_The Sixth Sense_ had been put into rehearsal, and still the part of
Jenny Burrow had not been cast. Bray had urged upon Telford the
necessity of securing Helen Strange; but Telford had hung out.
"I believe in my luck, old man," he said, "something will turn up. I
shall wait till the end of the week."
This was Thursday. Telford and his stage-manager were in the throes of
producing _The Sixth Sense_ from a company that, according to Tom Bray,
hadn't a single sense, among the lot. The theatre was all gloom and
strange shadows. The company was grouped round the stage, leaving a
clear space in the centre for those actually rehearsing. Some sat on
the two or three chairs available and three odd boxes, the rest stood
about conversing in undertones.
To the uninitiated it would have seemed impossible that a play could be
produced out of such chaos. It was difficult to disentangle the
dramatist's lines from Telford's comments and instructions. He was
probably the most hard-working producer in London, and the most
difficult: but his company knew that by working with him whole-heartedly
they were striving for a common object--success. There was less
grumbling at his theatres than at any other in the kingdom. If he
blamed unstintingly he paid well, and to have been with Telford was in
itself a testimonial.
"Good God!" he broke out, "you make love as if the woman were a
gas-pipe."
The youth addressed flushed and turning to Telford rapped back, "Let me
choose my own woman and I'll show you how to make love, Mr. Telford."
Telford walked over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder said,
"My boy, I like that. Go ahead, do it your own way and you'll get
there."
That was Roger Telford all over. He understood human nature. He knew
that a man who could rap back an answer such as he had just received had
imagination, and he was there merely to direct that imagination.
"That's better," he cried as the youth was warming to his work. "Hi!
steady though, not too much realism in rehearsals, keep that for the
first night."
"My God!" cried Telford a few minutes later as he thrust his fingers
through his hair. "That's not Jenny Burrow, that's _The Pilgrim's
Progress_. The understudy was not a success."
Hour dragged after weary hour, lunch time came, three quarters of an
hour, and then back again. There seemed no continuity. First a bit of
this act then a bit of that: it was like building up a cinema film. It
was depressing work this preparing for the public amusement. It would
have been more depressing; but for the vitality and personal magnetism
of Telford!
Two o'clock dragged on to three, three to half-past three, and thoughts
were turning towards tea-time, the half hour that was permitted at four
o'clock, when a startling interruption occurred. From the direction of
the stage-door a woman's voice was heard raised in anger.
"Engaged is he," it cried. "Too busy to see me? I _don't_ think. You
just run along and tell him that Florrie's here and wants to see him,
and if he don't see her she'll raise hell." The murmur of the stage
doorkeeper's voice was heard.
"Here, get out of the way," said the voice. A moment after a girl
bounced on to the stage. She was young, stylishly dressed, fair as far
as could be seen through her thick veil. The stage doorkeeper followed
close upon her heels muttering protests. Turning on him like a fury the
girl shouted:
"Here, clear out of it if you don't want a thick ear."
The man hurriedly stepped back a few paces. The girl who had announced
herself as Florrie gave a swift look round, then spotting Telford went
directly up to him.
"Said you were too busy, Roj. Not too to see Florrie, old sport, what?"
Telford gazed at the girl in astonishment.
"You've made a mistake, I think," he said coldly.
"Oh, listen to the band," she sang. "Look here, what's your lay, what
are you after?"
Telford was conscious that the eyes of the company were upon him. "I'm
afraid I don't know you, and you've made a mistake."
"I never saw the lady before so she can't be mine you see," sang
Florrie, who seemed to be in high spirits.
"I'm busy," said Telford, "and I must ask you to go. You've made a
mistake."
"Is your name Roger Telford, or is it not?"
"I am Mr. Telford, yes."
"Oh! well, Mr. Telford, I'm Florrie. Never heard o' Florrie before, I
suppose. Look here Roj., none of your swank. You ain't been keepin' me
for two years to give me the bird like this. You thought you'd done me,
didn't you, writing that letter and saying all was over."
"I tell you," said Telford with some asperity, "that I do not know you."
"Oh, Roger boy, Roger boy," said Florrie, wagging her finger at him.
"Aint you the blooming limit?" She placed her hands upon her lips,
threw her body back and regarded him with good-humoured aggressiveness.
"I tell you I've never seen you before. If you refuse to go I shall
have you removed."
Telford's anger was rising.
"Oh! you're stickin' it on that lay, are you? All right, I'm your bird.
Never seen me before, haven't you? I suppose you don't remember
happening to meet me in "The Pocock Arms" two years ago last March do
you? You don't happen to remember seeing me home. You don't happen to
remember taking a flat for me. You don't happen to remember giving me
money and jewels. You don't happen to remember getting tired of me?
And I suppose you don't happen to remember writing a letter and saying
that it was all over and that you would give me fifty pounds to be off
and all the furniture. Do you happen to remember any of those things,
Mister Telford?"
Telford looked round him bewildered. The expression on the faces of his
company left him in no doubt as to their view of the situation.
"I--I don't know who you are or what you mean," he stuttered. "And--and
if you don't leave this er--er--place I shall send for a policeman.
Saunders," he called to the stage doorkeeper who was still hovering
about.
"Oh you will, will you," screamed Florrie, working herself up into a
passion. "You'll send for a policeman will you? Go on Saunders, if
that's your ugly name, fetch a policeman. That's just what I want.
We'll soon clear up this matter. You just fetch a bloomin' policeman.
Fetch two policemen while you're about it, and bring a handful of
specials as well." She laughed stridently at her joke. As her anger
rose her aitches disappeared, her idiom became coarser.
Seeing that Saunders hesitated she cried "Well! Why don't you go?"
Then she turned upon Telford. "Send 'im for a rotten policeman. Go on.
You dirty tyke. You mucky-souled liar. Never met me before? Never even
seen me. After what 'as 'appened and what you done for me. I was a
good gurl till I met you. Why don't you send for a policeman?"
Saunders looked interrogatingly at Telford, who shook his head.
"Ah!" screamed the girl. "I thought you wouldn't send for no
policeman."
"She's mad," muttered Telford under his breath. He looked helplessly
about him. If there were a scene it might get into the papers, it would
certainly be a nine days wonder in the "profession."
"Now look 'ere," shrilled Florrie to the assembled company, "that dirty
tyke says 'e don't know me, never seen me before this very hour. What
about this?" She produced a photograph from one of the large pockets in
her frock. "To the only woman in the world, from Roger," she read.
She held out a recent photograph of Telford for the company to see. The
writing was certainly very like his. Tom Bray came forward and examined
it. He looked grave.
"Well!" cried Florrie to Bray, "Is it like 'im. I suppose you're Tom
Bray, 'is stage manager. 'E's told me about you. Called you an oyster
because you never get flurried, said all you wanted was a bit o' lemon."
Tom Bray started and looked swiftly at Telford. That was a favourite
phrase of the chief's.
"It's a forgery," almost shouted Telford, making a clutch at the
photograph.
"No you don't, ducky," was Florrie's laughing retort. "We'll put you
away to bye-bye," and she tucked the photograph down her blouse.
"What is it you want with me?" asked Telford mechanically.
"Oh! that's it, is it," she cried. "You think I want money. You think
I'm a blackmailer, do you? You just offer me money and I'll fling it in
yer ugly face, I will, you dirty tyke. I want to know what you mean by
writing me that letter--chucking me after what you done. That's what I
want to know. I'm going to let all the world know what sort of a man
you are, Mrs. Telford. I suppose you've found someone amongst all these
gurls here what you like better'n me."
Telford looked round him as if expecting inspiration from somewhere. On
his forehead stood beads of perspiration which he mopped up with his
handkerchief.
Suddenly Florrie flopped down upon the stage and began to sob
hysterically. "Roger boy, don't chuck me," she wailed, trying to clutch
his knees, he stepped back in time to avoid her. "Don't chuck me. I
always been true to you, I 'ave. You oughtn't to do the dirty on me
like this. I won't worry you, only just let me see you sometimes."
The girl's self-abasement was so complete, her emotion so genuine that
more than one of those present felt an uncomfortable sensation in their
throats.
"What in God's name am I to do?" Telford cried, half to himself; but
looking in the direction of the low comedian, Ben Walters.
"You might marry the girl," said Ben. He regretted his words the moment
they were uttered.
In a flash Florrie was on her feet, her humility gone, her eyes flaming.
"Who are you?" she screamed, turning on him like a fury. "You're the
funny man I s'pose, but you ain't nearly so funny as what you think.
Anyone could be funny with a face like yours. God made you a damn sight
funnier than what you know." Then with withering scorn, "I've seen
better things won in a raffle."
Never had a comedian looked less funny than Walters at that moment.
With an almost imperceptible movement he edged away from his persecutor.
"Yes, that's right. You slip off, and if you can get anyone to buy your
face, don't you ask too much for it. Well! What are you going to do?"
This to Telford to whom she turned once more. Her movements were as
swift as her emotional changes.
"I--I told you you've made a mistake," repeated Telford; but he was
conscious of the futility of the remark.
"And I tell you you're a liar," replied Florrie. "A gurl ain't likely
to make a mistake about a man what's done to her what you've done to me.
I was a good gurl till I met you." There was a break in her voice that
was perilously like a sob. "Look what you done for me, look, look. Oh!
my God!" She buried her face in her handkerchief. Her whole body
shaken with sobs, then slowly her knees gave way beneath her and she
sank in a heap on the stage, still sobbing hysterically.
"Jenny Burrow in real life," muttered Tom Bray. "If she could only act
it all."
"Oh, Roj," she cried through her handkerchief. "Oh! Roj-boy, you've
broken my heart. I love you so. I'd 'ave done anything for you. I did.
I--I--an' now what's to become of me? What's fifty pounds to a gurl
whose heart's broken? You--you played the dirty on me, Roj-boy, you
played the dirty on me. They got to know all about it at home and
father won't let mother see me. I--I--we was such pals, mother an' me,
an' it's all through you; but--but--" she struggled to her feet with
heaving breast. "I ain't done yet. I'll pay you back, you and your
play-actors. I was a decent gurl before I met you. You--you--dirty
tyke." She fell back on the old phrase from sheer poverty of
vocabulary.
"You're like all men," she shrieked. "Like every cursed one of 'em.
You come into a gurl's life, ruin it, then off you go and you give her
money; but I'll break you this time, I'll break you, I'll smash you,
Roger Telford, I'll smash you. Damn you! Blast you! May hell open and
swallow you."
The vindictiveness in the girl's voice made even the most hardened
sinner shudder.
"I'm goin' to do myself in," she continued, "there's nothing left for
me; but I'll leave behind me the whole story, I'll ruin you, just as
you've ruined me. These are your friends round you, these 'ere men and
women. Look at their faces, look at 'em, see what they think of you
now; you stinkin', low-bred swine."
Telford looked on the point of collapse. Someone gently propelled a
chair towards him, on which he sank gazing round him stupidly.
Suddenly Florrie gave a wild hysterical shriek and fell. For a moment
her limbs twitched spasmodically, then she lay very still. She had
fainted. Several of the girls ran forward and began fumbling about with
the fastenings of her clothes. They removed her hat and veil, and one
of them uttered a cry of surprise.
Suddenly Florrie sat up, and those about her, as if impelled by their
instinct for the dramatic, stood aside that Telford could see her.
It was Elsie Gwyn.
"Please Mr. Telford," she said smiling, and in her natural voice, "won't
you give me a trial in the part of Jenny Burrow."
Telford stared as a drunken man might who had been roused by the glare
of a policeman's lantern.
The company looked first at the girl, then at Telford, then at each
other. Telford drew a deep sigh.
"My God!" he muttered.
A babel of conversation and chatter broke out. Telford gazed at Elsie
Gwyn as if fascinated.
"Listen, everybody."
A hush fell over the stage. It was Elsie Gwyn who spoke. "I asked Mr.
Telford to give me a trial as Jenny Burrow. He said that I was not
sufficiently experienced and could not create such a part. I thought I
could. Of course what I have just said was all----"
"Fudge and Florrie," broke in Walters, as if to reassert his claims as a
comedian.
"Exactly, Mr. Walters. You'll forgive me, won't you?"
"Sure, girl," he said genially. "There's no one here who'll ever want
to quarrel with you after to-day," he added, at which there was a laugh.
"Now, Mr. Telford," said Elsie, "can I or can I not play the part of
Jenny Burrow?"
"Play it, girl, I should think you could," cried Telford, jumping up
from the chair. "But you've given me the fright of my life. Come along
upstairs and we'll sign a contract."
The two left the stage together, and the company trooped out after them,
knowing that rehearsal was over for that day.
Roger Telford was a sportsman, and too happy at the termination of his
nightmare to bear malice. He was delighted to find that his luck had
not failed him, and that he had found an actress capable of creating the
part that he had found such difficulty in casting.
"She knew some fancy words," was Bindle's comment. "She ought to get
on."
"Was she a success?" enquired Sallie eagerly.
"She made the hit of the season," I replied. "Somehow the story leaked
out and got into the papers. It was the biggest advertising boom
Telford has ever had. The public flocked to see the girl who had scored
off Roger Telford."
"A great advertisin' stunt," said Angell Herald. "Wish I'd had it.
Some fellows get all the luck."
"She ought to have married him," murmured Sallie, gazing at nothing in
particular.
"She did," I said, "last season. It was regarded as her greatest hit."
"Oh! how splendid," cried Sallie, clapping her hands in a way that would
seem like gush in anyone else.
Bindle looked gloomy disapproval.
"It's all very well for you miss, but think of 'im an' all them words
she knew."
"But, Mr. Bindle, she was an actress," cried Sallie.
"So's every woman, miss. They can't 'elp it."
"Mr. Bindle!" Sallie reproved.
"Think o' that poor chap goin' an' doin' it after wot 'e'd 'eard. Isn't
it jest like 'em. Nobody won't believe nothink till they've tried it
themselves.
"I 'ad a mate, a real sport 'e was. 'E wouldn't believe me, said 'is
little bit o' fluff wasn't like other bits wot I'd seen. 'E talked as
if 'e could 'ear 'er feathers a-rustling when the wind blew, poor chap!
Then 'e did it."
Bindle paused as if overcome by the memory of his mate's misfortune.
"'E 'adn't 'ad 'er a month when 'e comes round to me one Saturday
afternoon. I was sittin' in the back-yard a-listenin' to a canary and
wot Mrs. 'Iggins thought of 'er ole man.
"'You was right, Joe,' 'e says, lookin' about as 'appy as a lobster wot
'ears the pot bubblin'.
"'So you don't 'ear the wind through 'er feathers now, Jim?' I says.
"'There never warn't no feathers, Joe,' 'e says, 'only claws. Come an'
'ave a drink?'
"When a cove wot's been talkin' about 'is misses says, 'Come an' 'ave a
drink,' you can lay outsider's odds on 'is 'avin' drawn a blank."
"J.B. never admits of the law of exception," remarked Dare. "That is
the fundamental weakness of his logical equipment."
"Fancy it bein' all that," remarked Bindle drily.
"As Sallie remarked," continued Dare, "this young woman was an actress,
and she was out for an engagement."
"An' got a weddin' thrown in," said Bindle. "Every woman's out for an
engagement, an' yer can leave it to them that it ain't goin' to end
there. Well, 'ere's for Fulham, an' my little allotment of 'eaven.
S'long everybody," and Bindle departed, knowing that as Carruthers was
present he would not be required to call a taxi for Sallie.
It was unusual for Bindle to be the first to leave, and we speculated as
to the cause. It was Sallie who guessed the reason as Bindle had told
her Mrs. Bindle was poorly, having caught "wot Abraham 'ud call a cold
on 'er bosom."
*CHAPTER XVI*
*THE MOGGRIDGES' ZEPPELIN NIGHT*
"I'm tired," said Bindle one evening, his cheery look belying his words,
"tired as Gawd must be of 'Earty." He threw himself into a chair and
fanned himself with a red silk pocket-handkerchief.
"What's the trouble, J.B.?" asked Dick Little, handing Bindle his
tankard.
Bindle drank deeply and proceeded to light a cigar Windover had handed
him. Bindle's taste in tobacco had in the early days of the Night Club
caused us some anxiety. One night Windover came in and began to sniff
the air suspiciously.
"There's something burning," he announced. We all made ostentatious
search for the source of the smell. It was Windover who traced it to
Bindle's cigar. Taking it from his hand he had smelt it gingerly and
then returned it to its owner.
"I think," he remarked quite casually, "I should change the brand, J.B.
We cannot allow you to imperil your valuable life. Your tobacconist has
grossly deceived you. That is not a cigar, it's an offence against the
constitution."
"Is it really, sir," said Bindle anxiously as he regarded the offending
weed. "I thought it 'ad a bit of a bite to it."
Windover had then launched into a lengthy monologue, during which he
traced all the evils of the world, from the Plagues of Egypt to the
Suffrage Agitation, to the use of questionable tobacco. The upshot had
been that Bindle agreed to allow Windover to advise him in such matters
in future. That is how it came about that at the Night Club Bindle
smokes shilling cigars, for which he pays Windover at the rate of ten
shillings a hundred, under the impression that they are purchased for
that sum.
I afterwards discovered that the offending smokes were known as
"Sprague's Fulham Whiffs," one shilling and threepence for ten in a
cardboard box.
"The trouble," remarked Bindle in reply to Dick Little's question, "is
that people won't do the right thing. I jest been to see Mrs. Biggs
wot's in trouble. Last week ole Sam Biggs shuts the door an' window,
turns on the gas, an' kills 'imself, an' leaves 'is missus to pay the
gas bill. It's annoyed 'er."
"Is she much upset?" enquired Sallie solicitously.
"Somethink awful, miss. She don't seem to be able to get 'er voice down
again, it's got so 'igh tellin' the neighbours. I told 'er that it
costs yer money to get rid of most things, from a boil to an 'usband,
an' Sam ain't dear at a bit extra on the gas bill."
The sittings of the Night Club invariably began and ended with
conversation. Before opening the proceedings by calling for the story,
Bindle frequently eases his mind of what was pressing most heavily upon
it. His utterances are listened to as are those of no one else. If he
be conscious of the fact he does not show it.
He has become a law unto himself. He is incapable of giving offence,
because there is nothing but good-nature in his mind.
One of our members, Robert Crofton, a little doctor man, has a most
extraordinary laugh, which he seems unable to control. It is something
of a cackle punctuated by a quick indrawing of breath. One night after
listening attentively to this strange manifestation of mirth, Bindle
remarked with great seriousness to Windover:
"No one didn't ought to make that noise without followin' it up with an
egg."