mounder again, looking her straight in the eyes. Mrs. Mounder 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: “There’s one and fourpence and one-and-eightpence and two shillings altogether owing, though, upon my word, what with the hot water that’s been called for⁠—”

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. Mounder 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. Mounder 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 “Let’s go now, shall we?” And off she went to the door, to receive her change and to give Mrs. Mounder 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. “That was magnificent, absolutely,” he remarked. “But you paid for my tea, you know.”

“I was going to explain to everybody why I did that,” said Miss Trant. Then she hesitated.

“The gesture, of course, the gesture asked for it,” said Inigo sympathetically. “One-and-fourpence here, one-and-eightpence there⁠—no gesture! Pay for the lot⁠—take that and get out⁠—the only way to do it! As a matter of fact, I was thinking of that myself. But I haven’t the style, you know.”

Miss Trant⁠—who suddenly felt lighthearted, free, gay⁠—laughed. “This is my car. We’ll stop here and wait for the others. The point is, though,” she went on hastily, “I’ve suddenly decided to⁠—to run this troupe⁠—I mean concert party. That horrid woman decided me.”

“Splendid, absolutely!” cried Inigo enthusiastically. “I was only wishing I could do it. But I’ve only got forty pounds to spare. I’ve told them, though, I was ready to join up⁠—just for a lark, you know. I’ve 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.”

“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?”

“Why, what’s the idea, Jollifant?” This was from Mr. Morton Mitcham.

“The idea is, I want everybody to have supper or dinner or whatever they decide to call it, with me tonight,” Inigo explained. “You see⁠—” And he glanced at Miss Trant.

“The fact is,” said Miss Trant, rather shy again now, “I’m rather thinking of⁠—of running⁠—the⁠—the show. That is, if you’ll let me,” 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.

“What about that hotel in the marketplace, Jimmy?” asked Mr. Brundit. “They’d do it. Might be a bit dearish, though.”

“Never mind about that,” cried Inigo, who guessed that his own ideas of expense might be different from the homely Mr. Brundit’s. “What is the place? Would it do?” He turned to Mr. Nunn.

“You mean The Royal Standard, don’t you, Joe?” said Mr. Nunn. “Yes, they’d do it all right. Good room upstairs too, they tell me. Though if there’s a man on this earth who’d make a worse show at a supper or dinner or anything where there’s real eating than me, I’d like to meet him. You know, it’s all poison to me, Mr. What’s-it,” 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. Morton 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’s 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.”

“Oh, Mr. Oakroyd!” cried Miss Trant, who had forgotten all about him. “Where are you going?”

“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?”

“Of course you mustn’t go, Mr. Oakroyd. You don’t want to go, do you?”

“Well”⁠—Mr. Oakroyd rubbed his chin reflectively⁠—“I don’t say I’ve owt on, as you might say. But I’m nobbut i’ t’road here. You can’t do wi’ me.”

“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?”

“I’m sure I don’t know really,” began Miss Longstaff, who was not interested in Mr. Oakroyd 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.”

“Hurry up and get in, Mr. Oakroyd, if you can find room,” Miss Trant commanded, and without another word Mr. Oakroyd 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.

“Yond’s a caution,” Mr. Oakroyd told himself. Then he looked at Rawsley with the air of a man who has seen many other and better places.

II

At half past seven that night, all our friends were assembled in the upstairs dining-room of The Royal Standard⁠—with one exception. Miss Trant was not there. The Misses Dean and Longstaff, on being questioned, said they did not know why she was late. They had found very nice rooms for her next door but one to their own, and had left her there. She had, however, said something about a bath⁠—“and you know what that means in these digs, my dear.” Their various dears did know what it meant, and were relieved. “Though it wouldn’t surprise me if something had happened to her, taken ill or lost her memory or all her money or something, right at the very crucial moment. That’s the sort of thing that would happen, my dear.” This was the dark verdict of Miss Stella Cavendish, otherwise Mrs. Joe Brundit, who was looking very festive and important and uncomfortable in her cerise, a dress that was rather too small for her now but had done good service some years ago during a season in “stock,” when she had played the Duchess of Dorking and other great-lady parts, all with a song in the third act. But if Mrs. Joe, who had no illusions about the profession and was a great authority upon its ups-and-downs, especially the downs, was ready to be pessimistic about the nonappearance of their possible saviour, Miss Trant, this does not mean that she was out of tune with the festive evening. The Duchess of Dorking herself could not have surveyed and approved of the arrangements in better style. She hastened to congratulate her host, Mr. Jollifant: “Everything very nice, very tasteful, I’m sure,” was her verdict.

“Mrs. Tidby⁠—she’s the proprietor⁠—said the notice was too short,” replied Inigo, “but that she’d do her best. And, she said, although she was not the one to say it, nobody in this town could do better. And she insisted upon telling me all about the annual dinner of the Rawsley and West Something-or-other Horticultural Society, which has been held here since 1898. So there!”

“All very nice, very tasteful,” repeated Mrs. Joe, with bland complacency, casting her eye over the table, laid for ten. “Though nobody knows better than I do,” she continued archly, “that so much depends on the orderer in these affairs. Get a good orderer and what happens? Everything tasteful, nothing tawdry. How many can you trust to order? Now there’s Mr. Brundit⁠—Joe⁠—he couldn’t order, not to be satisfactory. He hasn’t the manner. Joe’s as gentle as a lamb and as strong as a lion, but he hasn’t the manner. They’d say in a minute. ‘Anything’ll do for him.’ They know, these people, Mr. Jollifant. Now you’re a gentleman. What does that mean? It means that it comes to you naturally, you’re a born orderer.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Inigo protested, being the last person in the world to have any aristocratic pretensions. “I don’t know that you can say that⁠—”

“I do,” said Mrs. Joe firmly, holding up her hand. “And when you’ve been as many years in the profession as I have, you’ll know. I can tell it in a minute. I said to myself as soon as I met you: ‘He’s untidy; he may not have much money; he’s ready for his little joke with everybody; but⁠—he’s a gentleman.’ Oxford or Cambridge or Harrow, Mr. Jollifant?”

“Cambridge,” said Inigo, staring.

“I knew. ‘One of them,’ I said to myself.” She was very triumphant. “There’s a Stamp. I’ve thought about it for George⁠—that’s our boy, you know. I said from the first, if that boy’s bright⁠—and you couldn’t want a brighter⁠—and if things will allow, he goes to one of those places. I don’t care, I’ve told Joe more than once, whether it’s Cambridge College or Oxford College⁠—I’m not one of your silly boat-race people⁠—but to one of them, things allowing, he goes.”

“Jolly good!” said Inigo heartily if a trifle absentmindedly, for he was wondering when Miss Trant would come.

“And no stage. I’ve made up my mind about that. Joe says it would be nice to have him with us, and nobody knows that better than a mother, but what I say every time is that George must have his chance at something gentlemanly⁠—a bank or estate agency. Concert singing I would not object to, but that depends on the Voice. So far, George has given no signs of having a Voice. If it comes, well and good. But no stage.”

“You’re frightening me, Mrs. Brundit,” said Inigo, smiling. “Don’t forget I’m apparently just about to join the profession myself.”

“Ah, that’s your fun, Mr. Jollifant, I know,” replied Mrs. Joe, turning her head a little to one side and raising her eyebrows. “Just a little experience for you, that’s all. I believe you’re a real musician.”

“I’m not,” said Inigo, laughing. “Anything but that. I’m just a piano-pounder. Writing’s the only thing I’m really interested in.”

“Writing? You have the look of an author too. Now if only I’d had the time, the things I could have written! The experience I have had, but never the time. What is it, Joe?” she inquired, for that gentleman was now standing at her elbow.

“It’s quarter to eight, that’s what it is,” said Joe rather gloomily. “And Miss Trant’s not here yet. I suppose she wasn’t having a game with us, was she?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do a thing like that, Joe,” cried his wife. “You could see at a glance she wasn’t that sort. What I’m wondering is whether anything’s happened to her. What if she lost her memory or was run over! Just when it seemed all right!”

“It’d be just our luck, Mag,” said Joe, his face falling. They exchanged hollow stares, and for a moment or so Miss Stella Cavendish lost all resemblance to the Duchess of Dorking; she seemed to droop, to sag; she looked a tired woman who remembered she had a boy to support and that he was far away on Denmark Hill, that they had no money and some debts, that jobs were few and getting scarcer; a woman who had said goodbye to the easy elasticity of youth. Joe coughed. “It’ll turn out all right, you’ll see,” he began gently.

Inigo turned away, for this was no place for him. He wandered round the room, keeping one eye on the door through which Miss Trant should enter at any moment. And all his other guests were keeping an eye on that door and were beginning to look anxious, though they kept up a little buzz of talk and pretended they did not care. Mr. Jimmy Nunn had cornered the old waiter in order to tell him that the whole dinner would be regarded by Mr. Nunn’s digestive apparatus as poison and nothing less, and now he had Mrs. Tidby (who had a sister who was just the same) in his audience, and appeared to be presenting the two of them with a little act in which he took the part of a too sensitive and suspicious stomach. But even he watched the door all the time. Mr. Jerry Jerningham and Mr. Oakroyd, who had discovered that they could not talk to one another, looked about them and grinned rather vaguely, but kept most of their glances for the door. Mr. Morton Mitcham, who had unearthed a larger tie and an almost clean collar for the occasion, was playing Othello to the combined Desdemona of Miss Longstaff and Miss Dean, but when Inigo approached he broke off to ask the time. “Eight o’clock, is it?” he cried. “Well, well! I just wondered, you know.” His eye went round to that door, and then hastily retreated. “Well, as I was saying, Miss Longstaff, Miss Dean, I only once played Jo’burg in a thunderstorm, a real thunderstorm⁠—”

Inigo began to feel anxious himself now. Suppose Miss Trant really didn’t turn up! What a horrible fiasco this supper⁠—as all the players called it⁠—would be with the show still in ruins, all their hopes scattered again! He went down the stairs, looked in several of the rooms there, then stood at the entrance for a minute or two, glancing up and down the square. When he returned he found the old waiter at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re still one short,” he explained. “Look here, couldn’t you take some cocktails⁠—gin and Italian or sherry and bitters or something⁠—upstairs to those people, and ask them to help themselves.” He had a cocktail himself at the bar, and no sooner had he swallowed it than he noticed a figure, an irresolute, hesitating figure, at the entrance. He rushed forward. It was Miss Trant.

“Come along, Miss Trant,” he roared. “We’re all waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, still hesitating.

He stared curiously at her. What was the matter? “You know,” he went on, in a lower voice, “those people upstairs⁠—the poor old Dinky Doos⁠—had begun to think you weren’t turning up, and they were feeling sick about it. They didn’t say anything, which I thought jolly decent of them, but they were beginning to look a bit greenish, absolutely. You can’t blame ’em, can you?”

“No, of course not,” said Miss Trant. “And I’m sorry I’ve been so long. I⁠—er⁠—had to wait ages for a bath.”

“Oh, I knew you’d come all right,” said Inigo. His tone was cheerfully offhand, but he shot another curious glance at her as she came forward. “Baths, of course⁠—well, that’s asking for difficulties, isn’t it?” he babbled, leading her to the stairs. “The old Rawsleyans have not yet quite grasped the idea of a bath yet. A panful⁠—yes! Two panfuls⁠—possible! But a bath, involving the contents of more than two pans or five kettles and the subsequent immersion of the human body⁠—”

She stopped him at the foot of the stairs. “Listen, Mr. Jollifant. I feel I must tell somebody, and I think you’d understand. It’s all very silly, of course⁠—” she hesitated.

“Go on, Miss Trant,” he said. “You must tell me now. As for it’s being silly⁠—well, we’re all a bit silly, aren’t we? I know I’m ridiculous, absolutely.”

“I could have got here earlier,” she began hastily, “only I suddenly discovered I wanted to⁠—to run away. When I found myself alone again, I wondered why I had said I would go into this business. I don’t know anything about it. I have some money, but not much really. And then it’s all so different from the kind of life I have known. And when I thought about all this, I began to feel a bit sick about it and wanted to run away, to go back to my own kind of life, you know, to ordinary comfortable things⁠—”

“Know! I should say I do,” cried Inigo softly. “You get a crawly feeling somewhere at the bottom of your stomach, don’t you?⁠—you feel all cold and hollow inside⁠—and then you curse yourself for having let yourself in for the thing⁠—”

“That’s it, exactly,” she replied, eagerly. “But surely you haven’t felt like that?”

“Of course I have. This very night, for that matter! I feel like that whenever I try anything new, but I say⁠—Down with it! You’d never do anything if you took any notice of that, would you? I mean, all this is as strange and absurd and unreal to me as it is to you, really, but I don’t care.”

“It’s much worse, I think, for a woman. A young man can do anything for a time, it doesn’t much matter⁠—”

“And so can a woman, within reasonable limits. And this is well within ’em, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” she replied. “And if it is silly, I don’t really mind. It’s time I did something really silly. It’s terrible being quiet and sensible all your life, isn’t it?”

“Rather!” said Inigo, who had never tried it. “And I’m awfully glad you didn’t run away, you know.”

“And so am I. It was only a bit of me that wanted to, and it would have been mean and cowardly, you know, and I can’t help thinking if I had gone, if I had sneaked back home⁠—and I nearly did⁠—I should have hated myself afterwards.” They were climbing the stairs now. “I’m glad you understand, Mr. Jollifant.” She drew a long breath, shook herself a little, then laughed. “I feel better now. Thank you.”

“So do I, so don’t thank me. And I’ll do anything I can to help. I know nothing about this business, and I’m practically half-witted, except at times on paper⁠—but there!”

They exchanged smiles at the top of the stairs, the smiles of two compatriots in a far and fantastic country. They were friends.

Inigo threw open the dining-room door. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he roared. “Miss Trant.”

A stir, a quick sigh, a buzz of welcome, and a clapping of hands; and she stood for a moment or two in the doorway, looking at them all, half-embarrassed, half delighted, no longer that familiar and only-to-be-expected figure, Miss Elizabeth Trant, who had stayed at the Old Hall so long that her youth had slipped by and all her bright looks been dimmed, but a mysterious Miss Trant who had popped up, come from nowhere, to save the show, and whose entrance lit up the room just as it lit up her face. As she stood there, she felt for a moment that she was a vivid and rather delightful person, one that even a busy Scots doctor might remember with pleasure. It was a moment well worth the whole six hundred pounds that had fallen to her last week out of the blue.

“And if you’ll allow me to say so, Miss Trant,” said Mrs. Joe, otherwise Miss Stella Cavendish, sweeping forward impressively, “as pretty an entrance as one could wish for. It takes me back in a flash,” she told the company, “to the big scene in The Rose of Belgravia.”

“Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen.” Inigo called out.

“Now where are we going to sit, Jollifant?” asked Mr. Morton Mitcham in his most dignified manner. “Quite like old times, Mrs. Brundit.”

“I should say so,” cried Miss Susie Dean. “The good old times when we all played the baby in East Lynne⁠—perhaps. Well, I’m going to sit next to Mr. Oakroyd, because he’s shy. Aren’t ta, lad?”

“Noan too shy to gi’ thee a bit of a slap, lass, if tha doesn’t behave thysen,” replied the delighted Mr. Oakroyd in his broadest accent. “Yond’s a coughdrop,” he announced to the room at large, and took his place beside her.

We have never heard that The Royal Standard in Rawsley is famous for its dinners, and as Mrs. Tidby herself pointed out more than once during the evening, the notice was short, so that it would be absurd to pretend that the dinner Inigo gave that night was an exquisite and memorable repast. Nevertheless, it seemed so to the whole ten of them. There were special reasons why it should. Miss Trant enjoyed it without noticing what she was eating, not because she was not interested in food but simply because she was still excited about herself and everybody else. Inigo enjoyed it both as a meal (for his interior still remembered Washbury Manor School) and as a lark that would inevitably beget other and wilder larks. Mr. Oakroyd was rather overawed and dubious at first; there were too many knives and forks for his peace of mind; but the company of lively Miss Susie and the sight of a large glass of beer helped to reassure him, and soon he happily stared and grinned and ate like one who had suddenly found an appetite in fairyland. As for Mr. Morton Mitcham and the other players, they enjoyed it because it was a splendid novelty, eating at that hour, and something of a novelty, perhaps, eating at all, certainly eating steadily through four generous courses. Miss Susie Dean, who confessed that she had been living entirely on tea and bread-and-butter and brawn and apples for the past week, declared she had forgotten there was so much food in the world, and was promptly asked not to be vulgar by her colleague, Miss Longstaff, who was so determined to be ladylike that she carefully left a little of each course at the side of her plate, which was otherwise clean enough. Mr. Jerningham contrived to wear an expression of faint boredom throughout the dinner, but dispatched it like an elegant wolf. Mr. Joe Brundit, who joined Mr. Oakroyd in his preference for a large glass of beer, demanded so many pieces of bread that he became an important figure in the waiter’s reminiscences. But it was Mrs. Joe and Mr. Morton Mitcham who succeeded best in giving the dinner the air of being a prodigal feast. With them there seemed to be not four courses but fifty. The tomato soup, the mysterious little pieces of white fish, the boiled mutton, the blackberry and apple tart, were transformed by their histrionic gusto into a banquet of Lucullus, and they seemed to nod and smile at one another over the ruins of garnished peacocks’ and nightingales’ tongues. To see Mr. Mitcham fill Mrs. Joe’s glass and then his own from the solitary bottle of Beaune was to catch a glimpse of the old mad bad days of the fine ladies and gentlemen who lived careless of the morrow, though the very tumbrils were rattling down the street. When they raised their glasses, the least you saw was a Viceroy or Governor-General of the old school and the Duchess of Dorking. It was a fine performance.

Even Mr. Jimmy Nunn contrived to enjoy the dinner in his own way. It was not the soup and fish and toast, to which he restricted himself, that he enjoyed, but his abstinence. As he groaned “Can’t look at ’em⁠—poison to me!,” he did not seem to be refusing a little mutton and tart, but a gigantic host of dishes; waving away the very fat of the land. He referred to his stomach as if it were a haughty and eccentric guest he had brought with him. He crumbled his toast and sipped his whisky and soda (“Can’t touch wine or beer”) with a melancholy pride. He found time, however, to talk business with Miss Trant, who explained briefly and rather nervously her complete ignorance and comparative poverty.

“If you’ve two or three hundred you’re ready to play with,” said Mr. Nunn, “that’ll be more than enough. With any luck, you’ll have it back in no time, and after that the profit begins, and you just lean back and count the boodle. I don’t mind telling you, Miss Trant, if I’d half that, I’d be running the show myself. I wouldn’t be sticking to the show if I didn’t believe in it. I’m not like most of these boys and girls here. I could get another engagement⁠—as good as this, if not better⁠—tomorrow, ’cos I’m an old hand and well known in the profession. Matter of fact, I was getting twice their money, and might have got more if I’d stuck out for it. What are you people eating now? Blackberry pie? My word, you don’t know your luck. I’ve nearly forgotten the taste of it.” He sighed hugely.

“You’re not missing so much, Mr. Nunn,” Miss Trant whispered. “It’s not very nice. The crust’s too thick and stodgy.”

“It looks like Heaven to me,” he lamented. “But as I was saying, I believe in the show. We all do, and if we’d had the money, we’d have wanted nothing better than to have gone on ourselves, running it on a profit-sharing basis. You see what I mean?”

“Yes, of course I do,” she exclaimed. “I’m not quite so ignorant as that, you know.”

“Sorry, sorry! No offence meant, Miss Trant.”

“And none taken! Isn’t that the phrase?” She laughed, then added, lowering her voice: “As it is, I have to pay the company’s debts⁠—”

“You’re not forced to,” he put in. “You’re not responsible for ’em. But it ’ud be better if you did. And then we could get all the props back, too.”

“Certainly. Well, I pay them, and the salaries, of course, and I suppose the expenses.” She was very businesslike now, and was enjoying it.

“Yes, any expenses that crop up connected with the show,” he replied, “such as railway fares, baggage fees, and all that, and anything that’s wanted for production numbers, special costumes and effects, you know. But not costumes for individual numbers. We get them ourselves.”

“And if there’s any profit, it belongs to me?”

He groaned. “That is so, but don’t put it like that, Miss Trant. Spare a poor man who’s had nothing but toast and mush and a bit of a fish he’s never heard of. Don’t think we’re going to lose money for the rest of our lives. You make me feel like a Jonah. Put it this way. You take all the profits.”

“That does sound better, doesn’t it? And of course I should like a lot of profit, heaps and heaps of money, but somehow I can’t believe there will be much.”

He looked very solemn and thoughtful, screwing up his face until it seemed all shining nose and upper lip. It was absurd that he should look like that and yet talk business so sensibly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he announced at last. “I was getting ten a week⁠—I’ll show you my agreement with Mildenhall tomorrow morning⁠—”

“No, no,” cried Miss Trant. “I don’t want to see it. Go on, please.”

“Now, if you want me to, I’ll produce for you. I’m sure none of the boys and girls would object to that. I know the business all through.”

“You mean that you would rehearse everything and be responsible for the programmes? That would be splendid, Mr. Nunn. Just what I wanted! Thank you.”

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Trant,” he said solemnly. “And not only will I produce for you⁠—and it means a lot of extra work⁠—but I’ll drop two pounds a week, making it eight. No, listen. Instead of that two pounds, I’ll take fifteen percent of your net profits. Now I’ve worked that out somewhere”⁠—he brought out his notebook⁠—“and you’ll see it means⁠—yes, here you are⁠—it means that I’m not making up that two pounds unless you’re making over thirteen a week net profit. Mind you, I’ll tell you this⁠—you won’t make it at first. Don’t expect it. We’ve got to pull the show together, and then again this is between seasons. Summer’s over and it isn’t winter. And another thing, we haven’t got our dates right yet. We can’t take Mildenhall’s dates, at least not all of ’em, ’cos they’re terrible. But that’ll tell you whether I believe in the show or not.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Miss Trant warmly. “And I’m only too glad to accept that arrangement of yours. One thing I want to change, by the way, and that’s the name. I don’t like it, and besides I think we ought to start all over again.”

“Not a bad name, you know,” he replied thoughtfully. “And it’s known. But that’s up to you. We can easily find another, and, as you say, make a fresh start. That might put more heart into the boys and girls. Very superstitious, us pros, Miss Trant, and all sorts of little things bother us. Oh, and there’s another thing. What about taking on these two new fellows? I’ve had a talk to ’em, and I advise it myself, but it’s your business now, you know; you’re the boss and you have ’em to pay.”

“Mr. Jollifant we want, certainly,” said the boss, flushing a little, “that is, if he’s a good pianist. And I should think he is,” she added, hopefully.

“Heard him before we came on here,” said Mr. Nunn, “and he’s first-class. He makes the last one we had seem like a piano-tuner in a fit. He’s an amateur, but he’s got real style. That other chap, Mitcham, swears by him, and he’s got a lot of experience. I’ve heard of him before.”

“He’s a very queer-looking man,” she said, dropping her voice. “He looks like somebody very grand and important who’s all gone to seed.”

Mr. Nunn shut one eye and curved a hand round his mouth. “One of the best banjoists in the profession, and a good conjurer,” he whispered. “And one of the biggest liars. Wonderful! You have a talk to him. I don’t say he hasn’t seen a lot in his time, but to hear him talk you’d think he was the Wandering Jew’s older brother. He’s worth taking on just as a liar. Apart from that, though, he’ll be worth his money all right. The conjuring’ll come in as an extra, and he’s just what we want for the band. We run a sort of little jazz band, you know, in the show, and a banjoist’ll just make it up. I play the drums, and for a man who’s forgotten what a square meal’s like, I can rattle ’em a bit, I don’t mind telling you.” And he picked up a knife and fork and gave a little ratta-tat-tat on a plate. “Must use a knife and fork sometime, eh?” he observed, at the end of the performance.

Perhaps the company thought it a signal for silence, or perhaps it was merely because the dinner was finished, but everybody stopped talking and looked rather expectantly towards Miss Trant and Mr. Nunn.

“Shall I talk to ’em?” asked Mr. Nunn.

“Yes, do,” she replied. “But you ought to ask Mr. Jollifant. After all, he’s the host. Do you mind, Mr. Jollifant,” she said, turning to him, “if Mr. Nunn explains now what we’re going to do?”

“That’s the idea of the thing,” cried Inigo. “To have a feed and then a grand powwow of the great chiefs. The idea, absolutely! Say on, Master Nunn.”

That gentleman rose to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

“Give him a hand,” cried Miss Dean, who was in high spirits. And they gave him a hand, and so enthusiastically that the waiter who was trying, though not trying very hard, to remove the crumbs from the table, was so startled that he retired precipitately. “And not so much of the ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Jimmy!” his friend Joe called out, to the disgust of Mrs. Joe, who was sitting erect, with her head a little to one side, her eyebrows well raised and her lips pursed up, as if all Dorking was looking at its Duchess.

“Boys and girls,” said Mr. Nunn, “I’m not going to say much. You’ve had a good dinner; I haven’t; and you ought to do the talking. I only want to say that Miss Trant here, as you know, is going to run the show⁠—”

Applause for Miss Trant, in which the speaker himself joins heartily. The lady smiles confusedly, blushes, and for a moment or two wishes herself back at Hitherton.

“And we’re going to turn it into the best little Concert Party on the road today,” Jimmy continued. “We’re lucky to have Miss Trant behind us. I think you’ll think with me that Miss Trant’ll think⁠—half a minute, I’m getting too many ‘thinks’ in here, can’t move for ’em. What I mean is, I hope Miss Trant will think soon she’s been lucky too, to come across such a show.” Cries of “Hear, hear!” and more applause. “You’ll all be glad to know that we’re completing the party at once. Mr. Morton Mitcham is joining us, and Mr. Mitcham, both on the banjo and with the cards, is an artiste of great talent and long and wide and⁠—er⁠—thick experience⁠—”

“Four times round the world,” that gentleman puts in, taking care to say it so that everybody will hear and yet contriving to appear as if he has merely spoken his thought aloud.

“Four times round the world,” Mr. Nunn repeats with a certain droll emphasis, “having played in Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australia, and the Isle o’ Man. Am I right, sir?” Laughter and more applause. “Also the place of the late pianist⁠—”

“A nasty fumbler if there ever was one,” remarks Mrs. Joe with great bitterness.

“Will be taken by Mr. Inigo Jollifant, who is new to the profession but is a first-class pianist as those of you who have heard him will testify. I ask you to remember too, boys and girls, that this is Mr. Jollifant’s supper, though, as far as I’m concerned, there hasn’t been a supper. But you’ve all had one, and a good one.”

More laughter and still more applause. Mr. Jollifant bows his acknowledgements, and seeing a welcoming smile on the face of Miss Susie Dean, he directs at her a specially companionable grin, only to discover that it is received with a haughty and disdainful stare. When he looks again he finds Miss Dean is pointedly drooping an eyelid at Miss Elsie Longstaff, and he comes to the conclusion that he has just been guyed by this dark and lively young lady.

Mr. Nunn has stopped, to confer in whispers with Miss Trant, who nods her head rapidly. The table is all attention.

“Look here, what about⁠—” begins Mr. Jerry Jerningham, but he gets no further, being fiercely requested by several of his colleagues to “shush.”

“Now then,” remarks Mr. Nunn, “there’s just one or two points. As you boys and girls know, there’s no reason why Miss Trant should pay any salaries at all until we start working again. But”⁠—here Mr. Nunn takes a deep breath, and everybody looks relieved⁠—“but she says she is willing to pay two weeks’ money to all the old members of the party, that is, everybody but the two who’ve just joined. That means we’re being paid for this week and last. And there’ll be no cutting. Salaries the same as before.” Here Mr. Nunn, who is too old a hand not to know when applause is coming, stops speaking. He is not disappointed.

There is, however, a dissentient. It is Mr. Jerry Jerningham, who now raises his beautiful head to voice a protest. “Look hare, Jaymy, thet’s all raight about the two weeks’ meney. Quaite generous, and all thet.” (Here we must break in to say that though there is no more graceful and exquisite young man in the Midlands than Mr. Jerningham, his accent, a comparatively recent acquisition, unfortunately demands this kind of spelling. It is one thing to look at Mr. Jerningham, and quite another thing to listen to him. The thousands who have crowded in from Shaftesbury Avenue since then to see Jerry Jerningham will not recognize this accent, for the simple reason that he afterwards dropped it and then picked up another during his successful season on Broadway. Even the one we are trying to capture now was the third accent he had had since he quitted, at the age of seventeen, the outfitter’s shop in Birmingham.) “But Ai cawn’t agree to the same selery. Ai told Mildenhall Ai wasn’t getting enough, considering the way mai ect was going, and he agreed⁠—”

“Yes, you idiot,” Miss Susie cries heatedly. “He’d agree to anything, considering-thet-he-wasn’t-going-to-pay-you-anything-et-all. Fancy bringing that up! You’re acting like a measly little Sheeny, Jerry Jerningham.”

“Just maind your own business, Susie,” he replies. “Nobody esked you to bett in. Ai’m talking to Miss Trarnt and Jaymy.”

And neither Miss Trant nor Jimmy is looking with any great favour upon him. Both of them, indeed, are annoyed, and Miss Trant is quite ready to tell the beautiful youth that if he is not satisfied he can go. She glances with approval at the outspoken Susie. Jimmy is purpler than usual and might have been heard, a moment ago, muttering “Little blighter,” but after a swift whispered aside to Miss Trant⁠—“He’s good, you know. Must try and keep him”⁠—he now adopts a conciliatory attitude. Jerry has said that he is worth more than he is getting. All the boys and girls know that. They know that Jerry has been putting it across in great style, and will put it across in even greater style very soon. But the boys and girls will agree with him, Jimmy Nunn, that in times like these an artiste cannot get what he is worth and is sometimes lucky to get anything at all. Things being what they were, Jerry must keep on at the old rate, like the rest of them. If Jerry’s big chance came he could take it. Miss Trant was not going to bind any of them down. She was playing fair with them, and they would play fair with her. To all this the boys and girls gave a hearty assent, and Mr. Jerningham, whose chief desire had been to call attention to his own importance, gracefully signified that he would condescend to join them at the same salary as before.

“What’s the programme then now, Jimmy?” Mr. Brundit calls out, in a voice that reminds everybody once again that many-brave-hearts-are-asleep-in-the-deep-so-beware. “Got to start again, haven’t we?”

“I’m coming to that now, Joseph,” Mr. Nunn informs him. “First thing, then⁠—rehearsals. We’ve got to rehearse as if we’d never seen one another. Isn’t that so? Well, what I propose is this⁠—and, by the way, I ought to have said that Miss Trant wants me to produce for her and be the general big noise until she’s got her hand in⁠—we stop here and rehearse.”

There are groans from the boys and girls, who have had quite enough of Rawsley. “A place,” Mrs. Joe observes, “that would take the blood out of a stone.”

“That’s all right. I know how you feel about it,” Jimmy continues, “and I’m all for the first train out myself. But one thing you’ve got to remember. We can’t have a Treasury tomorrow⁠—a little sub might be managed, that’s all⁠—because Miss Trant’s got to have time to get her money through. It’ll be Saturday or Monday before the ghost walks. And we’ll have to settle up before we go. The other thing is, we’ve got the use of the hall this week and can rehearse there, and might get the use of it in the mornings and afternoons for a pound or two or for nothing if we stick out for it when we pay up, for part of next week. The date for next week’s already cancelled. We could get a two- or three-night stand between here and Sandy bay, where we’re going the week after, and try out the new show then. How’s that? Oh, and another thing! We’re going to change the name. Miss Trant doesn’t like the one we’ve got and anyhow we ought to start afresh with another one⁠—change the luck, y’know. Now, any ideas for a new name?”

Several of them suggest names, all of which, it is triumphantly proved, have been used before “for ages, my dear, simply ages.” Mr. Joe Brundit (it is impossible to call him Courtney at such a moment) quite solemnly proposes they should call themselves “The Mugs”⁠—he calls this “catchy”⁠—but is at once howled down. His wife brings out “The Duennas,” admits that she has forgotten what a Duenna is, but points out that it has a fine operatic flavour. Summarily rejected. Mr. Morton Mitcham is heard remarking that “The Wallahs,” the name of a troupe he coached at either Simla or Bangalore in Nought Five, might be revived. His suggestion not meeting with approval, he rises⁠—looking, as Miss Dean observes, as if he is never going to stop⁠—and after clearing his throat in a very impressive manner and lowering his gigantic eyebrows at those persons who are still talking, he says: “Miss Trant, ladies and gentlemen. While we are cudgelling our brains to find a suitable name for the show, I propose⁠—as I have proposed on many occasians in many different parts of the world before today⁠—that we should⁠—er⁠—exhibit our appreciation, that is, display our grateful thanks, to our host, my friend, and your new colleague, Mr. Inigo Jollifant. Mr. Jollifant and I have already had some⁠—er interesting experiences together, have gone through bad times and good times. We met⁠—er⁠—in extraordinary circumstances⁠—as Mr. Jollifant will remember.” He paused, and everybody stared at Inigo, who began to feel that he and Mitcham must really have wandered across whole continents together. There was something compelling about Mitcham’s epical imagination. “And on that occasion, after a very short acquaintance, I told him he was a trouper, a good trouper. Those of you who are not⁠—er⁠—familiar with the Transatlantic Stage may not know the term. It is one, I may say, of the highest praise. I knew then that our friend, Mr. Jollifant, was a good trouper. He has proved to all of you, ladies and gentlemen, tonight that he is a good trouper. And I propose that we all show our appreciation. Mr. Jollifant!”

And they all do show their appreciation. Mr. Jollifant is called upon to reply. He grins, thrusts back his lock of hair, grins again, and puts back the lock in its usual place. It is, he stammers, awfully good of everybody. He is overwhelmed, absolutely. He is not sure what a trouper is. His knowledge of America is very small and is chiefly derived from a study of Huckleberry Finn.

Here he is interrupted by no less a person than Miss Trant, with whom Huckleberry Finn is a very old favourite indeed, and who now boldly claps her hands and cries “Isn’t it glorious?”

“Isn’t it!” Inigo replies, and looks for a moment as if he is about to sit down and spend the next half-hour talking to Miss Trant about that masterpiece. Then he remembers he is making a speech. “As I said before, I’m not very sure what a trouper is, except that he or she is one who⁠—er⁠—troupes. Therefore, I don’t exactly know what constitutes a good trouper. But if it means being a good companion, or trying to be a good companion, then I’m proud to be called one, absolutely. Somehow”⁠—he was in earnest now, saying for once something that was very real and important, felt in the heart, and not being, in spite of all his easy chatter, one of that rapidly increasing horde of glib self-confessors, he could only stammer it out⁠—“somehow⁠—there isn’t too much⁠—er⁠—good companionship left⁠—is there? I mean⁠—people don’t sort off⁠—pull together now much, do they? Everybody’s⁠—well, not everybody, but a lot of people⁠—are out for a good time⁠—and that’s all right, of course; I’m all for it; the more the merrier, so to speak⁠—but it’s nearly always their own good time and nobody else’s they’re out after, isn’t it? An awful lot of hard nuts about now, somehow⁠—and only soft in the wrong places. Well, of course, I’m not any better than anybody else, bit worse, I dare say, but I’d like one or two people to say I was a good companion. That’s one of the things that’s attracted me about this what’s it⁠—concert party; a good crowd sticking together. That’s where the fun really comes in, isn’t it? Look here. I’m making an awful mess of this, y’know. I can gas but I can’t really talk⁠—but”⁠—he ends with a sudden burst⁠—“I could write it, and I will do before long. Thanks very much.”

“Listen, everybody,” Miss Trant calls out at once. “Mr. Jollifant has given me the name. I’m sure it’s never been used before. We’ll call ourselves ‘The Good Companions.’ What do you think of that?” She is very excited now.

The Good Companions. They are all turning it over and over tasting it.

Inigo approves of it at once and with enthusiasm.

“I like it too,” cries Miss Susie Dean. “It’s original, and it does mean something, not like the ridiculous Dinky Doos. That always made me feel as if I was something between a scented cigarette and one of those sixpenny packets of dye that Elsie here’s always using. I like the sound of this new name. I don’t know how it will look on the bills, though,” she concludes doubtfully.

“I do,” Mrs. Joe announces in a very deep and gloomy voice. “It will look rotten on the bills.”

“I agree. Not enough dash about it, if you ask me,” says Miss Elsie Longstaff, who is all for dash.

“Too haybrow, Miss Trant,” is Mr. Jerningham’s comment.

Mr. Nunn closes one eye over it, then the other, and finally declares it is a bit on the stiff side and won’t space well on the bills⁠—but⁠—it is out of the common and will do. Mr. Mitcham comes down on the same side with all the weight of his experience. The combined enthusiasm of Miss Trant and Inigo is more than a match for the vague doubts and fears of the others.

“There it is then,” Miss Trant calls out in her clear voice. “We’ll call ourselves ‘The Good Companions.’ ”

Here Mr. Mitcham has an inspiration. After saying to Inigo: “Now this is mine,” he rises to his full height and thunders: “Waiter. Where are you, waiter? Ah, there you are. Waiter, I want a bottle of port.”

“Now what kind would you like, sir?” the waiter inquires, quite anxiously, as if the cellar is stocked with all manner of ports and he is gravely concerned lest the gentleman should not have exactly the right one.

“Oh, something drinkable. What have you got?”

“Well, we’ve the Tawny at three-and-nine the bottle, and we’ve the Old and Crusted at four-and-six.”

“Then bring a bottle of the Old and Crusted,” and Mr. Mitcham gives such richness to his vowel sounds that already the wine seems twice as old and crusted as it was before. “And glasses round,” he continues, “as quick as you can.” After almost chasing the waiter out of the room with his eyebrows, Mr. Mitcham sits down with the air of a man who not only knows a good wine but also knows how to order a good wine.

“Now he’d make a wonderful feed if I can get him going. Got just the style,” Mr. Nunn whispers to his neightbour, Miss Trant. “And I’ve got a sketch or two that he can walk away with, right from the word ‘go.’ ”

The Old and Crusted has arrived and so have the glasses. “I’m going to give you a toast in a minute,” says Mr. Mitcham, “so fill up, everybody.” When they are ready, he lifts his glass and cries in a voice of such majesty that it brings Mrs. Tidby upstairs from the bar: “My friends, I give you ‘The Good Companions.’ Long life and good luck to ’em.”

“I’ll drink this,” Mr. Nunn declares, “if it kills me.” And down goes his Old and Crusted with the rest.

“The Good Companions!”

Mrs. Tidby, nodding and smiling at the door, is invited to drink the health of the new show, which she does with great gusto, smacking her lips over the Old and Crusted to indicate perhaps that there is nothing wrong with it.

It is now Mr. Oakroyd’s turn. Up to now he has been quiet because he is a diffident man and rather out of his element. All the others are members of the party, but he is only a guest. There had been some talk outside that tea-place about him doing something, but nothing has been said since and he is not one to push himself in where he isn’t wanted. Tomorrow he will be wandering on his way again, but he has enjoyed tonight, and must say something to them all before they separate. So now he raises the large glass, which still has an inch of beer in it, and cries to them all: “Well, I’m nobbut one o’ t’audience, as you might say. But this is my bit. May you mak’ good companions o’ t’fowk as comes to see and hear you, and nivver look back.” And down went the inch of beer.

“Thank you, Mr. Oakroyd,” Miss Trant calls out before anybody else could reply. And then she begins speaking in a low voice to Mr. Nunn.

Miss Dean, who seems to regard Mr. Oakroyd as her protégé, is delighted. “Isn’t he sweet?” she cries across the table, and turns to look at him, with her head tilted to one side “You are sweet, you know, Mr. Oakroyd, aren’t you?” And her glance suggests that he is about six inches high and covered with pink icing.

But Mr. Oakroyd is now summoned to the end of the table, where Miss Trant and Mr. Nunn are in conference. He exchanges places with Inigo, who seems rather pleased to find himself next to Miss Dean, still smiling and altogether very attractive.

“Now listen, Mr. Oakroyd,” Miss Trant is saying. “Mr. Nunn says that a handyman like you would be very useful to us⁠—”

“Stage carpenter, props and baggage man, lights, doorman where needed, bill-poster where needed,” Mr. Nunn rattles off this list with an easy air. “And of course any odd jobs.”

“Ay.” Mr. Oakroyd rubs his chin. You would not suppose for a moment that he is delighted. “Well, I know nowt about theaters, nowt at all but what you can see from t’gallery. I could pick a deal up, I dare say. I can do owt I want to do wi’ my hands as a rule. Is it summat you want doing or a reg’lar job?”

“We want you to travel round with us, Mr. Oakroyd, as our handyman,” Miss Trant explained. “And I’m sure you’d soon learn anything you didn’t know that had to be known. About lights, for instance.”

A grin slowly broadens over Mr. Oakroyd’s face. “One o’ t’ Good Companions, eh? By gow, I’ll have a do at it, I will an’ all.”

“And Mr. Nunn suggests three pounds a week⁠—”

“Plus train fares and any extra expenses,” Mr. Nunn adds. “And good money too. Coming in regularly⁠—very good money.”

“Would that be all right Mr. Oakroyd?”

“Eh, I should think so, Miss. Three punds i’ t’ week and nobbut mysen to keep! Nivver thowt I’d end up as a the‑ater chap! This beats t’band, this does.” And he chuckles away.

“That’s all right, then, is it? Will you come down to the Assembly Rooms in the morning, Mr. Oakroyd?”

“Nobbut say t’word,” says Mr. Oakroyd earnestly, “and I’ll be down at half past six wi’ my tools.”

“Half past six!” Mr. Nunn gives a capital imitation of a gentleman who has just received a severe blow at the back of the head. “There isn’t such a time, not in the morning⁠—never heard of it⁠—don’t believe it exists. Nay, lad. Half past ten’s our time.”

“Day’s half over i’ Bruddersford by then. Happen to know Bruddersford, Mr. Nunn?”

“I do know Bruddersford,” Mr. Nunn replies in tragic accents. “Everybody knows it, except the lucky ones. Ask Susie there about it. She calls it ‘Shuddersford.’ It’s generally known to the profession though as ‘The Comedian’s Grave’!”

“Eh, whatever for?” inquires Mr. Oakroyd, his face quite wooden. “I’ve heard tell of ’em calling it t’place where they hammer screws. You hear all sorts, don’t you, Mr. Nunn?” And he leans back in his chair and calmly stares at the ceiling.

Miss Trant, after looking at the pair of them, laughs a little, and Mr. Nunn laughs too, and then Mr. Oakroyd begins to chuckle again. “They’re a bit o’ good company, this lot,” he tells himself, and when he remembers that he is not leaving them tomorrow but is going to travel all over the place and do odd jobs and have three pounds a week, he feels ready to burst.

Now they are calling “Miss Trant. Spee‑eech, Miss Trant. Spee‑eech.” At first she shakes her head, but the boys and girls will take no refusal, as Mr. Nunn is careful to point out to her.

“I haven’t anything to say at all, you know,” she tells them, “except that I’m sure we shall all get on very well together. You must forgive me if I make mistakes or say anything silly, because, as you know, I don’t really understand this business. I haven’t even seen you on the stage, which is rather absurd, isn’t it? But I’m sure you’re all very clever and work very hard and⁠—and⁠—tomorrow and afterwards when you’re Good Companions you’ll be cleverer still and work harder.” Laughter and applause. “And now I’m going to bed. Yes, I am. I’ve had an awfully long and exciting day⁠—it seems to have lasted about a week⁠—and now I’m tired.”

“Oh, don’t go, Miss Trant,” Susie implores.

“Why not?”

“Well, if you go, I shall feel I ought to go too, and though I’m tiredish too, I hate to think I’m missing anything.”

“I’m ready to go, Susie,” Miss Longstaff tells her.

“Oh, all right then,” cries Susie. “I suppose all us feemiles had better trot off together, and leave the men to stay here until they’re kicked out. Can’t you just see them here when we’ve gone⁠—going yaw-yaw-yaw and haw-haw-haw and all of ’em nearly dying of conceit? I do think men are ridiculous,” she concludes, putting her nose in the air.

“You stick fast to that opinion of the men, my dear,” Mrs. Joe tells her, “and you might have a chance of getting to the top of the tree.” And with that, the good lady rises, informs her husband that he can have another glass and no more, and stay just half an hour, then departs with the other three members of her sex.

And the men, sitting down again with that fine careless ease that comes when the women go, do have another and do yaw-yaw-yaw and haw-haw-haw, and while they are doing that, Inigo discovers that Jerry Jerningham, with his good looks and grace and weird accent, his determination to top the bill and have his name in electric lights before long or perish, his grave and almost ascetic devotion to his flimsy little art, is altogether an astonishing person; and Mr. Oakroyd discovers that Joe, whom he recognizes at once as a man after his own heart, is not only partial to a pipe of Old Salt (to say nothing of a glass of beer) but is also a fellow enthusiast in the matter of football, at which little George will very soon distinguish himself⁠—and surprise some of ’em, it appears⁠—at Denmark Hill; and Jimmy Nunn and Morton Mitcham discover that they remember any number of “pros” who have got there or dropped out or lifted an elbow too often or gone into management or taken a nice little pub somewhere. Mrs. Tidby reappears, to hope everything was to their liking and to point out once again that the notice was short, and then to glance significantly at the clock. The old waiter yawns, pushes a few glasses about in an aimless fashion, returns with change on a little wet tray, smiles vaguely when told to keep it, then yawns again. They troop out into the deserted streets and stop a minute, with a faint shrinking sense of irony, to look up at the thinning clouds and the mild stars beyond. “You going my way? Right you are. Good night, boys. Good night, ol’ man. Goo’ night.”