He seemed to be an old habitué of the music-hall, for without a
programme he had known all that was coming. And then suddenly he came
to his own; for, “Watch this,” he said to those of us who were near
him, strangers though we were, as a new number went up; “this is good.
I know a chap in this. I’ll tell you when he comes on.” We watched and
waited. It was a furious knock-about sketch, the scene of which was
a grocer’s shop, staffed by comic grocers. Humorist after humorist
came upon the stage, fell over each other, and went through the usual
antics; but there was no news of our friend’s friend, nor was the play
good.
And then at last a young man representing an aristocratic customer
rushed on. “That’s him,” said the man, “that’s old Charley. He’s a nut,
I can tell you.” (A nut is what we used to call a “dog,” with a touch
more of irresponsibility and high-spirited idiocy.)
“Isn’t he a nut?” he asked us all with a radiant sweeping glance of
inquiry. How could we disappoint him? I caught myself nodding in
agreement. A nut, surely. “Oh, he’s a boy, I promise you. I’ve had some
rare times with old Charley,” his friend went on. “You should see him
at Forest Gate on Sundays! I tell you he’s a nut.”
The nut continued to do his best to prove his character. He screwed an
eyeglass in his eye, he dashed the girls under the chin, he fell over
his walking-stick, he flung his tall hat on the ground. His friend was
in ecstasies. “Good old Charley!” he cried again; “isn’t he a nut? By
Jingo, but he’s a nut!”
I left him exulting in his intimacy with Charley, while the youths
round him glowed in the glory of even the temporary acquaintance of a
man who knew intimately a nut on the music-hall stage.
And, after all, that is no small thing.