I

It began, that awful week, before they reached Tewborough. It began⁠—at least for eight of them⁠—on the Sunday night at Middleford. The week at Middleford was a steady plodding affair, but it could boast one exciting event. This was the visit of a rich and eccentric old lady, Mrs. Hodney. She had driven in by car to the town to see her solicitors on Wednesday, had stayed to see the show, and after it was over had insisted upon being introduced by the local manager, who knew her as a “character,” to Miss Trant, to Jimmy, to everybody. She was so delighted with them all, she said, that she wanted them to do a queer old woman a favour. Would they all go out to her house, Custon Hall, twenty miles away, on the edge of the moors, and give a performance on Sunday there for her, her maids, and any of the villagers who were not too stupid to enjoy themselves for once on a Sunday night in November? They must not think of it as a matter of business⁠—though she was rich enough to pay for her whims, and if twenty pounds would compensate them for their trouble, there it was⁠—but they must think of it as a matter of cheering up a lonely old woman who found it difficult to be pleased with anything and who would not be staying long in this world. Thus Mrs. Hodney, a very staccato but vehement old lady, who patted all the younger players on the back as she talked.

So it was arranged that all the actual performers should stay in Middleford on Sunday night, catching a cross-country train on Monday morning to Tewborough, and give a special show (in evening dress) at Custon Hall, which would have waiting for them, they were assured, a very large drawing-room; a grand piano, and a good supper. “And mind you,” said the local manager, “the old lady’ll do you well. She’s a queer old stick⁠—I’ve heard all sorts of tales about her⁠—but she’s taken a fancy to you and she’ll see that you’re all right, I give you my word.” This visit was the great topic during the latter part of the week. Miss Trant had waived any claim to part of the fee, so that it meant they would receive two pounds ten shillings each, and there were many exciting discussions, between Joe and Mrs. Joe, Elsie and Susie, as to what might be done with this windfall. Then again the command performance⁠—as it came to be called⁠—was both a compliment and an adventure. Miss Trant and Mr. Oakroyd were pitied because they would not be there. Had they been going anywhere else, these two might have stayed on too, but Tewborough was no ordinary date and there was much to be done on the Monday. At Tewborough they were playing at the Theatre Royal, a real theatre, not a mere Pavilion or Assembly Room or anything of that kind. Miss Trant knew nothing about Tewborough and, curiously enough, neither did any of the others, but she had seen an advertisement in The Stage, offering this theatre at a fairly moderate rent, and for once she had acted on her own responsibility and had taken it for a week, in spite of Jimmy’s advice. “It’s buying a pig in a poke,” he said darkly, but Miss Trant, who could be both venturesome and obstinate on occasion, refused to be warned, and was encouraged by most of the others, who were anxious to see themselves on the stage of a real theatre again. Having thus committed herself to Tewborough, Miss Trant considered it the great date of the year, their grand opportunity, and it was necessary that she and Mr. Oakroyd should travel by car as usual on Sunday so that they could get to work at once on Monday. And they refused to be pitied because they were missing the command performance, for to them would fall the pleasure of first seeing Tewborough and its Theatre Royal.

There had been some difficulty at first in finding anybody or anything to take them out to Custon Hall, which could not be reached by train. The garage proprietors of Middleford seemed curiously reluctant to send one of their larger vehicles to Mrs. Hodney’s remote village. At last, however, a man was found. His name was Dickenson; he owned a bus, he said, that could seat twelve and had taken eighteen in its time; and he would drive them there and back for two pounds. Under that, he told them, he would not budge; and they found they could not make him budge. Nevertheless, they were all relieved when they heard about Mr. Dickenson and his bus.

The rendezvous was Jimmy’s lodgings, and by half past six, the appointed time, all eight were there, in evening clothes and carrying instruments and portfolios of music and an astonishing assortment of cloaks, overcoats, shawls, and scarves. They were all in high spirits. This was a break in the routine, an adventure. Mr. Morton Mitcham, looking gigantic and very impressive in the Silver King and a long green scarf, said once again that it was quite like old times, and Mrs. Joe, struggling with her two woolly coats, an imitation Spanish shawl, and a very worn opera cloak, once more agreed with him. All they wanted now was Mr. Dickenson and his bus. After another five minutes, these two arrived and brought with them a flat-faced youth, one Arthur, who blew on his hands a good deal and appeared to have no roof to his mouth.

“You’re a bit late,” said Jimmy, pleasantly.

“Late!” cried Mr. Dickenson bitterly. “I’m early to what I thowt I was going to be. Bother I’ve ’ad with ’er, haven’t I, Arthur?”

“Ee oo ah,” replied Arthur, and then blew on his hands. Having done that, he went on: “Ee oh oo ee oo ah.”

“That is so,” said Mr. Dickenson. “And now if we’re going to start, let’s start. Though I’d as lief go back hoam and call it off, I would that.”

“Now what sort of night is it going to be, driver?” Mrs. Joe inquired graciously, in her best Duchess of Dorking style.

“It’s going to be a mucky cold neet, Missis,” said Mr. Dickenson. “Tickle ’er up, Arthur. And get in, all on yer, and let’s get off.”

“These rugged North-country characters,” Mrs. Joe was heard to murmur. “Rough perhaps but staunch as oak.”

“I wish his bus was a bit less rugged,” said Susie, looking inside.

It was certainly not a very luxurious vehicle. To begin with, it was obviously very old, and when the engine started everything else started too, jumping and rattling in sympathy with it. The seats were very narrow and hard, and it had not a proper enclosed body but was merely roofed in with some sort of canvas. And though it may have held twelve persons, the fact remains that when the eight of them, with their instruments and music and wraps, were all inside, there was not an inch of room to spare. Once they were on the road, the jolting was very unpleasant, but nobody grumbled much. It was all part of the adventure of the command performance.

“This to me,” gasped Mrs. Joe in the darkness, “is Romance and a great change. A drive out into remote places, the show in a different setting, against the background of one of our stately old mansions, an appreciative audience, a pleasant repast to follow.”

“Not so much of the ‘follow,’ ” said Elsie. “I vote we have the supper as soon as we get there. I thought that was the idea, and I’ve had nothing but a cup of tea and a bun since half past twelve, and I’m peckish now.”

“Now you settle that between you,” said Jimmy Nunn. “You can’t expect that to interest me. A drink of something, a piece o’ dry toast, and perhaps a bit o’ chicken⁠—breast⁠—that’s quite enough for me. I dare say there’ll be chicken.”

“Sure to be.” This was the deep grave voice of Mr. Morton Mitcham. “They always do you well on these occasions⁠—that’s my experience, ladies and gentlemen. Everything of the best⁠—champagne too, with luck, though being a woman she may be a bit slack about the drinks. You ought to have seen some of the spreads the old colonial governors⁠—Sir Elkin Pondberry and one or two more⁠—used to give us, after command performances. Sumptuous is the only word⁠—sumptuous!”

“Well, I’m for splitting it like,” said Joe, rather apologetically. “A bit o’ supper before we start, and a good bite after we finish. One’ll put heart into us before we begin.”

“And completely ruin your upper register,” said his wife coldly. “I know what happens to you. You’ll fill your stomach, and then you’ll stand in front of Mrs. Hodney, trying to sing, with your upper register in rags.”

“I can’t sing at all empty,” he pleaded, “and you know you said yourself at teatime. ‘Save your appetite for tonight.’ So I say a bit before and then a good bite to come home on.”

“If Mrs. Hodney, obviously a lady, refined if a trifle eccentric, heard you at this moment, she’d ask for your name to be crossed off the programme,” cried Mrs. Joe. “And I shouldn’t blame her, Joe. I should say at once, husband or no husband and as good a baritone as you’ll find in concert-party work, it serves him right and teaches him a lesson.”

This mention of the programme immediately set them all talking at once. They wondered if they had really chosen the best numbers. Would Mrs. Hodney like this item and that? They were still talking about the programme when the bus suddenly came to a stop. As it was impossible to see anything inside, Inigo looked out of the flap at the back.

“Are we there?” somebody called out to him.

“We don’t seem to be anywhere,” he replied, and got out, to find himself in a cold and drizzling blackness.

“We’re eight mile off,” said Mr. Dickenson, who was now examining the engine. “Give ’er another turn, Arthur. It’ll be teeming down in a minute. That’ll do, Arthur. Let ’er alone.”

“Eh oh oo ah oh ee,” said Arthur mournfully.

“Well, I’ll ’ave to get ruddy mag out, that’s all,” said Mr. Dickenson, who did not seem to be in a very good temper. “I thowt she was bitching ’erself up all along. ’Ere, ’old this. Now then, we’ll try that. Give ’er another turn, lad.” The engine began spluttering noisily. “That’ll do. It’ll be pouring down in five minutes and ’ere to Custon’s one o’ the foulest roads you ever set eyes on. I ought to ’ad more sense than to come on this daft trip.”

“Never mind, you chaps,” said Jimmy, who had joined Inigo outside. “We’ll soon be there, and then you can put some beef and beer away and make yourselves cosy by a big fire.”

“Ee oh oo ah oo,” said Arthur, and blew on his hands very despondently.

“This expedition would be gayer, I think, without Arthur,” said Inigo, as he and Jimmy climbed in again. “There is something about Arthur that depresses me⁠—a sort of ‘Quoth the Raven’ sound about him.”

The bus went very slowly now but rattled more fiercely than ever. Apparently the roads were narrow, winding, and steep, and it was clear that Mr. Dickenson was not enjoying himself. The drizzle was steadily turning itself into a downpour, and very soon the passengers too found it difficult to enjoy themselves. Not only were they bumped about most unpleasantly but they also began to feel odd drops and trickles of rain. Evidently the canvas top was by no means watertight. They pulled their wraps and scarves about them, held on grimly to the backs of seats or whatever else there was to hold on to, and assured one another that it would not be long before they were there. But never had any of them known eight longer miles.

At last, however, they stopped, and Inigo, looking out again, reported that they had arrived at a large gateway leading to a drive.

“This is it,” yelled Mr. Dickenson. “Custon ’All, this is. Shall I take it right in if I can get in?”

“Oh, yes!” they cried happily, in chorus, he must take it up to the very door if he could. Already they saw the triumphant arrival, the great front door of the Hall wide open, the lights shining out, the stir of excitement among the crowd of retainers and villagers. As they went curving round the drive and everybody was trying to collect instruments and music and wraps, it was instantly decided that they should have something to eat and drink before beginning the show, for it was eight o’clock now, half an hour later than the very last moment they had expected to arrive at, and they all admitted they were hungry⁠—all, that is, except Jimmy Nunn, who said he was dying of thirst. Out they tumbled, cold and rather damp and a little battered, hollow inside perhaps, but still in good spirits, delighted to be there, and ready to give old Mrs. Hodney the show of her life. They emerged into a downpour of that slashing cold rain of the moorland, but that did not matter when they were at the very door of the Hall.

That door, however, was closed, and there were no lights at all in the lower rooms, and nothing anywhere but a faint glimmer in one or two of the bedrooms. The house looked an inhospitable black mass.

“I thought you said they were expecting you,” said Mr. Dickenson, giving a most unpleasant short laugh.

“So they are,” said Jimmy uneasily, as he pulled at the bell handle.

“This part of the mansion,” Mrs. Joe observed hopefully, “is little used, no doubt. Everybody is busy with various preparations at the back. Come under the porch, my dears, until the door is opened.”

Jimmy tugged away at the bell and at last a flicker of light was seen below. The door was opened a few inches, then another few inches. “What d’you want?” asked a voice.

“Come along, please,” cried Jimmy impatiently. “We’re the concert party, the Good Companions, come to give the show.”

The door was opened wide now but only in order that an elderly and weary-looking manservant could stare at them in amazement. “What is it you want?”

Jimmy explained again.

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” the man told him.

“Nay, they’ve not,” cried Mr. Dickenson, “this is Mrs. Hodney’s, I do know.”

“Of course it is,” said the man.

But when Jimmy explained at greater length, the man still stared in amazement. “Well, it’s no use your coming here tonight, or any other night as far as I can see. Mrs. Hodney’s poorly, right bad. She had a stroke o’ Thursday and she’s in a bad way. Doctor’s here now and he’s sent for a nurse. That’s how it is.”

“Well, I’ll be⁠—” Jimmy gasped.

“Just hold on a minute,” said the man. He let the door swing to, and they heard him walking away.

Then the voice of Arthur prophesying woe was heard above all others. “Ee ee ah oo oo oh, oo ee eh, oo.”

“By gow! Arthur,” cried Mr. Dickenson bitterly, “you’re right an’ all.”

“If Arthur makes another sound,” said Susie in a low tense whisper, “I shall scream and scream. I can’t bear it.”

Now the door was flung wide open and they found a pocket electric torch shining on them. “I don’t understand this,” said a very testy voice from behind the torch, “and I don’t want to understand it. I haven’t the time to spare. Mrs. Hodney’s very ill indeed, very ill. I doubt if she’ll recover but we’re doing our best. Now kindly go away and make as little noise as you can. Good night to you.” The torch vanished; the door was swiftly but quietly closed, locked, bolted.

“Good night to you,” cried Jimmy softly. “With love and many happy returns of the day. Creep away, boys and girls. It’s all off.”

“My God!” This was from Elsie, and for once she spoke for them all.

“Do yer meantersay⁠—” Mr. Dickenson began, but was cut short by Jimmy.

“I meantersay,” said Jimmy, “that we’re going back to Middleford as sharp as we can, and the sooner you get that bus started the better.”

“Beef and beer!” cried Mr. Dickenson, in a very ecstasy of savage irony. “Cosy by a big fire! Gorrr! You’re mugs yerselves and you’ve made me into one.”

“Ee oh oo oo ur oo oo,” said Arthur indignantly.

This last remark enraged Mr. Jerningham, of all people. “Oh, you shet erp,” he screamed.

“Ho, ho! And what’s Arthur want to shut up for, eh?” Mr. Dickenson sounded very menacing. “Nar, for two blurry pins⁠—”

“Kindly start your car, driver,” said a forlorn and dripping object, with astonishing dignity. “And don’t talk about pins in that way when ladies are present.” And having delivered this reproof, Mrs. Joe climbed into the bus, removed her sodden opera cloak, sneezed twice, and burst into tears.

“Ladies!” Mr. Dickenson sneered. “Gorrr!” He was then tapped upon the shoulder. After that he was taken to one side.

“Now you see me, don’t you,” said Joe, speaking very softly. “I’m a quiet sort of chap, I am. But I’m feeling sorry for that old lady in there. And I’m very disappointed because there’s no show. I’m also very hungry and I’m wet. And that’s my wife who’s just spoken to you. Now, another word, just one more word, from you, and I shall have the great pleasure of relieving my feelings by knocking your silly ugly head right off.” And as he spoke, Joe came nearer and nearer, a most formidable figure even in the darkness. “Just say some more, that’s all,” he added, almost persuasively.

“Be ready to give ’er a turn, Arthur,” said Mr. Dickenson despondently, and he sought his seat in front.

The return journey was horrible. It seemed to go on and on for hours and hours. Three times the bus had to stop, twice for engine trouble, and once because Mr. Dickenson had missed the way. On the other hand, the rain never stopped at all, and the canvas cover merely acted as a distributor. There had not appeared to be any room to spare on the way up, but now everybody was in everybody else’s way, and everybody was very wet and cold and hungry and so snapped at everybody else, and everybody else, being also very wet and cold and hungry, promptly snapped back again. Mr. Morton Mitcham, attempting a reminiscence of a similar experience, was told at once that nobody was interested. When Mr. Jerningham complained that he was wet through, he was informed that a drop of water would do him good. Elsie announced that this time she really was through with the rotten Stage. Mrs. Joe pointed out, between sobs, that she had always been one to take the Bad with the Good, but that having ordered a complete outfit for little George, boots and all, on the strength of this extra engagement, she was now at the End of her Tether. Susie told Inigo how depressed she was at the thought of Mrs. Hodney, the queer little old woman who had been so lively the other night and was now dying perhaps in that lonely dismal house; but when, in sympathy, he put his hand on hers, she pushed it away, said it was like a fish, so cold and wet, and asked him not to be a fool. Jimmy Nunn groaned from time to time, but only uttered three words during all the journey. “The Good Companions!” he cried, with a ghastly chuckle, and after that nobody spoke for quite a long time.

Middleford was going to bed when they finally arrived there. They considered desperately, miserably, their chances of obtaining food and drink and hot baths at that late hour on Sunday. They heard already the outraged tones of landladies preparing to retire. Shivering, their best clothes so much sodden pulp, they crawled out of the bus, and it seemed the last straw when Jimmy plaintively announced that he would have to collect five shillings each from them to pay for it. While they were fumbling for their money, however, Inigo, who had disappeared for a moment, came back and said quietly: “It’s all right. I’ve paid him. You can settle up some other time. Let’s get away.”

It was a miserable party that met next morning to catch the eleven o’clock train to Tewborough. They stared at one another’s pale faces and reddened noses; they listened to one another sniffling and sneezing; they talked gloomily of aspirin and quinine; they yawned and shivered and groaned. Mrs. Joe and Elsie had colds in the head; Susie said she felt feverish; Jerry Jemingham was watery about the eyes; Inigo’s voice was rather hoarse; Joe moved stiffly and talked of “rheumatics”; and as for Morton Mitcham and Jimmy, both of whom looked queer enough at any time, they were now a sad spectacle indeed, Mitcham being nothing but a gaunt yellow ruin, and Jimmy, who really looked ill, a stricken gargoyle. It was just their luck, they told one another, that they should be in such a state when Tewborough and its Theatre Royal were awaiting them. They admitted, however, that a packed and enthusiastic house on the first night might pull them through. “Ill as I ab,” said Mrs. Joe, between sniffs, “I cad respod to the publig. That’s my tebremend. Tewborough’s a big dade and we’ll blay ub to id.” This was the only topic that could rouse them out of their staring and shivering apathy.

It was teatime when they arrived there, and too dark to see anything of the town as the train crawled into it. Miss Trant and Mr. Oakroyd were there on the platform. Inigo seized hold of Mr. Oakroyd at once. “You’ve got to save our lives,” he said. “We had a hell of a time last night.” Briefly he described the great fiasco. “You were lucky to be out of it, I can tell you,” he concluded. “Now then, what about Tewborough? How are you getting on? What’s it like?”

Mr. Oakroyd drew him to one side. “I’ve nobbut been i’ t’place a day, as you knaw,” he said cautiously. “But you’ve got to talk of a place as you find it.”

“Well,” said Inigo impatiently, “and how do you find it?”

“Here,” said Mr. Oakroyd, bending forward and curving a hand round his mouth. “It’s bloody awful.”

Having delivered this verdict, he looked solemnly at Inigo, shook his head, then stumped away to find the baggage, with the air of a man who would continue to do his duty whatever it cost.

II

Cathedral cities, market towns, ports forgotten by the sea, spas long out of fashion, all these can decay beautifully, and often their charm increases as the life ebbs out of them. Industrial towns, like steam engines, are only even tolerable if they are in working order and puffing away. Tewborough was like an engine with a burst boiler lying on the side of a road; it was a moneymaking machine that had almost stopped working, for only a wheel here and there shakily revolved or a pulley gave a groan or two; it was a factory that could now show you nothing but broken windows and litter and mouldering ledgers and a mumbling caretaker; it was nothing but an old cashbox containing only dust and cobwebs and a few forgotten pence. Trade in Tewborough had nearly disappeared altogether, and it was quite obvious that it would never come back again, would always prefer other and pleasanter places. It was a town of dwindling incomes, terrifying overdrafts, of shopkeepers who lived by stretching one another’s credit, of working men who were rapidly becoming nothing but waiting men, their chief occupation being to hang about the doors of buildings that were known⁠—with a fine irony⁠—as Labour Exchanges. Tewborough had always been one of the ugliest towns in the Midlands, and now it was easily the most depressed and depressing. Its wealth had long ceased to accumulate but its men still decayed. The days when Tewborough’s coal and lace-curtains and tin-tacks were in brisk demand everywhere, when many a local man who still liked his tea in a pint pot could “buy up” the county’s Lord Lieutenant and was known to have shaken Gladstone himself by the hand, these days had gone and had left nothing behind them but a few public buildings in a bad Gothic style, two bewhiskered and blackened statues, some slag heaps, disused factories and sidings, a rotting canal, a large slum area, a generous supply of dirt, rickets, bow legs, and bad teeth⁠—and the Theatre Royal.

When Mr. Oakroyd brought out his verdict on the place, he and Miss Trant had not spent a whole day there, but their roseate visions had long faded and vanished. It was impossible to like the town, though they had both tried hard and had perhaps succeeded in concealing a little of their dislike for it from one another. Miss Trant told herself she had never imagined that any town could be so hideous and depressing: she wanted to run away at once and never even think of it again. Sitting in the dingy coffee-room of the hotel, with a plate of congealing mutton fat in front of her, she had felt she was ready to cry at any moment. She knew already that Tewborough could not be amused by their show or any other show. When the man at the hotel had heard she had taken the Theatre Royal, he had stared at her and then given a short and disconcerting laugh. “Having a pop at it, are you?” he had said. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing like trying. You’re not the first, and I dare say you won’t be the last, even yet. I thought old Droke was looking pleased with himself, last time I saw him. Met him yet? He’s a queer old stick, if you like, as rum as they make ’em round here⁠—and rummer. Well, well, well!” And Miss Trant did not like the sound of this at all.

Early on Monday morning she made the acquaintance of Mr. Droke, and though she did not spend much time in his company, it left her in no doubt that Mr. Droke certainly was as rum as they made them. He was a very little old man, with an immense head and quite tiny legs and feet, so that he looked like a dirty and dingy gnome. His senile voice came whistling through his browny-white moustache and beard, and he had a horrible trick of coming quite close and punctuating his jerky statements with vigorous upward nudges of his elbow. “It’s a good theatre,” he would say. “Isn’t better round here, go where you like.” Nudge. “Been some famous actors there, they tell me. I don’t know ’cos I wasn’t here then, I wasn’t.” Nudge. “Had a shop in Liverpool then. Sold it and came back here. Got a shop here now.” Another nudge. Miss Trant in retreat and Mr. Droke in close pursuit, ready for the next nudge. “Belonged to my brother, this theatre did, and he left it to me. I don’t bother with it much, too busy, and don’t care about theatres. They used to be always wanting me to be doing this and doing that to it, but I couldn’t be bothered, d’you see, and having my shop too and trade being so bad. Nothing wrong with it, though, nothing at all.” Nudge. “A good theatre still. All fads, that’s all. Nothing wrong with it. You’re not faddy, are you?” More nudges. “Well then, it’ll suit you all right, very cheap at the price, very cheap. Too many faddy people now, aren’t there? Don’t know what they want.”

Miss Trant was not sure that she knew what she wanted but as soon as she saw the outside of the building, she knew at once that she certainly did not want the Tewborough Theatre Royal. Her heart sank. Its position was bad, for it was down a dark side-street; and its appearance was worse. Missing panes of glass, unpainted and rotting woodwork, dirt and litter, everywhere. The only things that were bright and new there were their own playbills, and they looked pathetic, so young and hopeful, so utterly out of place. The inside was worse than the outside. It was smaller than most old-fashioned theatres, but it was built on the usual plan, with stalls, pit, dress circle, and separate gallery. The seats in the gallery were narrow wooden benches, and those in the pit were similar benches with backs to them, and both pit and gallery stank abominably. The stalls and dress circle had the usual plush chairs, but they were all old and worn and stained. At one time the place may have made a pretty show of gilt, but now the dust and grime were so thick on the gilding that it returned no answering gleam to the lights. On the ceiling and the proscenium were some cracked nymphs and peeling cupids. Such carpets as there were on the corridors were threadbare. Old playbills lined the greasy walls: Are You a Mason? The Girl from Kay’s; the Tewborough and District Amateur Operatic Company in Dorothy; The Face at the Window; Dr. Faustein in his Great Mesmeric, Thought-Reading, and Mystical Oriental Entertainment; and here and there were yellowing photographs of heroic actors in togas or bag wigs, bewhiskered old “heavies,” and simpering leading ladies of the Nineties, all of them catching her eye as she passed and whispering: “We’re dead and gone.” She peered through a dirty glass door labelled Saloon Bar and saw a counter and a few bottles all thick with dust.

“That’s shut up now,” said Mr. Finnegan. “We ’ad the licence taken away. ’Ard on a management, very ’ard!” This Mr. Finnegan, to whom she had been handed over by Mr. Droke, was called the manager, but he was obviously a general factotum in receipt of a mere pittance. He was old, shabby, and gently steeped in liquor, and such a pitiful figure that at any other time Miss Trant would have felt sorry for him, but now, as he shuffled down these grimy corridors with her, she could only regard him with distaste. When they returned to the auditorium, its atmosphere seemed more unpleasant and oppressive than ever: it was like walking into a drawer full of old rubbish that had not been turned out for twenty years. Miss Trant shuddered.

“Oh, but it⁠—it’s awful!” she cried. “All so dirty and depressing.”

“Well,” Mr. Finnegan mumbled, “I don’t say it wouldn’t do with a cleanup, but⁠—bless yer⁠—it’s a prince to some. You’re new to it, aren’t yer? Thought so; tell it in a minute. Wants tidying a bit, I dare say, but wouldn’t be worth it just now. And theatres is all alike when you come in during the day and they’re all empty, all alike they are: put you off if you don’t know ’em. I’ve seen this place packed to the roof⁠—everybody here⁠—mayor and corporation, everybody! When Wilson Barrett opened ’ere with his ‘Sign o’ the Cross,’ there was over a nundred pounds in the youse, over a nundred pounds, Monday night, and that was when a quid was a quid, when you could buy something with it. Can’t do that now, of course. There isn’t the money in the town.” He shook his head mournfully.

The faded crimson curtain began shaking too. It gave a creak, then finally parted and rose. Two figures in shirtsleeves walked on to the stage, and Miss Trant, approaching, discovered that one of them was Mr. Oakroyd. When she drew near, she saw that he was very gloomy and disgusted.

“Eh, Miss Trant,” he cried, “it is a mucky noil at t’back here. You nivver saw such a muddle. We’ll have some trade on getting this right, we shall an’ all. Come and have a look at it.”

Miss Trant went round, looked at the stage, peeped in a dressing-room or two, sent for Mr. Finnegan (who could not be found), telephoned to Mr. Droke (who did not reply), and went in search of two charwomen to assist Mr. Oakroyd and his shirt-sleeved colleague, who had a glassy stare and a perpetually open mouth.

“He’s not all there, isn’t Charlie,” whispered Mr. Oakroyd. “That’s his name⁠—Charlie. He’s a bit soft but he’ll ha’ to do. If he were right, he wouldn’t be working here. If this is a the‑ater, give me them pavilions and kursals ivvery time. This is nowt but a ragbag. It’ll cap me, Miss Trant; if we do much here. Town’s got a bit of a miserable look about it.”

“It has,” replied Miss Trant emphatically. “And I never saw a miserabler.”

“No more did I,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “We’ve nobbut been here a two-three hours, you might say, and it might improve a bit on acquaintance, but so far it’s a right poor do.”

Mr. Oakroyd, as we know, was not difficult to please. No man can live in Bruddersford for over forty years and be hypercritical; your Bruddersfordian is never one of those sensitive creatures who are entirely at the mercy of their surroundings. But already Tewborough had been too much even for Mr. Oakroyd. Before meeting the others at the station, he returned to his lodgings, thus making further acquaintance with the town and disliking it more. His terse comment to Inigo summed up his view of the whole situation, the theatre, the town, the lodgings, everything. After making that comment, he walked away, partly because he had to see to the baggage but also because he had a good sense of the dramatic. After a few minutes he returned to Inigo’s side.

“You and me has to share rooms,” he announced.

“Oh, how’s that?” Inigo asked. “Is the town full?”

“Nay, there’s nowt on here at all. But they won’t let. We’d a right job getting lodgings and they’ve all got to share. It’s allus alike. Less brass fowk’s makking, less they want to mak. If you go to a place where they’re as throng as they can be, they’re allus ready to mak’ a bit more. You come to a place like this here, where all town’s on t’dole and they’re all pining, and you can’t get ’em to let you have a room or two and sell you a bite and a sup o’ summat. Fowk’s so badly off, they won’t be bothered.”

“Reluctant as I am, Master Oakroyd, to break in upon this deep philosophical strain,” said Inigo, “I must put a question. What are the digs like?”

“Well, you’ll see for yersen in a minute,” replied Mr. Oakroyd. “There’s plenty o’ room, I will say that. We’ve getten a big bedroom, with a gurt double bed in and one o’ these little uns, campbeds. It’s number nine, Billing Street, and it’s right handy for t’the‑ater. But by gow!⁠—I don’t know whether I’m not feeling up to t’mark or what⁠—but there’s summat about this place that seems to tak’ t’heart right out o’ me. I hope you don’t mind being wi’ me, lad,” he added shyly.

“Of course I don’t,” said Inigo, who didn’t.

“ ’Cos I’ll be right glad of a bit o’ company i’ yond place,” he concluded.

There was certainly something very cheerless about Billing Street. It was narrow and dark, and had far more than its share of listless ailing women and children with grey faces and reddened eyes. It had two or three little warehouses with broken windows; a greengrocer’s that seemed to have nothing but potatoes and paper bananas for sale; a chip-and-fish shop that smelt of tallow; a tiny grocer’s that apparently specialized in black lead and sardines; a furtive little newsagent’s, full of announcements about special wires and tips from the course; an undertaker’s, with a specimen brass plate and a blackening wreath in the window; a herbalist’s establishment, adorned with a large placard that said Your Stomach Wants Watching, a number of mysterious green packets, and a highly coloured drawing that had some reference to skin diseases; a secondhand shop filled with bamboo tables, flatirons, and rolls of oilcloth; and two of the dingiest and dreariest-looking little public-houses that Mr. Oakroyd, a man of experience, ever remembered encountering. Just behind the street was a building with a fantastic tower, a sinister conglomeration of pipes and ladders and tanks, and this, it appeared, was a sulphuric-acid works. Nobody seemed to knew whether it was still making acid or not, but if its pipes and vats were idle, their smell was not, for it descended into the street in sudden and sickening gusts.

Number 9 was the largest house in the street, and it looked the gloomiest. You could only imagine it existing in a perpetual series of dark Novembers. No sooner had Inigo set foot in it than he thanked God that he was not there alone. No wonder Mr. Oakroyd had talked about “a bit o’ company.” The bedroom was quite large enough for two of them and it seemed reasonably clean, but there was something strangely chill and depressing about it.

Inigo sniffed. “What is this queer smell? I’ve met it before. Wait a minute. I know. It’s just like the smell of old magazines. When I was a kid, I used to dig out ancient copies of the English Illustrated Magazine from the lumber-room, and they had a smell just like this. Odd, very odd!” He looked about him. “Not very jovial, is it? I feel as if there were a body in the next room.”

“There is,” replied Mr. Oakroyd grimly.

“What!” Inigo jumped.

“Well, it’s as good as one,” Mr. Oakroyd went on. “T’land-lady’s owd mother’s i’ there, ower eighty and bedridden. You’ll hear her coughing. I only hope she’ll last t’week out. They’ve all gotten summat wrong with ’em here. It’s war ner an infirmary. Mrs. Mord⁠—that’s t’landlady⁠—her you’ve just seen⁠—she’s not ower-strong⁠—”

“A bit blue about the face, certainly,” said Inigo gloomily. “I don’t know that I want to hear any more.”

“You might as well nar we’ve started. Her husband’s been off his work a long time⁠—he wor a clurk in one o’ them warehouses⁠—and I don’t know fairly what’s he’s got, but I’ve nivver seen a feller so swelled up, all purple he is and puffed up; it taks him five minutes to do owt for hissen and he can hardly talk. Eh, he’s in a bad way. You’ll be seeing him soon.”

“I won’t.”

“And you haven’t to excite him⁠—that’s what t’landlady says⁠—he hasn’t to be excited⁠—”

“I don’t want to excite him. I don’t want to set eyes on him. I’m sorry for him, very sorry for him⁠—he sounds like a human fungus⁠—Hello!⁠—what’s that?”

“That’s only t’owd lady coughing.”

Inigo breathed hard and looked thoughtfully at the things he was unpacking.

“Ay, they’re a rum lot here,” Mr. Oakroyd continued. “There’s a sort o’ young woman. I haven’t had a proper look at her, and Mrs. Mord says nowt about her, and I don’t know who she is.”

“For the love of Mike,” cried Inigo, “don’t tell me there’s something wrong with her too! It’ll finish me, absolutely.”

“Well, all I knaw is she doesn’t seem to do owt and there’s summat funny about her. When you’re going up and down t’steps or along t’passage, you suddenly see her face peeping out from nowhere and then she lets out a sort o’ laugh and next minute you hear her scampering away as if somebody wor after her. I’ve seen her three times nar and I’m getting a bit used to it⁠—”

Inigo had stopped unpacking. He was now sitting down and staring at his companion. “She sounds as mad as a hatter,” he said despairingly.

“Ay, I fancy she must be a bit soft. They seem to run to it here. There’s a feller at the the‑ater called Charlie and he’s not quite all there. No harm in him, yer know; just hasn’t got twenty shilling to t’pound.”

Inigo stood up. “I’m going,” he announced.

“Nay, lad, stick it, stick it! It’s best we can get. And I only got in here ’cos I said there’d be two of us.”

“There must be an hotel. I shall go to an hotel. You can come too.”

“Nay, I’m going to no hotel. I’ve takken these lodgings and I’m staying here. They’ve gone to a lot o’ bother to get it right for us. It’s all nowt. Stick it, nar you’re here.”

“All right,” Inigo replied gloomily. “I shall spend most of my time at the theatre. That’s the only thing to do. No wonder you said it was bloody awful. The adjective was justified, absolutely.”

“Eh, I wasn’t talking about this place,” said Mr. Oakroyd.

Inigo looked at him with horror. “What were you talking about then?”

“Well, t’general carry on. Town itself, to begin wi’, and t’the‑ater.”

“Theatre?” Inigo’s voice almost rose to a scream. “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong with that!”

But Mr. Oakroyd insisted upon telling him what was wrong with the theatre, and they were halfway through tea before he had done. “This Tewborough do’s a washaht,” he concluded, “and you can mak’ up your mind about that. We shall do nowt here.”

“This is where we look sick,” Inigo groaned. “I told you about last night, didn’t I? And everybody’s half dead today. All the way we’ve been saying that only a good week here will pull us together. Tewborough or death has been our motto, absolutely. Lord help us!”

It certainly looked, Mr. Oakroyd admitted, as he took out his pipe and packet of Old Salt, as if they were in for it.

III

“Talk about a frost!” cried Mrs. Joe, immediately after the performance on Monday night.

“You could skate on it for weeks,” said Susie gloomily. “And I’ll swear I’ve a temperature of 102.”

“And I’m sure you look it, my dear,” Mrs. Joe told her. Then she went on, passionately: “Was there an audience at all tonight? Was there anybody in the house? I thought I heard a sound once from somewhere, but was I mistaken? Does Tewborough know we’re here?” she asked wildly.

“It knows but it doesn’t care,” said Susie.

“I said to Joe last night: ‘Mark my words, Joe, this is going to be a bad week. I feel it in my bones,’ I said. Tomorrow, I shall spend most of the day in bed⁠—and what a bed, my dear!⁠—I’m sure it’s one of those beds that rise in the middle, like a camel. And the room has no outlook and no cosiness. Not over-clean and the walls all covered with photographs of Oddfellows. But I shall spend most of tomorrow in it, nursing myself, and, then I shall come down again tomorrow night, but if I’m no better the next day I shall not be here, I shall go sick. The last thing that can be said of me is that I disappoint my public, but what I have to ask myself now, my dear, is this: Have I got a public in Tewborough?⁠—and⁠—Is it worth it?” Mrs. Joe produced these questions with an air of triumph.

“No, it isn’t worth it,” said Elsie crossly, “and I wish you’d shut up. What’s the good of talking?”

“Jimmy looked really bad tonight, I thought,” Susie said reflectively.

“I expect we all looked bad.” Elsie sniffed hard. “I know I feel rotten enough, and feeling rotten isn’t a hobby of mine like it is of Jimmy’s. Me for some aspirin tonight. Come on, Susie, you are slow. Let’s get out of this thing they call a theatre. Theatre Royal⁠—my God! Theatre Dustbin⁠—if you ask me. Oh, ca‑ar‑m on!”

On Tuesday night there were exactly fifty-three people in the audience. It was miserable when they kept silent, and it was worse when they applauded, for then you seemed to hear the empty spaces mocking the thin faint clap-clap-clap. Not that they applauded often. All the heart had gone out of the Good Companions. They trailed through the performance, and the only time they showed any signs of liveliness was when their growing irritation got the upper hand. Elsie complained bitterly of Jerry Jerningham; Susie openly accused Inigo of murdering her accompaniments; and even the good-humoured Joe began grumbling. Several of them declared it was high time Mr. Oakroyd had learned his business, and were instantly told by that indignant little man to go and mind their own, which was, he asserted, “in poor fettle.” Jimmy Nunn was strangely listless, and it was queer and disconcerting to see him so quiet, so yellow, and shaky. Miss Trant, who felt very apologetic about her disastrous venture, though it was she and not the others who would suffer most from the certain dead loss on the week, tried to smooth out these prickly relations and to cheer everybody up, but the heart had gone out of her too. The dismal town and the miserable waif of a theatre kept her spirits forever sinking, for to leave one was only to encounter the other.

Wednesday brought a fog, not one of the choking yellow London horrors, but still a good thick blanketing fog, which settled on the town early in the morning and stayed there all day. The Good Companions sat huddled in their several rooms, trying to make the most of tiny fires and horsehair armchairs or sofas, reading papers that seemed to describe another planet, under greeny-white tattered gas-mantles, dozing and shivering and occasionally getting up to peer out of the steaming windows at the grey woolly nothingness outside. Of all of them, perhaps Inigo was the most cheerful, simply because the aspiring author in him now rose to the occasion. That author, who worked more fitfully than ever in these days, had not yet finished “The Last Knapsack,” having set it aside on the plea that wintry weather brought about an unpropitious atmosphere, but nevertheless he now made his appearance again.

“Off with the motley and on with the inkstand⁠—that’s what I say,” Inigo told Mr. Oakroyd, in their common sitting-room. “I was in the middle of a song, but I can’t think about songs now. The mood, the mood⁠—Master Oakroyd⁠—is dead against any pierrotry. I was intended to be a man of letters and not a mountebank, and today I begin an essay⁠—very bitter⁠—that I shall call ‘England’s Pleasant Land.’ It will deal with the town of Tewborough, with a few such other resorts thrown in, and will be devilish ironical, bitter, absolutely. It will relieve my feelings, and it’ll also make some of ’em sit up.”

“That’s the idear,” said Mr. Oakroyd, puffing comfortably at his pipe and beaming across the hearth at his companion. “If you can’t do it wi’ Tewborough, you’ll nivver do it with owt. But who’s these that’s going to be made to sit up?”

“Well⁠—er⁠—the⁠—er⁠—people responsible for such a state of things,” replied Inigo, vaguely but severely.

“I nivver knaw who they are,” Mr. Oakroyd confessed. “Other fowk allus knaws, though. It’s allus either capitalists or t’workingmen, or it’s this Parlyment or t’last, or it’s landowners and employers or it’s Bolshies. I can nivver mak’ nowt out on it mysen, can’t tell whose fault it is, but then I’m not one o’ t’clever sort. It’s allus all a right muddle to me. But you’ll mak’ summat owt on it, I dare say. And while you’re at it, just slip in a nasty piece about yon’ Droke who owns t’the‑ater. Put us i’ t’cart and right, he has. I call him a mucky mean old man, who owt to be going round wi’ a little rag-and-bone barrer, he owt. But get thysen going, lad. Get it aht o’ thy system.”

Inigo nodded gravely, lit a pipe, then without hesitation and with a fine flourish wrote at top of his first sheet: “England’s Pleasant Land: by I. Jollifant.” Nor did he stop there. He actually began the essay itself. “It is eleven o’clock,” he wrote. Having stared at this for a minute or two, he crossed it out and put in its place: “I have just looked through the window, which is gemmed with moisture.” This did not please him, so out it came, and he began a new sheet, at which he frowned for nearly ten minutes. Then he wrote: “Outside, this morning, the spoil of many clanking years⁠—”; crossed out “clanking”; crossed everything out; then drew six faces and absentmindedly decorated them with curly moustaches; then sighed, filled and lit his pipe again, and leaned back in his chair.

From the hall outside came the sound of a very slow dragging footstep. Mr. Oakroyd looked up from his newspaper.

“That’ll be Mr. Mord,” he announced, “and he’s coming in here⁠—if he can nobbut manage it.” Mr. Oakroyd said this with a certain relish, as if he rather liked breaking bad news.

Inigo groaned. We have already heard Mr. Oakroyd describe their landlady’s husband, and since then Inigo has had two encounters with the purple and swollen invalid. “I’m sorry for him, my heart bleeds, absolutely,” Inigo muttered quickly, “but I can’t stand having him about. It’s like watching a ghastly slow-motion film. Have I time to get out?”

He had not time to get out. There was a vague knock at the door. Then the door opened slowly, very slowly, a maddening inch or two at a time, and finally admitted the stricken Mr. Mord, who looked purpler and puffier than ever. He stood just inside the room for at least a minute, and then, having partly recovered from the journey, he produced, with all the care of a man saying something for the first time in a foreign language, the words: “Good morning, gen‑el‑men.” Then he nodded, very slowly. Then he smiled, and his smile was so leisurely that there was time to remark the appearance and disappearance of every crease in his dark swollen face. Then he made a step forward, then another step forward, then another. He saw a chair, seemed to examine it very thoroughly, and finally moved towards it. “I’ll take⁠—a seat⁠—if⁠—it’s all⁠—the same⁠—to you⁠—gen‑el‑men,” he said; and when he spoke it seemed as if every syllable was an achievement. Then he lowered himself into the chair, carefully placed a puffy hand on each knee, turned his head round slowly to look first at one and then at the other, and ended by attempting speech once more. “Seems⁠—to me⁠—a foggy⁠—morning,” was his verdict. “Used⁠—to get⁠—lot o’ fog⁠—here⁠—one time.”

“Rather, yes! Awful lot of fog! Nasty thing, fog! Never liked it myself.” Inigo found himself jerking out these idiotic phrases at what seemed an incredible speed. “Must excuse me now, Mr. Mord. Awfully busy. Have to rush off.” And off he rushed, at least until he found himself outside the room, when he stopped and wondered where to go and what to do. The bedroom was miserably cold and cheerless, and he would have to sit in his overcoat there and probably have to listen to the old woman coughing in the next bedroom. If he wandered about the house, at any moment he might meet that mysterious and terrifying female who peeped round corners, gave a sudden screech, and then went scampering away. On the other hand, he could not possibly stay in the sitting-room and watch Mr. Mord’s horrible slow-motion performance. He went to the front door and looked outside. It was chill and ghostly. He crept upstairs to his bedroom, snuggled under his overcoat on the bed, and read a stained old copy of Tom Bourke of Ours.

It was chill and ghostly too in the theatre that night. They played and danced and sang like people in a miserable dream. Nobody was completely laid up yet, but nobody was any better. There were more grumblings and complaints, and it looked as if there would soon be downright feuds between the various bickering and snarling members of the troupe.

On Thursday the fog turned into black rain. This was the day on which most of the shops closed in Tewborough and the surrounding districts, and there were hopes of a better audience for that night. Mr. Oakroyd, who had been round to the theatre for half an hour, returned in the middle of the afternoon to smoke a pipe with Inigo by the fire, and told him there were a few scattered bookings.

“Shop fowk here’s got a bit more to spend than t’other fowk, so happen we’ll ha’ summat like a nordience tonight,” he remarked. “But if it isn’t one thing, it’ll be t’other.”

“And what do you mean by that, my sage Bruddersfordian?” asked Inigo lazily.

“Bother wi’ t’troupe,” replied Mr. Oakroyd with great promptness. “Bound to be a bit of bust-up soon, mark my word. All at it. And some on ’em’ll get rough edge o’ my tongue afore so long an’ all, way they’re going on. And there’s owd Jimmy there, looking fit to drop, right poorly. And another thing. When I were going on, I saw yon Morton Mitcham coming out of a pub and I could see he’d had a few. Well, just afore I leaves the‑ater in he comes wi’ that chap, Finnegan⁠—both on ’em a bit goggly⁠—and they’ve getten a bottle o’ whisky wi’ ’em, a full un. They’ll be at it nar, pair on ’em. Just you keep yer eye on yon Mitcham tonight. If he isn’t three sheets i’ t’wind by tonight, call me a liar, lad.”

Inigo could not keep an eye on Mr. Mitcham before the performance began because Mr. Mitcham was nowhere to be seen. When the curtain went up, he was still missing. There were more people in the theatre that night than there had been on all the other three nights put together; the place was about half-full, a good many people having come in from neighbouring small towns and villages, and it had a livelier air; with the result that the players themselves felt more cheerful. The only exception was Jimmy Nunn, who was more listless and shaky than ever. At the end of the third item, a song by Joe, and while the audience was still clapping, Mr. Mitcham made his entrance. His makeup was very sketchy and he appeared to have a rather glassy stare. He was fairly steady but nevertheless contrived to knock a chair over before he sat down himself. For quite ten minutes, during which his assistance was not required, he sat, a huge huddled figure, staring at his banjo. At the end of that time, when Jimmy Nunn was about to announce the next item, Mr. Mitcham suddenly sat up and began playing. Jimmy, who had no idea what was wrong, stared at him, but there was no help for it. So Mr. Mitcham went on playing, very loudly and at top speed, and the rest of them had to pretend that it was part of the programme. Ten minutes, quarter of an hour, twenty minutes passed, and still Mr. Mitcham went twanging away, until at last the audience, half-admiring and half-bored, burst into applause. Then he stopped, staggered forward, bowed, and suddenly roared out: “La’ies shenelmen!⁠—one thing wanner say⁠—one thing⁠—thas all⁠—jus’ one.” And then, taking a deep breath, he bellowed: “Four times roun’ the worl’ ”; and bowed again. At this the audience applauded again, while the other performers, now stiff with horror, tried to look as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Smiling idiotically, Mr. Mitcham now held up a long shaky hand, and said: “Prosheeding ennertainmen’⁠—permission, la’ies an’ shenelmen⁠—few fea’s leshermain. Will any la’y⁠—any shenelman⁠—Any la’y⁠—Any shenelman⁠—any-any-anybody”⁠—he stopped for a moment⁠—“take-a-card?” And he held out his banjo.

Inigo, catching an agonized glance from Jimmy, immediately started playing as loud as he could, and Joe was able to hustle Mr. Mitcham off the stage in such a way that the incident appeared to be a well-rehearsed gag. Once in the wings, Joe took care that it should not be repeated, hurrying the protesting Mitcham down to the dressing-room, while the others went on with the performance.

Miss Trant always confessed that she went in terror of drunken men, but there was no sign of it that night. She was so angry that she insisted upon seeing Mr. Mitcham as soon as she could. Even when he rose or wobbled to his feet, towered above her, and brought out again that large idiotic smile, she found she was not at all frightened but only wanted to shake some sense and decency into the great silly old disgusting baby.

“Goo’ eening, Miss Tran’,” he said genially. “Goo’ housh to-ni’ and I gorrem goin’, didden I now?”

“Please go home at once, Mr. Mitcham,” she cried. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

He looked pained, and for a moment or two regarded her in silence with reproachful goggly eyes. “Mish Tran’, these not wordsh of a frien’,” and he wagged his head mournfully. “No, no, no. Who gorrem goin’? Didden I? Four time roun’ the worl’⁠—four times, mindjew⁠—Four⁠—an’ still gerring ’em goin’⁠—Morton Mitcham.”

She turned away in disgust and looked appealingly at Joe, who had not returned to the stage. “Come on, ol’ man,” said Joe. “Just you get yourself going.”

Mr. Mitcham seemed to regard this as a brilliant though bitter repartee. “Clever, clever,” he said, shaking his head, “bur nor wordsh of a frien’. Bur if I’m nor wanned, I’ll⁠—go.” And he suddenly went reeling away. Joe took charge of him, telling Miss Trant that he would be back at the theatre before the second half of the show began. For a moment now, Miss Trant felt inclined to go too, to turn her back on the wretched theatre and let herself cool down in her room at the hotel. She made up her mind that Mitcham should leave the troupe as soon as possible. She was still furious. To behave like that, just when things were so bad for her, was downright disloyalty, and the thought of it angered and then saddened her.

This was not the worst the evening had to offer, however, for in the middle of the second half of the show, Jimmy Nunn suddenly collapsed. He had sung one of his two songs⁠—or at least had struggled through it somehow⁠—and had made his first bow and then retired to the wings to make some slight change in his costume: Inigo was already playing the opening bars of the second song; when Jimmy, instead of changing, stared vacantly for a minute, gave a curious little moan, and would have fallen full length if Mr. Oakroyd, who was standing by, had not caught him in time. Under his comic makeup (as a postman) his face was deathly pale; his lips were blue; and there were horrible little convulsive movements in all his limbs. Mr. Oakroyd knew that poor Jimmy always carried a small flask of brandy about with him, and this was discovered in the dressing-room. Miss Trant, trembling, managed to force some of the brandy between the blue lips, while Mr. Oakroyd supported the head and shoulders. There was some confusion on the stage, but all the time Inigo was still playing the same idiotic pom-pom-poppa-pom, pom-pom poppa-pom for that second song which now might never be sung again. The audience was growing restive; there was some stamping of feet at the back.

Jimmy stirred; some colour returned to his cheeks; and he opened his eyes. He was able to sip a little more brandy.

“We must get a doctor,” said Miss Trant.

Jimmy shook his head. “No. No doctor,” he muttered. “All right in a minute. Carry on show.”

It was Mr. Jerry Jerningham, of all people, who took command of the situation now. He darted into the wings, exchanged a word with Miss Trant, then, pale but fairly composed, returned to the stage, stopped Inigo, and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, Ai regret to announce thet Mr. Jaymy Nen will nat⁠—are⁠—be able to continue his pawt of the⁠—er programme⁠—awing to ar⁠—sudden indisposition.” Here he stopped for a moment, and there was a noise somewhere in the auditorium. It seemed as if somebody was trying to get out in a hurry. “The next item⁠—ar⁠—will be a bahlad by Miss Stella Cavendish.” At which the audience clapped, as audiences always do; Mrs. Joe walked over to the piano, looking very dignified but in such a flutter that she spilled half her music; Mr. Jerningham, that intrepid exquisite, gravely took a seat; and the performance continued.

They got Jimmy to his dressing-room and he was still muttering that he did not want to see a doctor when there came the sound of voices from the corridor outside. “Well, I don’t knaw, Missis,” Miss Trant heard Mr. Oakroyd saying. The next moment a thin middle-aged woman in black had stalked into the dressing-room and, ignoring Miss Trant and Joe, was bending over Jimmy, who was staring at her with his mouth wide open.

“And how are you now, James?” she said, still examining him closely.

Recovering now from his first shock of surprise, he gave the ghost of a grin. “Not so bad, Carrie. What⁠—you doing here?”

“You look badly, James. I thought you did earlier on. It won’t do, James. You’re a sick man. You’re not fit to be sitting here, with that silly paint on your face. You want looking after.”

Miss Trant, who had been too astonished to speak at first and then had not known what to say, now made a slight movement.

“I dare say you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” said the determined woman, looking at Miss Trant with an unfriendly eye. “Well, I’m Mrs. Nunn. And as soon as they gave out he wasn’t well, I came round to see him. And it’s lucky I happened to be here. I knew you were coming here because two of your troupe I saw the other Sunday at Hicklefield Station told me you were coming. You saw me out of the window that day, James,” she added grimly.

“Yes, I did,” said Jimmy, and left it at that.

“Yes, yes, of course, I see,” said Miss Trant hastily. She felt very embarrassed. “We’ve been trying to persuade Mr. Nunn to see a doctor. I know he hasn’t been well all the week.”

“And never likely to be,” cried Mrs. Nunn scornfully. “Nothing proper to eat, wet clothes, and dirty lodgings, I know! He ought to be in bed now. Tewborough Theatre Royal! Well, he’s going to hear what I’ve got to say now. He’s heard it before but this time perhaps he’ll believe me.”

This left Miss Trant no alternative but to go and leave this strangely united pair alone. Joe had already stolen out, so now Miss Trant followed his example. About a quarter of an hour later, in the wings, she found herself confronted by Mrs. Nunn again, and it was quite obvious that that determined woman had decided what was to be done. The very look of her reminded Miss Trant of a coiled steel spring.

“James Nunn is coming with me,” she announced at once. “He’s in a poor way and I’m going to look after him. You must manage as best you can without him⁠—”

“Well, but naturally, I don’t want him to go on playing here when he’s so ill,” Miss Trant protested. This extraordinary woman seemed to imagine they were ready to drag poor Jimmy on to the stage if necessary. “But where⁠—I’m sorry, but I don’t quite understand⁠—where is he going?”

“With me,” replied Mrs. Nunn promptly and firmly. “I live about twelve miles away, between here and Hicklefield. I’ve got a shop. That’s why I came today, half-day closing. James Nunn’s gone his way and I’ve gone mine, but we’re husband and wife, nothing alters that, and I’m not going to stand by and do nothing when he’s in such a state. I told him where it would land him before he’d done but he wouldn’t have it. Now he’s beginning to learn.” She looked as if she were about to turn away, but brought out another remark as if it were a postscript. “Your troupe’s not got enough go in it, not half enough go; you want to keep them up to the mark better, Miss.” And with that she stalked away.

Miss Trant, gasping a little, stared after her, and wondered what she ought to do. Finally, she stayed where she was for another ten minutes or so, then went down to Jimmy’s dressing-room again. Jimmy would want to see her before he went, and after all she had a right to know what was going to happen to him. But the dressing-room was empty. It was incredible that they could have gone like that, without another word, but there it was; they could not be found. Jimmy’s astonishing wife had spirited him away, just as if she were a witch. “I shall believe in a minute she was a witch,” she told herself miserably, as she drifted back down the dingy smelly corridor. Her head ached and she felt ready to cry at any moment. Oh, this wretched, wretched Tewborough! She stayed to see the end of the performance, which had dwindled into a mere dismal sketch of their usual show, and to tell the others what had happened. Too tired and dispirited to join in their wild surmising and speculating, she crawled to her hotel, lay awake and listened to the black rain still falling on Tewborough, and felt alone in an ugly and incomprehensible world.

The next morning, as she sat scribbling letters over the coffee-room fire, a visitor was announced. It was Mr. Morton Mitcham. He looked ancient and bilious; longer than ever but more ruinous; and he seemed to come creaking into the room, an unmelodious jangle of bones. He came forward, one hand clutching his sad sombrero and the other nervously fingering the immense buttons of his overcoat, the Silver King. Miss Trant remembered this name for his overcoat⁠—she had forgotten all about it, and it returned unbidden⁠—and then she told herself that she could not possibly send him away. And in any case, with Jimmy absent, it would not be wise, she reflected.

“Miss Trant,” Mr. Mitcham began very solemnly, in his deep harsh drawl, “I am here to make what apology I can⁠—for last night. I understand that I nearly let down the show⁠—at a difficult time, too⁠—and I believe I also offended you personally.” His eyes stared hollowly at her above his sunken and yellow cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry indeed. I throw myself upon your mercy, believe me.”

“All right, Mr. Mitcham,” she said hastily. “I’m sure it won’t happen again⁠—”

“It will not happen again.”

“Very well, then”⁠—and she felt like this gigantic creature’s schoolmistress; it was absurd⁠—“we won’t say anything more about it.”

“Miss Trant, this is generous of you. It’s⁠—it’s wonderful.” Then, rather surprisingly, he stopped, lowered his massive, eyebrows, and looked at her with something like disapproval. “But it won’t do,” he went on, with an air of mournful reproach. “Something must be said about it. I ought to be ashamed of myself and I am ashamed of myself; but I doubt if I’m sufficiently ashamed of myself. Tell me here and now, Miss Trant, how disappointed and disgusted you are. For me, Morton Mitcham, the oldest and most experienced member of the party, the man who ought to see you through, the one trouper you ought to be able to depend on⁠—to behave like that! Gah!⁠—it makes me sick to think of it. And Jimmy ill too! The show right up against it! And what am I doing? Rub it in, Miss Trant, rub it in. Ask me how I’d like you to tell people that Morton Mitcham let you down. You can’t say too much or put it too strong,” he went on, just as if she really had said all these things. “I deserve it, every word of it.”

She could not help smiling. “If you insist, of course, I will say that I think you behaved very badly⁠—or at least very stupidly, and that I was really angry about it last night. In fact, I had made up my mind⁠—”

He held up a hand. “Pardon me for interrupting,” he said earnestly, “but there’s just one thing I’ve got to tell you. It couldn’t have happened anywhere but in this place. Tewborough, Miss Trant, has been my what’s-its-name⁠—my Waterloo. Yes, it’s downed me. I don’t know whether I’m getting too old for the road or what⁠—but here, in Tewborough this week, I’ve touched rock bottom.”

“So have I,” said Miss Trant, not without bitterness.

“I’m an old traveller, a bit of a vagabond, if you like,” he went on, with a certain mournful gusto, “but I’m an artist too. The temperament’s there, all the time, a lion waiting to pounce. I must have something⁠—a bit of adventure, a bit of good cheer, a hand from the audience, a new show going well, anything will do, I don’t ask for a lot. But in Tewborough⁠—so far as I’m concerned⁠—there’s been nothing. The place, the people, the rooms, the theatre, the show frozen out every night⁠—believe me, Miss Trant, I’m an old trouper, four times round the world, but I’ve nerves and all this has just got on ’em. I’ll put it to you frankly⁠—I’d just got to light the place up somehow, and yesterday I overdid the illuminations. And that’s how it is.”

“I understand,” she assured him. And she did. She could almost find it in her heart to envy him his toping. “It’s all been a mistake, I know,” she said wearily, “and I think we’re all having a bad time and suffering from nerves. It’s not like the same concert party. But you must help me out now, especially since poor Jimmy’s been rushed off somewhere⁠—I don’t know where⁠—by his wife. We’re in an awful muddle now.”

“Miss Trant,” he said very impressively, “you have here a man who’s going to see you through, whatever happens. Whatever you’re doing, making up a new programme, anything, you can count on Morton Mitcham. I’ll give half a show, if you like; it won’t be the first time I’ve done it. Only say the word, whatever it is, and I’m there.”

“Thank you,” she cried, still amused but also rather touched.

“Thank you.” And then he added gravely: “I should like to shake hands on that, Miss Trant, if you don’t mind.”

So they shook hands, and then Mr. Mitcham immediately became his cheerful and reminiscent self again and insisted upon telling her all about various places he had visited that were not unlike Tewborough, though it was hard for anybody but Mr. Mitcham to see any resemblance. Then he departed, after assuring her again that she had in him, Morton Mitcham, the man who would see her through, the man who was prepared, if necessary, to keep the show going by himself.

And that very night he was compelled to keep his promise in part, for a dreadful thing happened. Jimmy was absent; but then they had expected that. But Jerry Jerningham was missing too. At first they imagined he was merely late, and after waiting a few minutes they began without him, a sadly depleted troupe playing to a sadly depleted audience. No message had been received from him at the theatre, and finally Miss Trant sent Mr. Oakroyd round to his rooms to see what had happened. Meanwhile, the others carried on as best they could. The absence of both Jimmy and Jerningham made a terrible hole in the programme. Susie and Mr. Mitcham, however, contrived to fill up and supply some comic relief, gagging desperately. When Mr. Oakroyd returned, he had a story to tell that only heightened the mystery. “Woman at his lodgings doesn’t knaw where he is,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “He said nowt to her. But a car come this morning, she says, and he went off in it. He didn’t tak’ onny luggage⁠—she took notice o’ that, you can bet yer’ life, ’cos she’d want paying afore she’d let him tak’ owt away⁠—and he didn’t let on where he was off to or say owt at all to her. But it wouldn’t cap me,” he concluded, “if he hadn’t ta’en his hook bart luggage, just gi’n us the go-by.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Miss Trant rather peevishly, “so I can’t say whether I agree with you or not.”

Mr. Oakroyd shot a curious glance at her. This was not like Miss Trant. “I mean,” he said shortly, “he’s gone off, luggage or no luggage. I can’t say it plainer ner that.” It must be confessed that all their tempers were a trifle frayed by this time.

Miss Trant walked away without another word. It did not matter where Jerningham had gone, the fact remained that he was not where he ought to have been, that he had let them down. She was hurt, angry. When the interval came, she found that Elsie and Susie were no longer on speaking terms and that Mrs. Joe had a complaint to make about the conduct of Mr. Morton Mitcham, who seemed to imagine, Mrs. Joe observed, that the programme belonged to him. Miss Trant refused to listen to any of them. “Don’t be babyish,” she snapped, to their astonishment, and turned her back on them. She had had as much as she could possibly stand, she told herself; the whole week a grim fiasco, money thrown away; Jimmy ill, missing; Jerningham missing; the rest of them getting drunk or wrangling, not making the slightest attempt to help her out; no loyalty, no comradeship; the whole thing in ruins. She felt she was sick of it all. Here she was, stuck in this awful place, trudging through black streets, her time spent in either a dingy hotel or a dirty broken-down theatre, and this misery was costing her more than the most expensive holiday she could devise for herself. She could not hang about and watch the performance trailing to an end; she wanted to go to bed, to read something distant, gay, and adventurous, to forget Tewborough and its horrible Theatre Royal and the Good Companions⁠—the very name made her wince; but first, there was something to be done.

That was why, when the show was over, Mr. Oakroyd said to them all: “Miss Trant’s gone home, but you’ve to look at notice-board by t’door.” On the notice-board was a sheet of paper that summoned them all, in the name of E. Trant, to attend a meeting on the stage the following day, Saturday, at noon: Urgent.

IV

At noon on Saturday they were all there, not excluding Mr. Oakoyd, whose pipe was still in his mouth but quite cold and empty and whose little cap was as far back on his head as it could possibly go, two facts that proved beyond doubt that he was uneasy in his mind. They were all uneasy, subdued; and when they spoke their voices were quieter than usual. It was a morning as cold and grey as slate. Every few seconds one of them either coughed or yawned, and they all looked tired. Inigo, glancing every now and then at Susie, wondered if she too was ill, or all her sparkle was gone and she was pale and heavy-eyed. Nothing had been heard of either Jimmy or Jerry Jerningham, and they all had the air of being survivors after a shipwreck.

“I think you’ll agree,” Miss Trant began, with a curious return to her earlier half-nervous, half-detached manner and clipped speech, “that we’ve got to decide what’s to be done. To begin with⁠—about tonight. Is it worth while giving a performance at all?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Elsie. “Last night was ghastly. They’ll be throwing things tonight.”

“Preposterous!” This was from Mr. Morton Mitcham, who drew himself up to his full height and menaced Elsie with his eyebrows. “Why shouldn’t we give a show? There are six of us, aren’t there? I call it turning good money away not to give a show. Why, one of us⁠—just one of us⁠—is too good for Tewborough, let alone six of us. I’ve known the time when a whole drama and vaudeville show thrown in were done with less than six. I myself⁠—allow me to say⁠—”

“Oh yes, we know!” Elsie put in rudely. “Out there in Timbuktu, way back in Eighty-three, you worked miracles. We know all about that.”

“You know nothing,” said Mr. Mitcham with great scorn. “You haven’t had a chance to learn. You’ve been nowhere. You’ve seen nothing. Ignorance, that’s your trouble, young lady, sheer ignorance.”

“Oh, you go and⁠—” Elsie exploded.

“Now that won’t do, my dear,” Mrs. Joe cried hastily. “Do not let us forget ourselves, please. We’re having our Trials and Troubles I know⁠—or if I don’t, then who does, my word! But don’t let’s descend to Name-calling and⁠—and⁠—Baydinarge and Rudenesses.” And Mrs. Joe sat up erect, looked very dignified indeed for about two seconds, but then unfortunately was compelled to sneeze.

“Well, I say⁠—give tonight a miss,” said Elsie sullenly.

“And I say you’re rotten mean,” Susie blazed out, “to think of it. Here’s Miss Trant dropped an awful lot on the week and you don’t even want to give a chance to get something back. After all, it’s Saturday and there’s sure to be some sort of a house tonight. What’s the sense of turning the money away, as Mr. Mitcham says. We can give them a jolly sight better show even now than they can appreciate, if I know Tewborough.”

“Half a minute, though, Susie,” said Joe in his slow honest fashion. “It’s Miss Trant who’s asking us if it’s worth it, so I don’t see you can fairly blame Elsie for saying it isn’t. It seems to me it’s for Miss Trant herself to decide. I’m sure we’ll all do our best, but if she thinks this is going to give us a bad name, and it might, then she’d better call it off.”

“What do you think?” asked Miss Trant, turning to Inigo, to whom she felt closer, in this present mood, than she did to any of the others, for, like her, he was a newcomer to this world.

Inigo shrugged his shoulders. “It’s all the same to me. If it was a matter of leaving this graveyard of a town, I’d say, let’s go at once, for I believe it’s simply this place that’s done us in, absolutely. But if we’ve got to stay here, we might as well give the show tonight. It’s practice for us; it might brighten somebody’s evening here; and though I’ll bet all the money we take tonight won’t go very far, it’ll help you, Miss Trant, to bring down the loss a bit. On the other hand, if you say, Let’s pack up and go, on to the next place, over the hills and far away, I’m your man, absolutely.”

There was a murmur of assent, but Miss Trant sprang to her feet, walked a yard or two, then faced them all. “But now I come to the next thing,” she cried. “Are we going to other places? Is it worth while going on at all? That’s what I’m asking myself.”

She stopped and there was a little chorus of exclamations, through which the voice of Mrs. Joe could be heard repeating, in tragic tones: “I knew it. I knew it.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Miss Trant went on. “It’s not money I’m thinking about, though I’ve lost a good deal, as you must realize, especially this week. And you mustn’t imagine for a moment I’m rich, because I’m not. It was only because some money came unexpectedly that I was able to do this at all. But it isn’t that, though naturally it’s rather dreadful continually losing money. It’s something else⁠—” She hesitated.

“May I say something, Miss Trant?” said Elsie, rather sulkily. “If it’s this week that’s bowled you over, I hope you’ll remember you brought us here, that it was your idea taking this stinking brute of a theatre.”

“You are the limit,” cried Susie, looking as if she was ready to silence her forever. “Won’t you be quiet!”

“Why should I be?” demanded Elsie.

“Grrr!” There was exasperation, indignation, disgust, and we know not what beside in this fierce noise that Susie made.

But now she turned to Miss Trant: “You’re not really going to chuck it, are you, Miss Trant? I know we’ve done badly so far, but really we haven’t had a chance yet.”

“Not a dog’s,” said Joe gloomily.

“I realize that just as well as you do,” Miss Trant told them. “It’s not that at all. It’s⁠—it’s⁠—what has happened this week that makes me feel I’ve had enough of it. Oh, I know this place has been awful and I brought you here. I never ought to have rented this dreadful, abominable theatre⁠—I know that⁠—I made a mistake, and I’m paying dearly for it. But you might have stood by me⁠—”

“Stood by you, Miss Trant!” cried Mrs. Joe, throwing up her hands and glancing round with a look of deep despair. “Never was any manager of mine so stood by as you’ve been by me this week. If it had been Drury Lane I couldn’t have done more, and wouldn’t have done so much. Night after night, I’ve come here rising from a Sickbed. ‘No,’ I said to Joe, when he begged me to stay in and look after myself, ‘my Duty’s there. If it was anybody but Miss Trant, I wouldn’t do it,’ I told him. Weren’t those my very words, Joe?”

“That’s right,” said Joe, staring very hard at nothing in particular.

“I’ve no doubt whatever you did your best, Mrs. Brundit,” Miss Trant went on, a trifle wearily. “But I can’t get away from the feeling that the party as a whole has let me down this week. This was my special venture⁠—I admit it’s turned out to be a very silly one⁠—and you ought to have backed me up. Instead of that, the party has gone to pieces⁠—”

“You can’t blame us because Jimmy had a heart attack or whatever it was,” Elsie interrupted. “And as for some people⁠—” She stopped and looked significantly at Mr. Mitcham, who for his part tried not very successfully to pretend she wasn’t there.

“Yes, yes, that was our bad luck,” cried Miss Trant impatiently. “That couldn’t be helped, but other things could⁠—quarrelling, not bothering about the show, not trying to make the best of it, leaving the rest of us in the lurch⁠—oh, you must know what I mean! If you don’t, it doesn’t matter; I’m only trying to explain myself. I feel the whole thing’s gone to pieces.”

“I’ll never, never forgive Jerry Jerningham as long as I live for going off like that,” Susie exclaimed.

“That boy’s yellow,” said Mr. Mitcham, and he said it in such a way as to hint that he had known this all along and was rather surprised that the others had not noticed it too.

“I suppose he has gone,” Susie said doubtfully.

“Yes, he must have gone,” Miss Trant replied, with a kind of weary contempt in her voice. “He’s left his things behind, but probably he preferred to go without them rather than stay here. You called again this morning, didn’t you?” she asked Mr. Oakroyd, who was dismally sucking his empty pipe in the background.

“Ay, I went and left t’message to say we was having a bit of a meeting here, if he came back. T’landlady said she’d heard nowt, and I fancy by t’look on her she’d just been takking stock o’ his booits and shirts and collars to see how much they’d fetch in case she heard no more on him.”

“We’ve seen the last of that bright boy,” said Elsie. “He’d a lot to say about Mildenhall, when he went and did the dirty on us, but he’s no better himself, as he’ll hear from me if ever I set eyes on him again.”

“Well there you are,” Miss Trant told them. “The first real test⁠—and⁠—look what’s happened. Can you blame me if I feel we can’t go on? It’s not been easy for me to do what I have done⁠—I don’t mean about money, but simply that I knew nothing about the Stage and didn’t understand this life⁠—I had to take what seemed to me an awful sort of plunge. And what attracted me, I think, more than anything at first was the way you were all so loyal and kept so cheerful and friendly under the most horrible conditions. And now⁠—well⁠—I’m afraid I don’t see it like that any more.”

After her voice had trailed away into silence, nobody spoke, nobody stirred, for what seemed quite a long time. It was so quiet that they could hear, coming from the forgotten world into that strange shrouded place, the sound of the factory buzzers in the town.

Then Susie stood up. “No, I suppose I can’t blame you, Miss Trant,” she said tonelessly. “But⁠—oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am.” There were tears in her voice now, and she swung round and walked to the side of the stage, where Mr. Oakroyd was standing.

“Nay, lass,” he said, “tak’ it easy, tak’ it easy.” Then he rubbed his chin hard, tried to push his cap further back still, finally pushed it off his head altogether, picked it up and jammed it on again, then stepped forward and manfully spoke up. “Nar then,” he began, “I don’t suppose onny on yer want to hear what I’ve got to say, but as nobody seems to be saying owt just nar, happen you’ll listen a minute. And I say, Stick it. Don’t give up, Miss Trant. Have another do at it. Nar don’t get into your head I’m saying this ’cos I don’t want to lose mi’ job⁠—I don’t want to lose it, I’ll tell you straight, specially nar as I knaw t’ropes⁠—but it isn’t that. I fair hate thought o’ a thing coming to nowt afore it’s got started. Nivver let it be said that this here Tewborough took all t’heart out on us. Tewborough be damned, I say. We can show it.”

“That’s the stuff, Master Oakroyd,” cried Inigo enthusiastically. “I’m with you there, absolutely.”

“It’s nobbut a matter o’ turning a corner,” said Mr. Oakroyd earnestly addressing himself to Miss Trant. “It’s allus same wi’ iverything. Stick it, get round t’corner, and you’re there. Gi’ this up nar and it’s all flummoxed, might as well nivver ha’ started. Nobbut go on a bit, and you nivver knaw, happen in a fort-nit or fower week you’re coining brass and they can’t mak’ enough on you. Nay,” he cried reproachfully, “we’re on t’road, aren’t we? There’s down’s as well as ups. This here’s down all right. What of it? We’ll get on t’road agen, chance it, and⁠—mark my words⁠—if we’re not up, right at top o’t’tree, a’most afore you can say Jack Robi’son, nay, I’ll eat this cap.” And Mr. Oakroyd, carried away by his own eloquence, plucked off his cap, held it out, jammed it on his head once more, and turned away.

“Darling!” cried Susie tearfully as he passed her.

He replied by giving her a wink, not a jolly impudent wink but a stammering embarrassed wink, which announced that he knew quite well that he had been making a fool of himself. It would take a man years to live down such an emotional outburst in Bruddersford.

There was hardly time for the others to say anything before the voice of Mr. Oakroyd, this time raised in expostulation, was heard again, coming from that part of the theatre to which he had retired. Everybody looked up and waited expectantly. Something was about to happen, their attitudes said, and they were glad of it.

A large, glittering, jangling woman charged into the centre of the group on the stage, and looked about her wildly.

“Lady Partlit!” cried Susie and Inigo together, at once recognizing their acquaintance of the hotel outside Hicklefield.

“Yes, yes. How d’you do? Of course!” Lady Partlit babbled, trying to see everyone at once, so that she seemed to be spinning like a top. “I’m sorry to come like this. Must be intruding. But they told me⁠—here. Is he here? Oh, where is he?” And she beat her little fat hands together.

Miss Trant was staring, amazed. “I don’t understand,” she began blankly. “Who⁠—what⁠—is it⁠—?”

Susie darted forward. “Is it,” she gasped, “Jerry Jerningham?”

Lady Partlit was at once so excited, anxious, confused, that she looked exactly like an agitated parrot. “Yes, of course, Mr. Jerningham. It’s been all all a mistake, I assure you, and of course I can explain everything to him when I see him. Are you sure, are you really sure, he’s not here? Because,” she concluded wildly, “he’s gone.”

They assured her that Mr. Jerningham was not there, and would have asked her all manner of questions⁠—for they were all bursting with curiosity⁠—but she did not give them time. “Miss Trant, are you?” she went on, rushing across to jangle in front of that astonished woman. “So disturbing for you, of course, and so nice of you not to mind about my coming like this.” Then she rushed back to Susie, whom she apparently regarded as the one member of the party likely to be sympathetic. “A complete misunderstanding from beginning to end, I do assure you, Miss Bean, Miss Dean, and all meant in the friendliest way. But he simply went off, went off without a single word, and I was sure I should find him here. And of course you’re all thinking it’s so strange of me, coming and behaving like this, intruding too, but I had to come if there was any chance at all of explaining to him, you see. And of course it’s worse than ever, with no one here knowing anything about him.”

“He’s been missing for two days,” said Susie.

“Yes, I know that. That I can explain,” Lady Partlit began, when a sound made her look across and she gave a little scream. “There you are,” she gasped.

And there Mr. Jerningham was, looking anything but his usual exquisite self. He jumped and turned crimson at the sight of Lady Partlit, who now hurried across the stage towards him.

“Go away,” he screamed, backing a step or two.

“But it’s all been a mistake⁠—”

“Ai don’t waarnt to hear anything,” he shrieked. Then, with mounting fury, he added: “Thet man took away mai trousers. He deliberately took them away. You told him to.”

“Only to brush them,” Lady Partlit wailed.

“Nat to brush at all,” Mr. Jerningham cried, wagging a finger at her. “He just took them away. Then he laughed at me. Look, look, what Ai had to put on.” And everybody looked at once and discovered with joy that Mr. Jerningham was wearing a pair of very dirty khaki trousers of a kind that might possibly be used by an under-gardener faced with a morning’s rough work. When Mr. Jerningham saw all their eyes fixed upon his awful trousers, he was angrier than ever with poor Lady Partlit, and told her to go away at once and that he never wanted to set eyes on her again. Distressed and still babbling, she was led away by Susie, who accompanied her to the stage door.

“Very sweet of you, my dear, I’m sure,” said Lady Partlit, brokenly, tearfully. “I felt so unhappy about it, and you will say as little as you can, won’t you? I’ve an old friend lives near here, not twenty miles away, and I came specially to see⁠—to see you all. That was on Thursday, and then I sent a note, just a friendly note, to Mr. Jerningham, and sent the car round for him, to bring him out. I thought⁠—he’s so clever, isn’t he?⁠—and I thought I might be able to help him, though I didn’t tell him that, my dear, didn’t tell him how I might be able to⁠—you know⁠—assist him in his career, because I thought⁠—well, we ought to be friendly first, because you can help a friend, can’t you? And then of course I never knew my friend would be called away like that, and never dreamt for a moment there would be that difficulty with the car on Friday afternoon, and I do assure you, my dear, that it was all a mistake and a misunderstanding about the⁠—the trousers. He’s so bitter about them, isn’t he? I’m sure he’ll never forgive me, but perhaps some time soon, you’ll perhaps just⁠—er⁠—say something to him, will you? But of course don’t talk about it, will you? I know I can rely on you not to do that. And if there’s anything, anything, I can do for you, at any time, my dear⁠—you’re so clever too, aren’t you? And it’s been so nice of me⁠—I mean, of you⁠—that is, so nice seeing you again, hasn’t it? Do I⁠—Oh, here⁠—yes, of course. Dear, dear, I must stop one minute before I go out⁠—so upsetting rushing in like this, and then⁠—everything such a mistake⁠—hasn’t it? Goodbye.”

Susie stood looking after her a moment, drew a deep breath, then returned to the stage, humming a little tune that seemed to amuse her. Mr. Jerningham was still apologizing and protesting to a bewildered Miss Trant, but he gave no sign of being willing to gratify everybody’s curiosity. Susie took him aside as soon as she could. “Do you know who that was?” she inquired, not without malice.

“Mai dear Susie,” he protested, “down’t talk about that harrible woman. She’s a fet middle-aged vemp, thet’s what she is.”

“You know she’s Lady Partlit and very rich, don’t you?” Susie went on.

“As a metter of feet, Ai do,” he replied loftily, “and Ai don’t care.”

“But what you don’t know, my dear Jerry,” she continued softly, “is that she practically controls two West End theatres, mostly running musical comedies and revues.”

“Mai God!” Mr. Jerningham turned pale and looked at her with horror. “And to think⁠—!” The thought was too much for him, but as he looked away it chanced that he caught sight of the trousers he was wearing. “Ai don’t care,” he said stoutly, “she shouldn’t have told the man to take mai trousers.” Nevertheless, he was thoughtful for some time, and it was many weeks before he completely lost a certain brooding air.

“Of course, this does make some difference,” Miss Trant was saying, when they returned to her side. She let the others chatter a little while she considered their position. She did not understand yet exactly what had happened to Jerningham, but it was quite clear that he had not deliberately absented himself. He had vehemently insisted on the fact that it was no fault of his he had missed last night’s show, and was genuinely indignant at the suggestion that he had failed them.

“Nar then,” cried the voice of Mr. Oakroyd triumphantly, “what about this?” Somebody was with him.

“Well, boys and girls!”

“Jimmy!” cried Susie, rushing at him. The next moment they were all round him, nearly shaking his hand off.

“There’s a doctor in Mirley⁠—that’s where I’ve been⁠—who’s a marvel, a wonder, a miracle,” Jimmy announced solemnly. He still looked rather pale and shaky, but he was obviously much better. “He’s only young and he’s got a bit of a squint and his teeth stick out⁠—but, let me tell you, he could raise the dead, that chap. I went to see him, and he talked and tapped, and tapped and talked, until I got fed up. ‘All right, doc,’ I says, ‘don’t mind me. Give me six months and get ready to sign in the space provided for that purpose on the form.’ He laughed. ‘Nonsense,’ he says, ‘I can make a new man of you. When did you see a doctor last?’ So I told him. Four years ago. ‘Thought so,’ he says. ‘And what have you been doing to yourself since?’ So I told him. Trying this and that. ‘Thought so,’ he says again. ‘Now you listen to me.’ And he gives me some medicine to take and tells me what to do with myself. Then it was my turn, and by this time the wife wasn’t in the room. ‘Have I to stop here and do no work?’ I asked him. ‘Because if so, I shall be dead anyhow. If you tell me right out,’ I told him, ‘to get back to the boards, where I belong, you’ll complete the cure. And don’t just tell me,’ I says, ‘but tell my wife as well.’ So he told me to see him again and then he’d let me know. I tipped him the wink all right. He knew what was what. ‘Do him no harm to get back to work,’ he said this morning. ‘May do him good.’ Collapse of the opposition! So here I am, Miss Trant, boys and girls, and so long as I take one dose before meals and one after, I’m fit and ready to crack the old wheezes.”

“We were only talking just now, Jimmy,” said Joe, “about whether we could give a show at all tonight.”

“Give a show tonight!” cried Jimmy. “I should think we do give a show tonight, if I’ve to give it all by myself. Tonight, one hundred and twenty-five members of the Mirley and District Cooperative Society⁠—prevented, owing to un‑fore‑seen cir‑cum‑stances, from having their monthly whist-drive and dance are coming to Tewborough, and for what?⁠—to see the Good Companions at the Theatre Royal, where they will occupy the dress circle on special terms given ’em by Mr. Nunn. Now let’s get busy and see if we can’t pack the house.”

“Let joy and what’s-its-name be unconfined,” roared Inigo, doing a little step-dance. “Now what do you say, Miss Trant?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Do the Good Companions go on?”

“They do,” she replied, smiling and flushing a little.

“We’ll learn ’em yet,” said Mr. Oakroyd, perspiring with enthusiasm. “We will an’ all. Tewborough ’ull noan do us down. Tewborough’s nowt. It’s getten a right slap in the eye this morning.”

They played well that night, and a circle packed with members of the Mirley and District Cooperative Society was not slow to appreciate their efforts. (Even the Treasurer, a deacon at the Baptist Chapel who had misgivings about any form of entertainment that ventured further than a cantata, was heard to laugh several times.) “I don’t say it’s been a riot,” Susie observed, when the show was over, “but I’ll swear it’s the nearest Tewborough’s got to a riot since the Number Two Touring Company of A Royal Divorce first came here in the year Dot. And we pulled together, didn’t we, children?”

The children admitted that they had and returned to their various lodgings, which were all either so dismal or sinister that already a place had been found for them in the archives, with the cue⁠—“My dear, did you ever play a hole called Tewborough?” well content, happy in the knowledge that the party was itself again and that tomorrow it would seek fresh streets and lodgings new. Thus ended the Black Week.