I

Elsie finished with the show on the last Saturday at Mundley, when she had been given a most successful Benefit Night, concluding with genuine tears and bouquets. Jimmy had already slipped down to Birmingham to interview and book her successor, Miss Mamie Potter. This first week of their return to the Gatford Hippodrome was going to be exciting. The new soubrette was due to arrive on Monday morning, to rehearse in the afternoon, to appear at night. Then on Wednesday there was Elsie’s wedding, which was to be celebrated out at the Dulver’s hotel on the London Road. They were all going and the bus had already been ordered. Then on Saturday there was to be another Grand Benefit Night⁠—you could see the bills plastered all over the town⁠—this time for Miss Susie Dean, our popular comedienne. Next Saturday was Susie’s twenty-first birthday. And she was giving a tea party first, and there was to be some sort of jollification, only vaguely outlined, as yet, after the show. Moreover, the Hippodrome would be packed out every night, as they all knew, with enthusiastic Gatfordians. Here was excitement enough for hardworking professionals. What a week!

Yet all was not well with them. The old members of the troupe, Jimmy and Mitcham and the Brundits, were still quietly in despair about the Bournemouth offer, not yet accepted. Miss Trant seemed so dreamy and remote these days that she was considered unapproachable for the time being. It was very odd, but there it was. Business was never better, and, on the other hand, nothing bolder had been attempted for years in the C.P. world than Miss Trant’s present venture, the renting of the Hippodrome, on stiff terms, with some nasty clauses slipped in; and yet⁠—so fantastic is the sex, as Jimmy and Mr. Mitcham pointed out to one another⁠—she did not seem to be bothering her head about it at all. But then all the young people were rather queer. Jerry Jerningham was more aloof and mysterious than usual, and was thought to be up to something, though nobody knew what. In spite of birthday and benefit⁠—or because of them⁠—Susie was still restless, rather snappy at times, and given to wriggling her pretty shoulders at people who asked the simplest and friendliest questions. She had snubbed poor Inigo so often lately that now he kept out of her way, stalked about with a new and purposeful air, and was understood to be hard at work revising the eight numbers he had written for them, which he called his Tripe à la mode de Jazz⁠—to the entire mystification of his friend, Mr. Oakroyd. Success had come at last, but all these young people seemed to be taking it the wrong way, which proved conclusively to Mr. Mitcham that young people were not what they were when he had been a young person.

Mr. Oakroyd was mystified by many things these days. He was as interested as any of the others in the events of the near future. In his own fashion he shared any excitement that was going. Nevertheless, he found himself brooding somewhat darkly on Canada and 51 Ogden Street and the destiny of the Good Companions. He had never been very fond of Elsie, but she was “one o’ t’owd lot,” and the fact that she was going and another taking her place troubled him more than it did any of the others. Perhaps he alone, from out of the depths of his philosophy of Sudden Change, felt that this coming week would take them all much further than they ever imagined, that the exciting plans they had made for it were nothing compared with some other plans already being laid down for them by the old powers, the conspiracy of the wind and the stars. The thread we saw dangling before him⁠—so long ago, it seems!⁠—as he walked up Manchester Road, Bruddersford, after the match, that thread, its colour changing, deepening, is now running faster and faster; and perhaps he has heard⁠—in a dream, through some Old Salt reverie⁠—the rattle of its winding spool.

The first thing that happened, of course, was Miss Mamie Potter. Jimmy had said that she was young but experienced, had no voice to speak of but danced well, and would do. When pressed more closely, he always pointed out that people who were in a hurry could not pick and choose as long as they liked, and that for his part he did not pretend to be able to work miracles. There was thought to be something queer, fishy, about this. The arrival, the rehearsal, the appearance on the stage, of Miss Potter soon settled the question. Jimmy had no good solid reason for not engaging her, and so he had engaged her, but some instinct must have warned him that all was not well. On the stage she was adequate enough; as a matter of fact she was better than Elsie had ever been. But off the stage, Miss Mamie Potter was insufferable. Within less than twelve hours of her first arrival at Gatford station, she had put all their backs up; and it was clear that she was indeed a born putter-up of backs.

Miss Potter had a sleek, almost electroplated, blonde head; no eyebrows; very round blue eyes; a button of a nose, so small and heavily powdered that it resembled the chalked end of a billiard cue; and a mouth that was a perpetual crimson circle of faint astonishment. The upper half of her, her neck and shoulders and the thin arms ending so curiously in little dumpy hands, was poor; but her legs were really beautiful. It was as if she were being carried about by two fine sonnets. Those two exquisite, twinkling silky calves of hers seemed to be always making charmingly witty and impudent comments on the world. If she had never done anything but walk a little way in front of depressed males, she would have been a notable public benefactor, distributing a sense of the joy of life. Unfortunately, she talked; and she talked in a kind of idle, staring voice, and the result was havoc. Her perpetual opening “I say” was very soon a storm signal.

“I say,” she said to Mr. Oakroyd, after she had known him about quarter of an hour, “you seem to get a lot of your own way here, don’t you? You’re only the props, aren’t you?” Mr. Oakroyd regarded her with astonishment and rubbed his chin hard. “Ay, that’s all,” he replied finally. “Nobbut a sort o’ dog like. Just let me knaw if you hear me speaking out o’ my turn. You mun just set us right as you go on. We knaw nowt.” This speech might have puzzled and possibly quietened some people, but Miss Potter merely gave it a little condescending nod and then strolled away. “I say,” she said to the horrified Morton Mitcham, “some of those card tricks of yours are pretty ancient, aren’t they?” Equally ancient, in her opinion, were Jimmy’s gags and Mrs. Joe’s ballads. “I say,” she remarked to Susie, “you seem to go down here very well, but they’re letting you dig an awfully big hole in the programme, aren’t they?” This was after the show on Monday night. It had been a rather queer performance. The house was crowded and as generally enthusiastic as ever, but from somewhere at the back of the pit (which was the cheapest part of the house, there being no gallery at the Hippodrome) there had come, at odd times, various loud jeers and hootings and catcalls, obviously resented by most people in the audience, though now and then raising a laugh. This had never happened before, and they were all talking about it after the show. The furious Susie told Mrs. Joe that it must be Mamie Potter, but this did not satisfy Mrs. Joe or anybody else, not even Susie herself.

On Tuesday morning, the wind had dropped to a mild breeze and a little watery sunshine crept over the Midlands. Miss Trant, still unsettled by her visit to Hitherton, still haunted by the daffodils and the bursting crocuses of the Cottage garden, decided that she must have some light and air, and so took Susie and some sandwiches for a run in the car.

“It’s heavenly to see the country again,” cried Miss Trant, when they had left the car factories and the Triangle trams a long way behind. “I wish you could stay with me at Hitherton, some time, Susie. Do you think you would like the country?”

“Oh, I adore the country,” cried Susie in her turn. She had imagined herself saying that, more than once, in interviews. She asked for nothing better, she always told the imaginary journalist, a young man, very nice, very respectful, than to retire to her little country place⁠—just a cottage where she could do everything for herself (see photograph). But what she did not know, that morning, was that very soon, sooner than she expected, she really would be giving those interviews. “I’ve never seen enough of it,” she went on, “because I’ve spent nearly every bit of my time in towns⁠—usually awful holes. If the country only had theatres and shops and people, it would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”

Miss Trant laughed, then took the car into the side of the road, and stopped, “We can eat our sandwiches here, don’t you think?”

Susie sniffed the air appreciatively. “It feels quite strong, doesn’t it?⁠—the air, I mean. It’s so funny not to get it secondhand, used up a bit. I’ve been brought up on that kind, and this sort makes me feel a bit tight. Really it does. I want to giggle.” She skipped out of the car and pirouetted a little on the shining grass. Then she looked down ruefully. “Jolly wet, though. That’s the nuisance about the country, though, isn’t it?⁠—It’s so wet and muddy. When it does dry up, it suddenly gets dusty then, and if you go a walk you’re absolutely choked and too thirsty to speak and your shoes are too tight all of a sudden.”

They ate sandwiches. “I wonder what the very superior Miss Potter thinks about us all this morning,” Miss Trant remarked. “You don’t like her, do you?”

“Like her!” cried Susie. “She made me feel like murder last night. She did everybody. And as for thinking this morning, she won’t have started yet. I know. She’ll be just getting up now, wiping the cold cream off her face. Honestly, she’s poisonous. She’ll have us all quarrelling like mad within a week. They always do, that kind. You just watch. Jimmy ought to have known, even if he was in a hurry and she sounded all right. A woman would have spotted what she was right off.”

“Perhaps she’ll improve in a day or two,” said Miss Trant, rather indifferently. “I must admit she was rather terrible yesterday.”

“Did she say anything to you?” Susie inquired. “I’ll bet she did.”

“Oh yes. I wasn’t left out, I assure you, Susie. She strolled up to me and said: ‘I say, I don’t quite see why you’re doing this, you know. This isn’t your line at all, is it?’ ”

“She would! The cheek! How that girl’s come to live so long beats me.” Having relieved her feelings, Susie grew thoughtful, stole a glance or two at her companion, then said, finally: “But it isn’t your line, is it?”

“I never said it was,” Miss Trant replied.

“No, of course not,” Susie went on. “Don’t think I’m going to be cheeky now. Or if you do, stop me. And I can promise you now that I’m not going to say a word about Bournemouth, not going to mention the place.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Miss Trant demurely. “As a matter of fact, the others haven’t mentioned it lately⁠—”

“No, they just look it now,” cried Susie. “I’ve noticed them. Their eyes go rolling ‘Bournemouth’ at you. Honestly, don’t they? I noticed Joe⁠—poor darling!⁠—yesterday staring at you, like a sick cow, and I really thought something was the matter with him until it dawned on me he was trying to stare you into telling him something about the Bournemouth offer. But what I was going to say was this⁠—Aren’t you really getting a bit tired of us?”

“Gracious no!”

“Honestly now?”

“Not a bit. I won’t include Miss Mamie Potter⁠—”

“Gosh! I should think not.”

“But I assure you I’m not in the least tired of the rest of you, of the party. I’m like you, Susie. I’m feeling restless, not knowing what I want to do but only knowing what I don’t want to do. The thought of our spending a whole summer on the South Coast somehow doesn’t attract me at all.”

“I know. But what does attract you?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” Miss Trant replied, as lightly as possible, though it was quite obvious she was in earnest.

“That’s me all over⁠—up to a point,” Susie remarked. “I do know what I want, though⁠—and a fine fat chance I’ve got of getting it! Inigo annoys me. Doesn’t he you?”

“No. Why should he?” Miss Trant was amused.

“Don’t laugh; it’s serious. Well, he could do something, and he just doesn’t. He’s so feeble⁠—just the amah‑teurrr, you know ab‑so‑lutely.” Here Susie gave a vindictive imitation of Inigo’s careless tones. “When he follows me round, looking like a dying duck⁠—and yet won’t do anything⁠—and is so high-and-mighty about the bits of things he writes for papers⁠—though no paper will ever have them⁠—and won’t bother about his songs, though they might get him anywhere⁠—oh, I could beat him, I really could. And then if I say something nasty to him, instead of answering back or putting his tongue out or giving me a good shaking⁠—”

“Which I’m sure you’ve deserved,” Miss Trant put in.

“He just looks at me⁠—like the Norphan Child⁠—and walks away, and then stays away, sulking. He makes me furious. Not that it really matters, of course, what he does. But just now, when I’m dying for a chance myself, it’s enough to make me sick to see somebody who has a chance not doing anything. So that’s that. And now you can laugh, if you like. Let’s go, shall we?”

On the way back a curious thing happened. The side-road they were on joined the main road about ten miles out of Gatford, and it chanced that when they arrived at the turning the traffic on the main road, consisting for the most part of new cars from Gatford, was thicker than usual, so that they pulled up for a minute or two. Miss Trant was idly watching the procession of cars when suddenly she stared intently and gave a little gasp. The next moment she was standing up trying to obtain a last glimpse of a car that had gone past them, there on the main road, and in the opposite direction from Gatford. The moment after she was sitting down again, still wide-eyed and a trifle pale.

“What’s the matter?” cried Susie.

“I thought I saw someone I know⁠—or used to know,” Miss Trant replied shakily.

Susie looked at her. Then she burst out in triumph: “It’s that man you once told me about, isn’t it? Doctor McIntyre or whatever his name is? The one on the boat.”

“Doctor McFarlane. Yes, I thought it was. But it was all so quick. Besides⁠—oh, it’s absurd!”

“Why is it absurd? I don’t see it. Couldn’t he be here as well as anywhere else? Haven’t you ever tried to find out where he is?”

“No, I haven’t,” Miss Trant replied not very firmly. “Why should I?”

“Why should you!” Susie was both sympathetic and derisive. “If it was me, I should know all about him. Doctors ought to be easy to find. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if you didn’t feel well and sent for a doctor, and then he came and said: ‘What, you!’ You don’t know. He may have been in Gatford or Mundley or Stort or somewhere round here all the time. Let’s get back at once and find out. If you don’t, I will.”

It was useless for Miss Trant to protest, and indeed she did not protest very much. Once back in Gatford, Susie made for the nearest telephone directory and was so excited that she could hardly turn the pages. Susie was always wildly romantic on other people’s behalf, and is to this day. But no Dr. Hugh McFarlane was to be found in the telephone directory, which cast a wide net in the district. This was rather a blow for Susie, but she was not daunted. She pestered Miss Trant until that embarrassed lady was compelled to admit there was such a thing as a Medical Directory, where any doctor might be found. She was also compelled to admit that she had never examined one. “And how you couldn’t beats me,” cried Susie. “It’s no use you saying you don’t want to know, because you do.”

“But it’s all so ridiculous,” the other protested. “I haven’t seen him for years. He’s probably forgotten my existence.”

“And probably not,” Susie told her. “The sort of man you’d like probably wouldn’t, though I must say I wouldn’t give most men six months. I believe,” she added shrewdly and boldly, “you’re frightened. I’m being really cheeky now, I know, but it’s because I’m so fond of you. And I hate to think of you just looking after us and then sitting alone reading about the three musketeers or Robin Hood or whatever it is you do read about, when there may be, somewhere round the corner, a marvellous Scotch doctor who”⁠—and here Susie became very dramatic⁠—“when he comes back to his lonely house, late at night, after performing all sorts of operations⁠—and ‘Bless you, doc!’ the poor people say⁠—I got that from a film⁠—sits in his chair and smokes a pipe and thinks of you⁠—and already his hair is turning grey at the temples⁠—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Susie,” cried Miss Trant, crimson, half-laughing, half-angry. “I shall really be cross if you don’t.”

“All right then, I will,” said Susie, preparing to depart. They were at Miss Trant’s hotel now. “But I shall go round to the Free Library and see if they’ve got that book with all the doctors in. You can’t stop me doing that. Goodbye.”

And about three-quarters of an hour later Miss Trant was called to the telephone. It was Susie. “I daren’t come round, and I couldn’t wait,” said Susie. “I looked at that book. It’s stiff with McFarlanes. They must all be doctors. Honestly, dozens of ’em. I’m not sure whether I found the right one.”

“He was born in 1885 and went to Edinburgh.” Miss Trant told the receiver, and then heard a little laugh come floating back to her.

“Well, anyhow he isn’t here. Isn’t it a shame? I got it down to three⁠—and they were all miles off⁠—one in India and another in Aberdeen⁠—and I think the other was in London. I asked the Library man if the book wasn’t out of date⁠—and he got quite annoyed⁠—but when he calmed down a bit, he admitted that lots of the doctors could have moved since it came out. And he’s seen our show⁠—and he recognized me after a bit and was quite sweet. So I think it probably was him, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Miss Trant. “It couldn’t have been. You shouldn’t have bothered. It’s all⁠—nothing.”

And when she returned to her room, she reminded herself that it was all nothing. It is not much fun being so intimately concerned with nothing. The thought of it can even rob you of your legitimate pleasure in a good historical novel. Louis the Eleventh of France and the Duke of Burgundy made a poor show of capturing Miss Trant’s interest for the rest of that afternoon. One sneered, the other stormed, but all in vain⁠—poor shadows!

II

The next day, Elsie became a Dulver. From all parts of the country there came Dulvers to welcome her, the males all large, shining, pink, hoarse, and brassily convivial, the females all large, blonde, and elaborately coiffured and upholstered. It is difficult to imagine what the Dulvers would have made of a christening or a funeral, because it is difficult to imagine a Dulver either coming into this world or going out of it; but there could be no doubt they were designed by Nature to celebrate weddings. The customary festivities, all the eating and drinking, the healths and back-slappings, sledgehammer compliments and naughty jokes, might have been invented for them. Elsie was inspected by all manner of Dulverish relatives, who looked as if they were quite capable of having her stripped and weighed, and of pinching her in sundry places to make sure she was a sound article. After being thus inspected, she was approved. The general opinion obviously was that, with her shape, colouring, and disposition, it was only a matter of time⁠—with some further coiffuring, upholstering, and the sipping of small ports⁠—before she became a very good specimen of the female Dulver, fit to queen it in any hotel. And Bert was proud of her. Bert’s father and mother, two fine heavy Dulvers, were proud of Bert. All the relatives were proud of somebody or something, if only of their appetites⁠—“I’m sixty past,” one gigantic purple Dulver told everybody, “and I can eat and drink with the best yet.” Thus they were all happy.

Mr. Dulver senior, in the business himself and now the host of so many professionally convivial persons, had no alternative, could not have found one even if he had looked for it: the thing had to be done in style. The style he had chosen he called “the slap-up,” but it might also be described as the Late Roman, so great was the crowd of guests, so lavish the feast. The immense wedding breakfast that awaited them in the long room upstairs drew a tribute even from the old masters, the purple Dulvers. Mr. Oakroyd, who was there with the rest of the Good Companions, told his friend Mr. Jock Campbell that the commercial travellers of Bruddersford, a body of men famous for their mighty feasts, had never done better than this. “That’ll be champagne i’ them gurt bottles, eh?” he whispered. Mr. Campbell replied indifferently that it was, and that in his opinion champagne was poor stuff. “Tak’ notice o’ the whisky, man,” he added. “If a few o’ them gaes in for the wines an’ sweet drinks, it’ll work oot tae a bo’le o’ whisky a man. An’ if I started on it, juist wetted ma lips, I couldna run the length o’ the halfway line Saturday.” Mr. Campbell did not sigh because he was not given to sighing, but he shook his head and looked as wistful as it is possible for a thirteen-stone fullback to look, as he thought what he might have done with all that good whisky if there had been no football field waiting for him on Saturday. But he was gravely happy to be in the presence of so many landlords in a big way. He had been greeted as an old acquaintance by many of the sporting Dulvers.

Miss Trant met some old acquaintances too. At first she was rather dazed among all this handshaking, back-slapping, guffawing, roaring press of people, and after she had shaken hands with the ecstatic Elsie and her Bert, before the wedding breakfast began, she retired into a corner and found herself wishing it was all over. The Dulvers were too large and loud for her, though she could not help being amused by them, for they were all so like one another and so unlike any other set of people she had ever known.

“Now you’re Miss Trant, aren’t you? That’s right, that’s right.”

This came, in a thick, husky voice, from a stout elderly man, who now stood before her with his head cocked on one side. “And you don’t remember me, do you? Knew you right across the room. Couldn’t get the name at first⁠—got the face all right, not the name⁠—then it come back. Now stop a bit and think. Take your time. Remember me?”

She had seen that prominent, reddish nose, that damp forehead, those little humorous eyes, somewhere before. He had not looked so clean then. Sheffield. That funny little house. It was Elsie’s uncle, the trombone player. Unkerlarthur, they had called him. She told him so.

“That’s right. You’ve got it,” he said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard all about you, through our Elsie. She doesn’t write to me, you know, but our Effie hears from her regular, and she passes it on to me⁠—some of it, anyhow. Been good to our Elsie, you have, Miss Trant. Oh, I know! Well, she’s a good girl, isn’t she?⁠—I mean, fairly speaking and taking her all round, she is a good girl, isn’t she? And”⁠—here he became very confidential⁠—“she’s done well for herself, hasn’t she? He’s a nice feller.”

Miss Trant agreed that he was, and said they both seemed very happy.

Unkerlarthur came nearer and was so confidential that his mouth seemed to slip round to the right side of his face and stay there. “They said to me this morning, both of ’em, ‘Any time you want a holiday, little blow by the briny, you come and stay with us at where’s it⁠—Eastbeach.’ Well, I shan’t go, ’cos people get you there, then find they don’t wancher. ‘What’s he come for?’ they say. But I like to be asked, don’t you? Course if it’s something extra special, like this, I’d go. Only got here just in time this morning. I was playing at the theatre last night, and had to be up at five this morning to get here at all. Got a substitute for tonight⁠—and God help ’em when he starts. He’s got a note like riving oilcloth. Our Effie’s here. Have you seen her?”

Miss Trant had hardly time to say she had not, before Unkerlarthur dived into the through and reappeared in about two minutes, dragging Effie with him. Effie, looking like a larger and coarser edition of Elsie, almost hurled herself at Miss Trant, into whose mind there came leaping the oddest recollections of the hotel on the road from Derby, the Tipsteads, and the queer evening in Sheffield.

“Well, I don’t know!” screamed Effie, who was obviously in the highest spirits. “Fancy us meeting like this! Of course I knew we should. And aren’t you looking well! Ten years younger, honest. I hardly knew you. How d’you think I’m looking?”

“Very well indeed,” said Miss Trant, who had just come to the conclusion that Effie resembled nothing so much as a tropical sunset accompanied by rumours of earthquake. “You’re a little thinner perhaps.”

“Think I am!” cried Effie triumphantly. “Nearly a stone down, which is more than our Elsie can say. Now you’ve put a bit on, I should say, but then you could stand it, couldn’t you? Theatricals suit you, Miss Trant, my word they do, the way you’ve come on this winter. Remember when I asked you to take some things to our Elsie? That started it, didn’t it? If it hadn’t been for that, you wouldn’t be here, and Elsie wouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be here, not really, you know, if you think about it.” And Effie rattled on in this strain for another five minutes, after which she rushed away and joined some male Dulvers.

“By her palaver,” Unkerlarthur observed sardonically, “anybody’d think she was three brides rolled into one ’stead of the bride’s sister. I always knew our Elsie’d go first. I’d have laid five to one on it. Our Effie tries too hard, that’s what’s matter with her. You’ve got to let ’em think it’s their ideear, haven’t you?⁠—the fellers, I mean. But soon as our Effie meets ’em, she lets ’em hear the wedding bells⁠—an’ they don’t like it, you know⁠—it has to come gradual. This’ll go to our Effie’s head properly, this will. There’ll be some trade on with her now. She’ll never rest till she’s got hold o’ some poor chap.”

“Miss Trant!”

The voice was familiar. At first it did not seem to come from anywhere in particular, but after a moment or two, during which there was quite a commotion in that corner of the room, and large Dulvers appeared to be hurled right and left by some invisible force, there emerged from the crowd, shaken, gasping, but triumphant, little Miss Thong.

“Now isn’t this a surprise?” she cried, so excited that she could hardly get the words out of her mouth.

“Take it easy,” Unkerlarthur put in severely.

“I should think it is,” said Miss Trant, smiling. “And a very nice one too. I’m so glad to see you again.”

“There now!” cried Miss Thong, as if to some unseen audience that had been waiting for this moment. “But I said to Elsie, in a letter of course, after she wrote to me and gave me the wonderful news and said ‘Do try and come,’ I said to her, ‘Well, if I can manage it⁠—and that will depend on the work and Pa, but chiefly Pa⁠—but if I can,’ I said to her, ‘don’t tell Miss Trant and then it’ll be such a surprise.’ But after I thought to myself, ‘Oh, she won’t remember you, you silly little thing, seeing all the people she does and going from place to place all the time, fresh faces everywhere.’ But you did, didn’t you?”

“I recognized your voice before I actually saw you,” Miss Trant told her.

“Did you really? Well, but you see, I saw you and called out and then couldn’t get to you and had to push a bit.”

“I saw you knocking ’em about,” said Unkerlarthur solemnly.

“This is Elsie’s⁠—” Miss Trant began.

Unkerlarthur held up his hand. “We’ve been interjooced, Miss Thong and me. Haven’t we?”

“Earlier this morning,” cried Miss Thong. “And a treat it was too, you telling me all about the theatre. I had to push because everybody here’s such a size, aren’t they? I thought I was going to be lost and then they’d have to put a notice up: ‘Lost⁠—Miss Thong. Finder Rewarded.’ ” She laughed, coughed, and laughed again. “But did you ever see so many enormous people? I never did.”

“That’s ’cos they’re all in the public line o’ business,” Unkerlarthur explained. “They may not take a lot themselves⁠—some of ’em’ll hardly touch it⁠—but the smell does it. Then some of ’em’s bookies, and they’ve got to be fat⁠—nobody’s never give nothing to a thin un.”

“Would you believe it!” cried Miss Thong. “But they’re all nice, aren’t they? One or two of them have spoken very nicely to me, although they don’t know who or what I am, and when I came I never expected to be noticed. ‘Just let me see it,’ I told Elsie. And now I suppose it’s nearly time to begin eating all this, though how anybody⁠—and I don’t care how big they are⁠—will ever get through a quarter of it, I can’t think.”

“I shall do my share,” said Unkerlarthur sturdily. “I’m peckish.”

“If I get a mouthful down,” Miss Thong gasped, “I shall be lucky, I’m that excited and silly. You know me of old, don’t you, Miss Trant? Always the same with me. I go on and go on, sitting in my little room⁠—you remember it, don’t you, Miss Trant?⁠—they’re building now where they kept the hens, though it’s not spoiling the view⁠—and there I am, doing my work, seeing nobody but customers coming in⁠—and Pa of course⁠—unless there’s something special on at the chapel. And then,” she continued, after gasping for breath, “when something does happen, I’m all upset⁠—just excitement and silliness, that’s all. ‘Oh, stop it, you silly little thing,’ I say to myself many a time, and I could shake myself sometimes, I could really, though that wouldn’t make it any better, would it?”

“Worse,” Unkerlarthur told her, “make it worse. What you want to do is to take it easy. What’s the matter with you is temperament, that’s what it is. Our family’s been just the same, except me. And there’s men playing in bands now⁠—men I’ve known, men I’ve played with; I could give you their names⁠—and they won’t take it easy. They’ll rehearse all right⁠—oh yes⁠—quite all right. When it comes to the night, all of a dither. What happens? Say a wrong sheet o’ music is slipped in⁠—a wrong sheet, that’s all.” He looked sternly down at Miss Thong.

“Well, fancy!” said Miss Thong, who evidently felt that something was expected of her.

“It’s a thing,” said Unkerlarthur, still looking stern, “that happens many a time. Where are they? These fellers that won’t take it easy, I mean. Where are they? They’re lost, finished⁠—can’t find the right sheet⁠—can’t pick up the cues⁠—and bang goes the part! And all ’cos they won’t take it easy.”

“So there you are, Miss Thong,” said Miss Trant, smiling at her.

But Miss Thong did not stand rebuked. “You’ve no idea,” she told them both, “what a treat it is to me to hear all these things about the theatre. And then seeing you all too, close to!”

“They’re sitting down,” said Unkerlarthur, who promptly prepared to sit down himself.

“You must sit next to me,” said Miss Trant, “unless you’ve arranged to sit somewhere.”

“D’you think I could? Don’t you think they’d mind?” Miss Thong’s long witchlike nose flushed with pleasure. “If I got between two of these big ones, they’d only see the top of my head, wouldn’t they? Do you think they’d mind if we sat here?”

So Miss Trant and Miss Thong sat together, and the latter chattered, gasped, ate, drank, coughed, and laughed so much that it was a wonder she did not shake what remained of her entirely to pieces. The Good Companions were scattered round both sides of the long table. Mr. Oakroyd sat with his friend, Mr. Campbell, who was now looking very wary, as if something very strange might suddenly pop out of the great meat pie just in front of him. Mrs. Joe was very stately, and looked well, flanked as she was by two reddish shining Dulvers. The tall figure of Mr. Morton Mitcham was to be seen at one end of the table, among the important people. Two young female Dulvers, all gold and pink, were attending to Jerry Jerningham, whose accent was now so fantastic that many of the older guests were under the impression he was a foreigner. Inigo had tried hard to find a place by the side of his adored Susie, having had quite enough of the barren policy of pretending to avoid her; but he had not been successful. A very dashing young Dulver had carried her off and safely wedged her between his attentive self and the gigantic purple Dulver. This fellow had been hanging round her ever since they arrived, and Susie did not seem to mind at all. Indeed, she seemed to like his society⁠—a fellow of a type that Inigo had always detested⁠—a loud, brainless, teethy, pink ass, absolutely. It was incredible that Susie should be amused for more than five minutes by such a grinning idiot. If she was not pretending, he concluded, then there must be a vulgar streak in her somewhere. Impossible that a man could really be in love with a girl if he could think about vulgar streaks in this way. If he could only hold on to that vulgar streak, he would soon feel wonderfully detached. Meanwhile, he would show her that it did not matter to him if she spent her time giggling with fifty appalling young Dulvers.

For some reason, which Mrs. Joe and Susie said was known only to the deity, Miss Mamie Potter had been invited. Miss Potter was there at Inigo’s elbow, and was only too pleased to keep him company throughout the feast. He did not dislike Miss Potter as heartily as most of the others did, but he had no great opinion of her and he could not understand why she seemed so anxious for his company. There were plenty of young Dulvers there eager to wait upon her, and why she should prefer him, as she so obviously did, was a mystery. But for the last day or two she had been very gracious to him. It was very odd. However, there it was, and now he tried hard to amuse her and to look as if he had no other object in life than to keep her amused. Miss Potter did not exactly smile upon his efforts because she hardly ever smiled; her features were so circular that smiling was difficult; but at least she contrived to modify that insufferable look of faint astonishment when she glanced his way. She also contrived, while appearing to taste one or two things merely for appearance’ sake, to put away a good deal of food and several large glasses of the sweet champagne.

When they had all finished eating, the gigantic purple Dulver suddenly arose and held up his glass. “Now then, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “I give you the ’appy pair. May they never regret this day. I’ve regretted mine sometimes.” Laughter, and a cry of “Now then, Walter!” from an equally gigantic and almost as purple female. “And so has the wife, though from what she just shouted at me, you mightn’t think it. ’Owever, that’s always blown over. When I ’ave regretted it, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve always found afterwards I was a bit below par at the time.” Laughter and applause. “It was a ’appy day for me, and, if you ask me, this will be a ’appy day for Bert. Until today, Mrs. Bert was a stranger to most of us, but we can see by the look of her she’s going to make him ’appy. And if she hasn’t got a good husband, then I don’t know where you’re going to find ’em, that’s all I have to say. Here’s the best to ’em both.” And the toast was drunk with enthusiasm.

Bert, called upon to reply, said that he had nothing to say, and by rights shouldn’t be there at all. He was a married man now, and perhaps the less he said the better. (Cries of “Shame!” and “Quite right!”) But he would just like to say this. He had not always been lucky picking out winners. (Laughter, and “What about Sporty Boy?” from the dashing young Dulver who had attached himself to Susie.) But this time he was sure he had got a winner all right. (Applause, and “Then put your shirt on it, my boy,” from the purple Dulver, followed by screams of expostulation and laughter from the ladies.) And they knew, he hoped, they were all welcome to come and have a look at them down at Eastbeach.

It was evidently felt by the company that it was time now for somebody belonging to the bride’s party to make a speech. As Unkerlarthur was the only male relative, people looked at him, and after pretending for a minute or two that he had not seen them, Unkerlarthur was compelled to struggle to his feet and address the company. “Well, I don’t know,” he remarked, feeling the end of his nose as if he were not sure it was still there. “This is right out o’ my line. I might play a bit of it if I’d the old trombone here. Anyhow, I’m only the bride’s uncle, and it’s a long while since she took any notice o’ me. But our Elsie’s always been a clever and⁠—what’s better still⁠—a good girl. I can see she’s got a good husband⁠—as husbands go. And if she doesn’t make him a good wife, then I don’t know what he wants⁠—and he doesn’t, neither. So we’ll just fill up again, and I’ll say⁠—here’s to ’em.”

This was felt to be sound but not entirely adequate, and now Mr. Morton Mitcham rose both to his feet and the occasion. Two-thirds of the people there had not the slightest idea who he was, but he looked so imposing that immediately an awed silence fell on the company. He began by announcing that he felt very diffident, though it was difficult for the keenest observer to detect the slightest signs of diffidence. He felt however, he went on to say, that it was his duty, as a fellow-artiste, to say something about Mrs. Herbert Dulver, long known to the Profession as Miss Elsie Longstaff. They had been on the road together, a remark that brought an enthusiastic “That’s right,” from Mr. Oakroyd, who was beaming upon everybody. Mr. Mitcham then proceded to develop this theme of comradeship upon the road. Like the born orator he was, he had the trick of making everything appear about ten times life-size, and very soon it seemed as if he and Elsie had been on the road together, the best of friends, for about half a century. You saw them traversing continents, deafened by the applause of whole nations. The fate of the English Stage was bound up, it appeared, with the history of the Good Companions, a history that was already a gigantic epic. Through his haze of sonorous words, the figures of Miss Trant and Inigo and the other Good Companions loomed titanically. The departure of Elsie was conjured into a thunderbolt from the malicious gods, and you felt the earth shaking beneath its impact. All was gloom for a short space, but then the heavens brightened again. Apparently this marriage was the only thing that could possibly have enabled Mr. Mitcham to bear up under the sorrow of losing Elsie. You gathered that it was an event to which he had been looking forward for years. And Mr. Dulver was the one man in the world, it appeared, worthy of playing the chief part in it. He had the highest opinion of Mr. Dulver, whom he had known intimately⁠—or so he made it seem⁠—for at least ten years. And now, not only for himself, not only for his fellow-members of the troupe, not only for the whole Profession, but on behalf of all these and of the audiences here, there, and everywhere, that had taken Miss Elsie Longstaff to their hearts, he wished them every happiness and drank their very good health. This he did, amid applause and clinking of glasses, in what appeared to be about half a pint of almost neat whisky, which went to join a good deal more of the same liquor. It was this noble draught that inspired him to rise again and point out that these were the sentiments of a man who had been four times round the world.

Elsie, flushed with pride, happiness, and the sweet champagne, and already looking more of a Dulver, was compelled to respond. She told them she had had good times and bad times on the Stage, but mostly good times lately. At this point, her sister Effie suddenly and very dramatically burst into tears. When Effie had subsided a little, Elsie went on to say that she did not expect to have all good times now she was married, but felt sure she and Bert would be a happy pair, and she would do her best. And all of them had been very kind and nice, and she thanked them and hoped to see them all again before very long. All the presents, she added, were beautiful. (“And so they are!” from Miss Thong.) And now she and Bert would have to be going, because they were catching the afternoon train down to Eastbeach.

Then followed any amount of handshaking, back-slapping, and kissing. Everybody trooped below to give the pair a good send-off, and the final scene outside the hotel when the two drove away and the whole company gave three cheers, under the joint leadership of the gigantic purple Dulver and Mr. Morton Mitcham, was so striking that Mrs. Joe, tearful but enraptured, said she had seen nothing like it since the finale to the second act of The Rose of Belgravia in which she and Joe, as a chambermaid and an ostler respectively, had sung side-by-side for the first time. By this time little Miss Thong had had so much excitement that she looked blue and her teeth were chattering, so Miss Trant packed her into her car and took her back to Gatford, there to rest and have a quiet cup of tea, A few of the other guests also departed. The remainder went upstairs, some to talk, smoke, and finish the bottle, some to dance.

“Changes, ladies and gentlemen,” roared Mr. Mitcham, as he reached the landing again. “Bound to come, bound to come. I know. I’ve seen⁠—eh⁠—thousands of ’em. Very sad, but can’t be helped⁠—in‑ev‑it‑able.”

“You’ve said it,” cried Jimmy.

“Thank you,” he replied, simply but with great dignity, and then lit a very large cigar that had been pressed upon him by an admiring Dulver. He and Jimmy and one or two others of vast experience formed a circle, while another was formed by several football-loving Dulvers and Joe, Mr. Oakroyd, and Mr. Jock Campbell, who obliged by demonstrating, with the aid of a bottle and two glasses and an ashtray, exactly what happened when Everton scored that curious goal against Sheffield Wednesday and so won the Cup. And in various corners, the ladies, among whom Mrs. Joe was prominent, discussed weddings they had seen and married couples they had known, and happily swapped reminiscences in which obstetrics, accidents, operations, various internal disorders, and deaths of every description, played their part.

There was dancing in the other room. This would not be worth mentioning if it were not for the fact that Susie and the dashing young Dulver danced together all the time. Inigo was left with Miss Mamie Potter, whose beautiful and extraordinarily intelligent legs enabled him to make a fair show of what was certainly not one of his major accomplishments. The dashing young Dulver could hardly be described as a good dancer⁠—he threw himself about too much to be that⁠—but he was at least energetic and knowing, and therefore better than Inigo. There was one awful moment when Inigo imagined he caught a smile of derision on the faces of Susie and her insufferable partner. They were grinning at him! After that he held Miss Potter so close and threw such energy into his dancing that she had hardly breath enough to bring out her usual “I say.” When at last their bus came and it was time to go, Susie was not to be seen and neither was her cavalier, and it was reported that he had taken her back to Gatford. “I say,” said Miss Potter, “I don’t admire her taste. I thought he was ghastly, didn’t you?” And so he and Miss Potter sat in the back of the bus, close together, and Inigo, his head a multicoloured whirl of drinks and dancing and gloom and gaiety, decided that he liked Mamie after all and that when they reached the end of the journey he would kiss her. But by the time they were back in Gatford, the gloom was spreading and his head ached a little and life seemed rather dreary and preposterous, and so instead of kissing Miss Potter he hurried away to his rooms, to rest for an hour or two before the show began. At the end of that hour or two he had decided that he must have it out with Susie.

“This can’t go on,” he told himself⁠—and her⁠—sternly, as he brushed his hair and conjured his reflection into an image of a startled Susie. “If you think I’m a man to be played with, you’re wrong, absolutely.” No, that sounded ridiculous. Something cool and sneering might be better. “I must congratulate you on your friends. I am beginning to wonder whether the honour of being considered one of them will not be too great a strain for me⁠—” No, that would not do, either. “Look here, Susie, I’ve had enough of this,” with quiet but manly determination. Anyhow, he would have it out with her.

III

The time is a quarter to twelve on Thursday morning, the day after Elsie’s wedding. The place is the little upstairs room (where there are plenty of cushions and you may smoke) of Ye Jollie Dutche Café, in Victoria Street, Gatford. In the far corner is a table that must be distinguished from all the others if only because it is the only one there on which any cups of Jollie Dutche coffee (“Our Speciality”) have made their appearance this morning. Behind it, sometimes lolling and sometimes sitting bolt upright and looking very fierce, are two persons, a tallish loose-limbed youth, with a long wandering nose and a long wandering lock of hair, and dressed in baggy and indiscriminate clothes and a pretty dark girl, a compact and shapely girl, artfully tricked out in black and scarlet. The waitress who served the two coffees⁠—she wears a sort of federated Dutch costume, but has Gatford, Mundley, or Stort written all over her⁠—recognized these two at once, and by this time has told all the other waitresses downstairs that one of the girls from the Hippodrome, the funny dark one, and the piano-player are above, having big coffees just like ordinary people. And we recognize them too: Miss Susie Dean and Mr. Inigo Jollifant.

“I never heard such cheek,” Susie is exclaiming. “What’s it got to do with you?”

“Oh, nothing, of course,” the gentleman replies loftily. “Apologies for interfering in your private affairs.”

He is having it out with her, and so far it has come out badly, not at all according to plan. Now he pulls away at his absurdly large cherrywood pipe, and tries to do that loftily too. Unfortunately, it will not draw properly. If he had fifty pipes, they would not draw properly. It is one of those mornings, not at all the time to have it out with anybody, and especially Miss Dean.

“However friendly we were,” Susie continued, “you’d have no right to talk to me like that. If I chose to talk to a man and dance with him, it’s no business of yours. Besides, you know nothing about him.”

“I don’t want to. I know enough about him to see that he’s poisonous. But⁠—as you say⁠—it’s no business of mine. I’m disappointed, that’s all. Some girls might like that type of chap, but for you⁠—you⁠—even to look at him, well, it sticks in my gullet, that’s all! Why, even Mamie Potter⁠—” he was going on rashly.

“Mamie Potter! You’re not going to tell me what she thinks, are you? That would be the last straw. And you talk about people being poisonous! But go on, go on. What did Mamie Potter say?”

“It doesn’t matter what she said,” replied Inigo sulkily. The sooner Miss Potter was out of the conversation the better.

“Of course it does! Your friend, Miss Potter! You ought to have seen yourselves yesterday. And if we’re going to tell one another who we ought to know, it’s my turn now, and I say, keep away from that girl. She’s dead rotten from the knees up. Everybody’s fed up with her already⁠—except you, of course. She’ll wreck this show yet, if we’re not jolly careful. I know the sort.”

“She may be all that. I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said Inigo, quite willing to sacrifice fifty Mamie Potters. “But what I do know and care about is that you behaved rottenly, absolutely, yesterday. You just flirted with that bounder, that pink teethy barman⁠—”

“He’s not a barman. And even if he was, you needn’t sneer at him. If I liked him, I wouldn’t care if he was a bottle-washer. I’m not like you, I’m not a little Cambridge snob.”

“No one could ever call me a snob,” said Inigo heavily.

“Aw⁠—aw⁠—couldn’t they?” said Susie, in a wild burlesque of his offended tone. “Well, I’m calling you one, and I believe you are one. And if you’re not one, then you’re simply jealous.”

“All right then, I’m jealous.” Inigo sounded very sulky now.

“Then you shouldn’t be jealous,” said Susie severely. But then she gave him a mischievous little glance. “Anyhow you oughtn’t to be horridly jealous. It’s quite possible, I’m sure, to be nicely jealous.”

“No, it isn’t. I hate it. But it wasn’t so much jealousy as sheer dislike of seeing you make yourself so cheap with a bounder⁠—”

“If you say another word, we shall quarrel properly,” cried Susie. “That’s the nastiest thing anybody’s said to me for years. Apologize for ‘cheap’ at once or I’ll never speak to you again. I mean it.” And she really looked as if she meant it.

“I take it back then,” Inigo muttered. “But you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t, except that you’re stiff and green with jealousy. And why you should be, I don’t know. It isn’t as if we’ve been very good friends lately.”

“And whose fault’s that?” he demanded.

“Yours. Of course, it’s yours, Inigo,” and she gave him a wide innocent stare.

“You know very well it’s not. Look here, Susie, you’ve been unbearable lately, absolutely. You know what I think and feel about you⁠—”

“No, I don’t,” she put in, immediately. “Tell me.” And she leaned back and gave him a delicious smile.

“Oh, I think you’re⁠—” he groaned. For a young man who intended to have it out, he was behaving very strangely.

“Go on, Inigo. Don’t stop. Tell me.” She made a show of settling herself very comfortably in her seat.

He pushed back his lock of hair, and then looked at her, steadily, gravely. “I’m not going to tell you any more, Susie,” he said at last. “It’s all just fun for you. You don’t really care a damn. Well, it isn’t fun for me, not just now, anyhow.”

There was silence for a few moments, then Susie said, in a small voice: “Why don’t you go on to the next part, Inigo?”

“What’s that?”

“You ought to say now ‘If you think I’m the kind of man you can play with, you’re wrong.’ ”

Inigo looked confused, and, glancing at him, she laughed. Then she hummed a little tune.

“I’m going,” he announced savagely.

“No, don’t go.” She laid her hand lightly on his. “I hate quarrelling. And if you go off in a rage, like that, you’ll make me feel sorry I came here instead of accepting that Dulver man’s invitation to go out in his car today and have a fine fat lunch somewhere. Yes, he asked me, and was most pressing. And I refused. I saw quite enough of him yesterday.”

“I should think so,” cried Inigo, highly relieved.

“Not that being with you is much good, these days,” she went on.

“Why? What’s the matter with me?” Then he suddenly changed his tone. “I know there’s nothing very wonderful about me⁠—”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she told him.

“I suppose you’re sick of seeing me about,” he said, humbly. “And the ironical thing is, I wouldn’t be about here at all, if it weren’t for you. That must be getting pretty obvious to other people too by now. Miss Trant pointed it out to me the other day. Because you’re with the show, Susie, I couldn’t drag myself away from it. If you went, I’m darned sure I couldn’t stick it out another week.”

“That isn’t saying much for the others,” she told him.

“Of course I like the others, at least most of ’em. It wouldn’t break my heart to see the last of Jerry J. or the Potter girl, but I’m very fond of all the old ones now. But after all, I’m not in love with ’em.”

“Which means you are with me.”

“Absolutely.”

“Still?”

“Worse than ever. So there you are. And if anybody had told me a year ago I should be dithering like this, I should have wanted to give him one on the jaw. And yet I wouldn’t change it now, though a jolly rotten dither it’s been lately, I can tell you.”

“Sorry, Inigo. Sorry⁠—absolutely.”

“Tell me, are you fed up with me? Does the sight of me mooning round make you feel sick these days? Or what is it?”

“Well,” said Susie slowly and earnestly, “I’ve been in a queer sort of mood lately, I know. And you’ve been so heavy and serious lately, too, not half so amusing as you used to be. But it isn’t just that. You⁠—oh, you irritate me!”

“Why? What do I do?”

“Oh, you’re so⁠—so⁠—I don’t know⁠—feeble.”

“Feeble!” It came out in a shout. He stared at her, amazed.

“Yes, feeble.”

“Oh, am I, by jingo!” With that, the outraged young man sat up, suddenly flung an arm round her, twisted her round towards him, and kissed her soundly and well before she could do or say a single thing. There are heavens that await only reckless men, and he spent a delirious minute in one of them. Then he found himself shot out of it, and back in Ye Jollie Dutche Café with all his courage evaporated. He waited, breathless, for something momentous to happen now, and though this creature by his side had been for some time the very centre of his universe, he had not the least idea what would happen. He could almost feel himself cringing.

Susie was staring at him, her eyebrows raised, and breathing hard. “Well⁠—” and then she suddenly laughed.

His bravado returned with a rush at the sound. “And that’s the kind of man I am,” he announced.

“Well, it’s not the kind of girl I am,” she told him, “especially at twelve in the morning in an imitation Dutch café. So don’t try it again, that’s all.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“It made me feel quite sick,” she said calmly, turning an impudent face, still rosy and brilliant, towards him. “No, not again! Who do you think you are? Now listen.” She looked serious. “When I said you were feeble, I didn’t mean that. I meant you were feeble about work.”

“Work!” Inigo pronounced the word as if he had never heard it before.

“There you are, you see. You don’t even know what I’m talking about. You’re just a feeble amateur, that’s all you are, Inigo. This C.P. business⁠—the Stage, in fact⁠—is just a bit of a game to you. Well, it isn’t to me. I’m a pro. I’m not doing this for fun, young feller. I haven’t run away from school for a few months.”

“If you think I’m going back to that school or any school⁠—” Inigo began.

“Never mind about that. It’s me we’re talking about now. I want to get on and if I don’t get on soon, I’ll burst. Why, that Dulver man yesterday⁠—”

Inigo groaned.

“One of the first things he told me,” she continued, “was that he’d heard how clever I was and was coming to see me because he knew young Jack Rozzy very well and young Rozzy is working with his father now, old Rozzy, who’s the booking agent for the P.M.H. Syndicate⁠—”

“Help!” cried Inigo.

“Don’t be silly. Well, I didn’t believe all he told me⁠—the Dulver man, I mean⁠—but still, it was something. You never know, something might come of it. And at any rate he did understand I wanted to move up a bit and not stick in this all my life.”

“But what do you want me to do? Have I to go to young Rozzy and tell him to tell old Rozzy⁠—”

“Oh, shut up! You think this is all nothing, and that’s just what makes you so irritating. It’s serious. Of course I don’t want you to go to any Rozzies. I don’t want you to help me. I can look after myself. But if you’d only go and get something done for yourself⁠—and you could easily, with those songs⁠—I wouldn’t mind. I hate to see chances thrown away. It makes me sick. It’s the way you hang about and just don’t do anything that irritates me. It’s so⁠—so amateurish and feeble.”

“So that’s it, is it?” said Inigo softly.

“Yes, that’s it,” she replied defiantly. At this moment, another customer arrived, a solitary man, who came in, as solitary men always do, very quietly. A few moments after, three men entered together, making as much noise as a little army, as three men always do. Apparently all four were amateurish and feeble, for Susie regarded them with contempt.

Inigo had been fingering a card in his pocket. He still looked a little agitated, but there was the ghost of a smile hovering on his face now. “As a matter of fact⁠—” he began; but then he must have thought this matter of fact should not be introduced into the conversation, for he suddenly stopped short.

“Well? Go on.” Susie looked at him, not unkindly but not with any obvious signs of admiration.

“Nothing,” he replied lamely.

Susie’s rather full lower lip made a tiny movement that said quite plainly: “You are exceedingly feeble, this very minute, and not my idea of a man at all.” She flicked away some cigarette ash from her clothes, and then rose. “I must go.”

Inigo returned to his lodgings, wondering whether he had “had it out” or not. Certainly a great deal had come out, but very little of it had figured in his original programme. If it had not been for one thing, he would have felt miserable, crushed, about two feet high. That thing was the card in his pocket. It had been his original intention to tell Susie about that card. The moment she had shown herself repentant⁠—perhaps a little tearful⁠—he had decided to wave away all her apologies, and then to raise her at once from the depths of contrition by showing her the card and telling her what he had planned to do with it. That moment, as we have seen, had never arrived, and so the card stayed in his pocket.

It had found its way there only that very morning, half an hour before he had left his rooms to meet Susie. A young man with a masterful nose, wavy black hair, and a startling pink shirt and collar, had bustled in on the very heels of the landlady, and had announced himself as Mr. Milbrau, Midland representative of Felder and Hunterman. “And you can’t say you don’t know them, eh?” this visitor chuckled.

“Who?” Inigo was still rather dazed.

“Felder and Hunterman.”

“I don’t,” said Inigo, looking at his visitor in astonishment, as well he might, for that gentleman, with all the dexterous rapidity of a conjurer, had put down his hat, taken a chair and drawn it nearer to the fire, sat down, lit a cigarette, crossed his legs, and rubbed his hands, all in one flash of activity.

“Ha-ha, ’s a good one!” cried Mr. Milbrau. “Didden’ think you’d be up⁠—’smatter of fact⁠—but here y’are, up all ri’ and having a dig at the old firm.” He rubbed his hands harder than ever.

“But who are they?” demanded Inigo, in all earnestness. “I seem to have heard the name before.”

“Stop it now,” said Mr. Milbrau. “You can’t grumble. I’ve bought it⁠—consider I’ve bought it! Let’s ge’ down to business, and stop pulling my leg.”

“I’m not pulling it, no intention of doing, absolutely,” said Inigo, who could not see why a strange young man in an angry pink shirt should rush in and talk about pulling legs. “All I say is that I seem to have heard the name of Whater and What’s it before.”

Mr. Milbrau stared and his mouth fell open, though the cigarette still remained hanging from one corner of it and calmly went on smoking itself, as if specially trained to do so. “Seem to have heard the name!” he almost screamed. “Felder and Hunterman, biggest people in the music-publishing trade today⁠—and the oldest! And you a pianist! You mus’ have played thousands of our numbers. Oh, you can’t mean it! Here, have a cigarette.” And the very next second, there were two rows of cigarettes about six inches from Inigo’s nose.

Inigo politely refused, and filled and lit a pipe while Mr. Milbrau explained why he had called. “I’m doing this Midland round, d’you see⁠—songs and dance stuff,” he began, “and these two days I’m here, in the Triangle. Come here ev’ry two months. Went to your show las’ night. Nothing else to do⁠—and then it’s business with me, d’you see, because we like to know how our numbers are going. And you surprised me, I’ll tell you that now. You did! You surprised me. You’ve got a classy little show there, an’ I know’ cos I’ve seen hundreds⁠—hundreds⁠—anundreds. That comeediyenn⁠—oh, clever kid, clever! Whasser name? Dean⁠—that’s it. And that boy doing your light comedy work and dancing⁠—that boy’s good⁠—he is⁠—he’s good. A nice li’l show! Mindjew, some of the numbers”⁠—here he raised both hands, then let them fall⁠—“dead⁠—you couldn’t kill ’em⁠—they’re dead. I’m travelling about twenty numbers now⁠—both sentimen’als and comics⁠—an’ they’d juss make the diff’rence to that show of yours, they would, juss the diff’rence. No, no, wai’ a minute, wai’ a minute. Don’t make a mistake. I’m not here to sell you anything.”

Inigo was relieved to hear it, though he did not say so. He waited for his visitor, who was now lighting another cigarette, to continue.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Milbrau, looking with half-closed eyes through a cloud of smoke at a scrap of paper. “Now you got one or two numbers in your show that were new to me⁠—and they were⁠—good.” He brought this last word with a shout. “Tricky numbers, real tricky! They got me going all ri’ and I’m in the business d’you see. I put ’em down on this bit o’ paper. Don’t say I got the titles ri’ but you’ll know. Now as a favour, juss as a favour, take a look at ’em.” He handed over the paper, and Inigo saw at a glance that all the five numbers, headed by “Slippin’ Round the Corner,” were the very ones he had composed himself.

“Now all those numbers you have there,” Mr. Milbrau went on, “are new to me. And I’m in the business. And they’re good, they’re tricky, they’re catchy. It’s the chunes⁠—words are nothing, written ’em myself before now⁠—it’s the chunes! Now juss as a favour, jewmind telling me where you got ’em from? You’re the pianist and so you know ’em all, d’you see. That’s why I come to you. Got your address las’ night at the Hippodrome after the show. And I’m busy⁠—I’m terribly busy, gotter get away this afternoon⁠—but I had to know. Now jewmind telling me where you picked ’em up?”

“Not a bit,” replied Inigo heartily. “I wrote them myself⁠—the music, you know.”

“You did?”

“I did. As a matter of fact I’ve just finished writing them out properly. There they are, on the table.”

Mr. Milbrau jumped up, saying, “Mind if I look?” and without waiting to know if Inigo minded or not, began to turn over the manuscript sheets and wag his head and hum now and again. When he had done, he put the sheets neatly together and gave the pile a smart slap. “Who were you goin’ to give ’em to?” he inquired very quietly but with a momentous air.

“Not the least idea,” Inigo told him. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

Mr. Milbrau shook his head. “Hadn’t thought about it! Doesn’t know Felder and Hunterman! And turns out this stuff! Don’t tell me you’re a reg’lar pro⁠—you’re not⁠—and I knew it right off. Suppose you wouldn’t like me to take these along?” he inquired.

Inigo told him he would not.

“No. Thought you wouldn’t. All ri’⁠—don’t blame you. Now I’ll tell you something. If I was you⁠—if I’d written these⁠—jewnow what I’d do? I’ll tell you. I’d put them in a bag, take my hat and coat and walk right out of that door, take the nex’ train up and be at Felder and Hunterman’s with ’em, before they closed tonight. I would. An’ I wouldn’t play ’em another night, either. You don’t know who’s listening. I tell you, I’d be up in the Charing Cross Road with these numbers this afternoon, and I’d stay there, never mind about the job here. In a month you’d laugh at it. I’m excited about these numbers. I don’t look it but I am. But I’m not trying to rush you into anything, am I? You listen to me, Mr. Jollifant. Don’t send these numbers anywhere. Take ’em. Go with ’em. Play ’em through yourself⁠—once⁠—thass all. An’ if you go to Felder and Hunterman’s⁠—an’ they’re the biggest people in the trade today⁠—once’ll be enough. Take ’em to Felder and Hunterman’s an’ ass for Mr. Pitsner⁠—P-i-t-s-n-e-r an’ say I told you. Here, I’ll tell you wha’ I’ll do. I’ll write to Mr. Pitsner myself⁠—an’ tell him. I’ll write tonight. Bedder le’ him know your coming. Send him a wire. Busy man, Mr. Pitsner. You’d never seen him if you hadn’t had an intro, but when you do see him, ’s’business. Here, I’ll write on this card too as well’s send a letter. You show ’em tha’, you’ll walk up withou’ a wor’.” Thus Mr. Mibrau, who ended by gabbling so furiously that there was hardly a consonant left in his speech.

And that is how Inigo came to be in possession of the card that saved him from feeling absolutely crushed after his talk with Susie. Back in his lodgings, he took it out of his pocket, put it on the table, and then smoked a pipe over it. Feeble, was he?

IV

The various encounters of that week may appear to be of little or no importance, but actually all of them, whether real or imaginary (for we do not know whether Miss Trant saw Dr. Hugh McFarlane or only thought she did), were important to the people who took part in them, and indeed to many other people too. And the last encounter of them all is no exception. It happened on the Thursday evening, in the taproom of the Market Tavern, the public-house that adjoins⁠—as it should⁠—the space just behind Victoria Street where Gatford still has a weekly open market. The day for that market is Thursday, so that the Market Tavern was fairly crowded when Mr. Oakroyd visited it, a little after six, on this particular Thursday evening. Mr. Oakroyd knew that it would be crowded, having been long enough in Gatford to know all about such things. It was his habit to enjoy a half-pint about this time every evening, before he began his night’s work at the theatre. Sometimes he liked a quiet, peaceful, meditative half-pint, and at other times he preferred a noisy, gregarious half-pint. It depended upon his mood. When a glass of beer is one of a man’s few pleasures and luxuries, he will not casually swill it down, not caring when or where he drinks it. He will exercise to the full his power of choice. That is why places like Bruddersford are full of public-houses. To the outsider, anybody who does not understand such matters, these public-houses look all alike, but to Mr. Oakroyd and his friends they are as different from one another as the books in a bedside shelf are to an old reader, and a pint at one of them is entirely different from a pint at the next one.

On this Thursday evening then, Mr. Oakroyd, alone, in need of noise, cheerfulness, company, possibly the company of other men who knew the road, decided for the Market Tavern. The taproom was all a babble and a haze, so crowded that it took him nearly ten minutes to push his way through, order his half-pint, and finally receive it over the dripping bar-counter from Joss, the big barman there. During this anxious interval, he had nodded to a few habitués, and that was all: he had not time to have a look round the place, which was incidentally the largest taproom in all Gatford. There seemed to be a lot of strangers about, but then there usually was on Thursdays, chaps in from the outer districts and the country, and chaps who sold things in the market⁠—genuine men of the road, though not on the grand scale. Once he had edged away from the bar-counter, taken a pull at his half-pint, and seen that his pipe of Old Salt was going well, Mr. Oakroyd began to look about him.

“ ’Ow do,” several acquaintances called out.

“Na then,” replied Mr. Oakroyd affably, giving them a nod.

There were so many chaps standing in the middle of the room, a long narrow room, chaps arguing in groups, that Mr. Oakroyd, who had not strayed very far from the bar-counter, could not see the other end. But there was no reason why he should see it, and so he stayed where he was, not feeling at all lonely now because he knew quite well he could join any of these groups if he wanted to and talk away as hard as the next man. He was content to muse a little, and take in, without making any effort to listen, the scraps of talk that came flying from every direction. “So I says to ’em, I says, ‘Well, what of it? ’Oo made you boss of the job?’ And ’e says, ‘Clever, arncher?’ And I says, ‘Clever, yer bloody self!’⁠—” Then, from the other side: “I betcher ’e did, I betcher. Time me an’ Jimmy went to Birmingham, ’e did. ’Ere, Jimmy, ’alf a minute!” Somewhere behind was the usual political reasoner: “Government can’t do it, I tell yer. It doesn’t matter what you say, chum, they can’t do it. They’d ’ave to pass a lor before they could do it. Don’ chew believe Government can do what they like, chum.” And so it went on, and Mr. Oakroyd, who had heard it⁠—or something like it⁠—many times before, listened with a touch of complacency. These chaps were all right, but most of them would do better to talk less until they had seen something. He, who had seen a lot in his time and might now see a great deal more before he had finished, was saying nothing. Still, they could go on talking: it did them no harm.

A moment came, however, when most of the chaps who had been talking at the tops of their voices suddenly fell silent, and there followed one of those curious lulls common to all companies. It was then that Mr. Oakroyd heard a voice coming from the far end of the room. “ ’E came to the back o’ the stall, see,” it said. “Big feller⁠—proper fifteen-stoner⁠—but all blown out, all beer and wind, an’ yeller blobs under ’is eyes like fried eggs⁠—nuthin’ to him. An’ when ’e gets to the back o’ the stall, ’e takes a good look at me. ‘That’s right,’ I says, ‘ ’ave a ruddy good dekko, Mister Sexton Blake. An’ bring Pedro the blood’ound nex’ time.’ Oh, you should ’ave seen ’im! ‘That’ll do,’ ’e says⁠—usual style, see⁠—” And having heard so much, Mr. Oakroyd immediately began threading his way through the crowd to that corner of the room. There could be no mistake about it. That was the voice⁠—never to be forgotten⁠—of his old companion of the road, Joby Jackson.

Mr. Oakroyd found him in the farthest corner, the centre of a little admiring group. He wore the same red scarf and if the suit he had on was not the very same brown check he had worn before, it was twin-brother to it. His face was as red and his eyes as bright as ever, and if there was any change in him it was merely that he did not look quite so dashing as he had done last autumn. Winter, his lean period, had left some faint mark upon him. For a minute or two he was too busy concluding his story of the big puffy man, a story that demanded a wealth of illustrative gesture, to notice Mr. Oakroyd, who stood a yard or two away, holding his half-pint and puffing away at his little pipe, too shy to interrupt but determined to be seen.

“Well,” said Joby, having dismissed the big puffy man, to everybody’s admiration, “what about some more pig’s ear. ’Ere, I’m paying for this lot. Same again, boys?”

He jumped up, and caught sight of Mr. Oakroyd. He stared; he frowned; then delighted recognition lit up his face. “ ’Ello, I know you! It’s George. George with the little straw basket!”

“That’s right,” grinned Mr. Oakroyd.

Joby pushed his way round the table and clapped Mr. Oakroyd on the shoulder. “You mended the old stall. ’Alf a minute, where was it? I know. Don’t tell me. We went to Ribsden, didn’t we? That time big Jim Summers started ’is bit o’ bother. But you didn’t live ’ere, did you? Up in Yorkshire, wasn’t it? Good old George! ’Ere, I’ve wondered about you many a time, you an’ your little straw basket⁠—four days at Sunny Southport that ruddy little basket was⁠—an’ your bag o’ tools. ’Strewth, George, fancy you turning up agen! ’Ere, we must ’ave a gill or two an’ then you can tell me the tale. Never mind them fellers, they can wait.”

“Ay, I will that,” said Mr. Oakroyd, one vast delighted grin. “I were fair capped when I heard you. ‘Eh,’ I says to mysen, ‘that’s Joby.’ I’ll just sup this off, then we’ll ha’ some more. Well, ar yer getting on, Joby lad? Is trade i’ rubber dolls keeping up these days?”

“ ’Aven’t seen a rubber doll for months,” Joby replied. He began ordering two half-pints and kept on ordering them until he was served. “No,” he said, wiping some of the froth off his face, “I’m out o’ that now. Did well at Nottingham Goose Fair, then Tommy Muss⁠—remember Tommy, ’im an’ the tart?⁠—’e sloped agen⁠—an’ then I started beer-shiftin’, see. Got up Newcastle way and gets playin’ pontoon back of a boozer up there an’ loses the ’ole ruddy issue, stall and all⁠—what a life!”

“What about motter-car?” Mr. Oakroyd inquired sympathetically.

“Oh, poor old Liz! She was napoo before I got up to Newcastle, just after I cleared out o’ Nottingham, blind to the world. She gets goin’ down a ruddy ’ill, see, an’ I can’t stop ’er. Down the other side there’s one o’ these removin’ vans big as a row of ’ouses coming. I give the old bus a turn at the bottom⁠—an’ wallop⁠—we’re into the wall with our guts droppin’ out. The poor old bitch ’ad got all ’er front smashed in. ‘Finnee!’ I says, an’ gets the stuff out, waits for the first feller with a lorry to give me a lift for arf a dollar, an’ leaves ’er there, proppin’ the wall up.”

“Nowt else to be done, I can see that,” said Mr. Oakroyd, nodding sagely. “Cost you more ner it ’ud be worth. Eh, but it’s a pity! I’ve thowt monny a time abart yon motter-car, all fixed up to live in. It were champion.”

“You wait a bit, George. I’ll ’ave another before you can turn round. Any’ow, I’m properly in the cart after losing the lot in this boozer. I scrounges round a bit, an’ then I meets a feller I know who’s with Baroni’s Continental Circus, goin’ round to old skatin’ rinks an’ covered-over swimmin’ baths with a lot o’ cockatoos an’ dancin’ dogs an’ mangy monkeys an’ a couple of old trottin’ ponies⁠—see? You never saw such a piecan of a circus. I could make a better one out o’ the market ’ere. But this feller⁠—a feller called Johnny Dooley, a bit of a mug⁠—’e says, ‘I can get you in. It’s better than nothin’ ’⁠—so ’e gets me a job. An’ what d’you think I was, when I wasn’t feedin’ the dogs an’ shampooin’ the cockatoos an’ taking the tickets an’ helpin’ to move the how-d’you-do’s? I’m Tonio the Famous Continental Clown. You oughter see me, my God! An’ gettin’ two pound five a week⁠—when you got it! Everybody in that ruddy circus was dying of ’unger, honest they was. Even the ponies could ’ardly stand up. If you saved up and bought yourself a packet o’ fags, it was as much as your life was worth. They’d ’ave murdered you for ’em. They tore ’em out of your ’and. When I’d been with ’em a month, I’d forgotten what a piece o’ steak looked like. There was fellers that ’ud eat anything⁠—they’d ’ave eaten you. ‘ ’Ere,’ I says, ‘I’ve ’ad enough of this. Time to give the Baronios and Tonios the soldier’s farewell.’ Then I meets a feller I know who’s running one o’ these mug auctions, see.”

All this, and a great deal more, describing Joby’s adventures during the winter, was poured into Mr. Oakroyd’s ear as they stood close together, at no great distance from the bar. Two more pints, procured this time by Mr. Oakroyd, had been consumed by the time Joby had neared the end of his recital. He was now, once more, an independent trader with a little stall of his own, but only in a very modest way. “I’ve gone back to an old line,” he concluded. “You’ll ’ave seen it. Joey in the Bottle. Little glass figgers⁠—put ’em in a bottle full o’ water⁠—waggle the cork a bit an’ these Joeys dance about, see. Old⁠—but clever, amuses the kids! An’ very cheap to buy. Money for dust if you’ve got a good pitch. Don’t satisfy me, though. I’m ’elpin’ a feller too when I’m not selling Joey⁠—a feller that auctions oilcloth, smart feller. I ’old the pieces up an’ give ’em a bang to show it’ll last till you get ’ome. Workin’ ’ard and savin’ up, that’s Joby just now, see. ’Ere, George, what you doin’? I’m tellin’ all the ruddy tale.”

Mr. Oakroyd stole a glance at the clock. By this time he was usually at the theatre⁠—he liked to be there early⁠—and he would certainly have to leave in a minute or two to be there on time at all. So he explained briefly what had happened to him since the autumn. Even then, however, he was interrupted. A big man with an immense grey moustache pushed his way through the crowd and laid a hand on Joby’s shoulder. “Time to be off,” he remarked, and disappeared.

“That’s the oilcloth feller,” Joby explained. “ ’Ave to push off, George. ’Ere what did you say this ’ere show o’ yours is called? Did you say they’re ’ere this week?”

“That’s right. ‘Good Companions,’ they call ’em.”

Joby’s eyes widened and his mouth puckered up, to whistle soundlessly. Then he looked grave, confidential. “You ’ad any bother there, George, lately?” he asked quickly, with a rapid glance to left and right.

“Ar d’you mean?”

“Any kind of bother?”

“Well, there’s been a bit o’ calling out o’ t’back,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “And that’s summat new to us. Giving t’bird they call it, but funny part is, all t’rest o’ t’audience fair goes off their heads, they likes it so much. It’s nobbut a few o’ t’back.”

“You watch out, George,” said Joby, buttoning up his coat. “You’re in for a lot o’ bother if you’re not careful. Never mind ’ow I know. But I do know, see. You watch it, George. No, I can’t stop. ’E’s waitin’. Come in ’ere agen and look out for me.” And, without another word, he was gone.

And Mr. Oakroyd did go in again and look out for him. He went in on Friday, and at dinnertime on Saturday, but Joby was not to be found. Curiously enough, there was no more “bother” either on Thursday or Friday nights, and all the Good Companions, little knowing what was in store for them, congratulated themselves on being free at last of the few stamping and jeering hooligans in the audience. Mr. Oakroyd himself, however, was not so sure. It was all very mysterious. Even Mr. Jock Campbell, on being consulted, could make nothing of it, though it was his opinion, the result of long experience in arenas, that all crowds were partly composed of lunatics. And though this was all very well, the fact remained⁠—and Mr. Oakroyd could not ignore it⁠—that he had been told to look out and watch it by Joby Jackson, who was sane enough, a philosopher of the road.