THE MEETING AT THE SCOTCH STORES
Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig stood in the wings, shaking in every limb.
German oaths of indescribable vigour poured from his lips. In a group
some feet away stood six muscular, short-sleeved stage-hands. It was
they who had flung themselves on the general at the fall of the iron
curtain and prevented him dashing round to attack the stalls with his
sabre. At a sign from the stage-manager they were ready to do it again.
The stage-manager was endeavouring to administer balm.
"Bless you, your Highness," he was saying, "it's nothing. It's what
happens to everyone some time. Ask any of the top-notch pros. Ask 'em
whether they never got the bird when they were starting. Why, even now
some of the biggest stars can't go to some towns because they always
cop it there. Bless you, it----"
A stage-hand came up with a piece of paper in his hand.
"Young feller in spectacles and a rum sort o' suit give me this for
your 'Ighness."
The Prince snatched it from his hand.
The note was written in a round, boyish hand. It was signed, "A
Friend." It ran:--"The men who booed you to-night were sent for that
purpose by General Vodkakoff, who is jealous of you because of the
paragraphs in the _Encore_ this week."
Prince Otto became suddenly calm.
"Excuse me, your Highness," said the stage-manager anxiously, as he
moved, "you can't go round to the front. Stand by, Bill."
"Right, sir!" said the stage-hands.
Prince Otto smiled pleasantly.
"There is no danger. I do not intend to go to the front. I am going to
look in at the Scotch Stores for a moment."
"Oh, in that case, your Highness, good-night, your Highness! Better
luck to-morrow, your Highness!"
* * * * *
It had been the custom of the two generals, since they had joined the
music-hall profession, to go, after their turn, to the Scotch Stores,
where they stood talking and blocking the gangway, as etiquette demands
that a successful artiste shall.
The Prince had little doubt but that he would find Vodkakoff there
to-night.
He was right. The Russian general was there, chatting affably across
the counter about the weather.
He nodded at the Prince with a well-assumed carelessness.
"Go well to-night?" he inquired casually.
Prince Otto clenched his fists; but he had had a rigorously diplomatic
up-bringing, and knew how to keep a hold on himself. When he spoke it
was in the familiar language of diplomacy.
"The rain has stopped," he said, "but the pavements are still wet
underfoot. Has your grace taken the precaution to come out in a good
stout pair of boots?"
The shaft plainly went home, but the Grand Duke's manner, as he
replied, was unruffled.
"Rain," he said, sipping his vermouth, "is always wet; but sometimes it
is cold as well."
"But it never falls upwards," said the Prince, pointedly.
"Rarely, I understand. Your powers of observation are keen, my dear
Prince."
There was a silence; then the Prince, momentarily baffled, returned to
the attack.
"The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway,"
he said, "is to go by Underground."
"Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway," replied the Grand Duke
suavely.
The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slippery
adversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.
"The sun rises in the East," he cried, half-choking, "but it sets--it
sets!"
"So does a hen," was the cynical reply.
The last remnants of the Prince's self-control were slipping away. This
elusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not in
the mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room at
some frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a
music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess that the
thing was his doing, it is little short of maddening.
"Hen!" he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Have you
studied the habits of hens?"
The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master-diplomat before
him was used to extracting himself from awkward corners.
"Pullets with a southern exposure," he drawled, "have yellow legs and
ripen quickest."
The Prince was nonplussed. He had no answer.
The girl behind the bar spoke.
"You do talk silly, you two!" she said.
It was enough. Trivial as the remark was, it was the last straw. The
Prince brought his fist down with a crash on the counter.
"Yes," he shouted, "you are right. We do talk silly; but we shall do so
no longer. I am tired of this verbal fencing. A plain answer to a plain
question. Did you or did you not send your troops to give me the bird
to-night?"
"My dear Prince!"
The Grand Duke raised his eyebrows.
"Did you or did you not?"
"The wise man," said the Russian, still determined on evasion, "never
takes sides, unless they are sides of bacon."
The Prince smashed a glass.
"You did!" he roared. "I know you did! Listen to me! I'll give you one
chance. I'll give you and your precious soldiers twenty-four hours from
midnight to-night to leave this country. If you are still here
then----"
He paused dramatically.
The Grand Duke slowly drained his vermouth.
"Have you seen my professional advertisement in the _Era_, my dear
Prince?" he asked.
"I have. What of it?"
"You noticed nothing about it?"
"I did not."
"Ah. If you had looked more closely, you would have seen the words,
'Permanent address, Hampstead.'"
"You mean----"
"I mean that I see no occasion to alter that advertisement in any way."
There was another tense silence. The two men looked hard at each other.
"That is your final decision?" said the German.
The Russian bowed.
"So be it," said the Prince, turning to the door. "I have the honour to
wish you a very good night."
"The same to you," said the Grand Duke. "Mind the step."