Hinde was waiting for him in the sitting-room when he returned to the
lodging-house.
"What did you think of the Creams?" the journalist asked when they had
greeted each other and had ended their congratulations on being
Ulstermen.
"He's very good," John began....
"And she's rotten?" Hinde interrupted.
"Well!..."
"Oh, my dear fellow, you needn't be afraid of telling me what you
think. There's only one person in the world who doesn't realise that
Mrs. Cream can't act and never will be able to act ... and that's
poor old Cream himself. He's as good a comedian as there is in the
world--that little man: the essence of Cockney wit; and he does not know
how good he is. He thinks that she is much better than he can ever hope to
be, and she thinks so, too; but if it were not for him, MacDermott, she
wouldn't get thirty shillings a week in a penny gaff!"
"They've asked me to write a play for them," John said.
"Are you going to do it?"
"I don't know. That play to-night was a very common sort of a piece.
It's not the style of play I want to do!..."
"What style of play _do_ you want to do?" Hinde asked.
"Good plays. Plays like Shakespeare wrote."
Hinde looked at him quickly. "Oh, well," he said, "there's no harm in
aiming high!"
John told him of the book he had written at Ballyards, and of the story
he had sent to _Blackwood's Magazine_.
"I've a great ambition to do big things," he said.
"There's no harm in that either," Hinde replied. "In the meantime, what
are you going to do? It'll be a wheen of years yet before you can hope
to get anything big done!"
"Oh, I don't know about that," John answered confidently. "The
MacDermotts are great people for getting their own way!"
"Mebbe they are ... in Ballyards," Hinde retorted, "but this isn't
Ballyards. And you can't spend all your time writing masterpieces.
You'll have to do a wee bit of ordinary common work. What about trying
to get a job on a paper?"
"I don't mind taking a job if there's one to be got. Only what sort of
a job?..."
Hinde teased him. "They'll not let you edit the _Times_ yet
awhile," he said.
"I don't want to edit it," John replied.
"Well, that's a lucky thing for the man that's got the job now!"
John felt aggrieved at once. "You're coddin' me," he complained.
"Say that again," Hinde exclaimed enthusiastically.
"Say what again?"
"Say I'm coddin' you. I haven't heard that word for years. Gwon! Say
it!"
"You're coddin' me!..."
"Isn't it lovely? Isn't it a grand word, that? Good Ulster talk!..."
The door opened and Lizzie entered the room.
"Mr. 'Inde!..." she said.
"Don't call me 'Inde," he shouted, jumping up from his chair. "What do
you think the letter _h_ was put in the alphabet for? For you to
leave it out?"
Lizzie smiled amiably at him. "Ow, go on," she said, "you're always
'avin' me on!" She turned to John. "'E's a 'oly terror, 'e is. Talks
about me speakin' funny, but wot about 'im? I think Irish is the
comicest way of talkin' I ever heard. Wot'll you 'ave for your
breakfis, Mr. 'Inde?"
"_H_inde, woman, _H_inde!..."
"Well, wot'll you 'ave for your breakfis?"
"One of these days I'll have you fried and boiled and stewed!..."
Lizzie giggled.
"Ow, you are a funny man, Mr. 'Inde," she said between her titters.
Hinde gaped at her as if he were incapable of expressing himself in
adequate language.
"That female," He said turning to John, "always tells me I'm a funny
man!..."
"Well, so you are, Mr. 'Inde!" Lizzie interrupted.
"Get out," he roared at her.
Lizzie addressed John. "You'll get used to 'is comic ways when you know
'im as well as I do. Wot'll you 'ave for breakfis?" she continued,
speaking again to Hinde.
"Anything," he replied. "Anything on God's earth, so long as you get
out!"
"That's all I wanted to know," said Lizzie. "It'll be 'am an' eggs.
Goo'-night, Mr. MacDermott!"
"Good-night, Lizzie," John murmured.
"Goo'-night, Mr. 'Inde!"
"Come here!" said Hinde.
She came across the room and stood beside him. He took hold of her
chin. "If you hadn't such a rotten accent," he said, "I'd marry you!"
She giggled. "You do myke me laugh, Mr. 'Inde!" she said.
"_H_inde, woman, _H_inde!..."
She moved away from him as if he had uttered some perfectly commonplace
remark. "Very well," she said, "it'll be 'am an' eggs for breakfis. I'm
glad you chose them, because we ain't got nothink else in the 'ouse.
Goo'-night, all!"
She went out of the room, but hardly had she shut the door behind her,
when she opened it again.
"'Ere's the Creams 'ome again!" she said. "Goo'-night all!"
V
A few minutes later, Cream tapped on their door and, in response to
Hinde's "Come in!" entered. He greeted Hinde lavishly, and then turned
to John.
"Well, my boy," he said, "what do you think of her? Great, isn't she?
Absolute eye-opener, that's what she is, I knew you'd be struck dumb by
her. That's the effect she has on people. Paralyses them. Lays 'em out.
By Gum, Mac, that woman's a wonder!..."
"How is she?" John asked.
Cream shook his head. "All in bits, as usual, Mac. I ought not to let
her do the work ... it's wearing her out ... but you can't keep a great
artist away from the stage. She'd die quicker if she weren't doing her
work than she will while she's doing. That's Art, Mac. Extraordinary
thing, Art!..."
"Have a drink, Cream," Hinde exclaimed.
"I don't mind if I do, Hinde, old chap. Did you notice how she held the
audience, Mac? The minute she stepped on to the stage, she got 'em.
Absolute! She played with 'em ... did what she liked with 'em!... I
wish I could get hold of 'em like that. By Heaven, Mac, it must be
wonderful to have that woman's power to make an audience do just what
you want it to do!..."
Hinde handed a glass of whiskey and soda to him. "Thanks, old chap!" he
said, taking it from him. He raised the glass. "Well, here's health!"
he murmured, swallowing some of the drink. He put the glass down on the
table beside him. "When do you think you'll be able to let us have the
manuscript of the play, Mac?"
John started. "Well," he began nervously, "well, I haven't thought much
about it yet!..."
"Look here," said Cream, "I've been talking to Dolly about the matter,
and this is her idea. She wants to play in a piece about a naval
lieutenant. See? In a submarine or something. Something with a bit of
snap in it. She'd like to be an Irish girl called Kitty in love with
the lieutenant. See? Make it so's he can wear his uniform and a cocked
hat and a sword. See? The audience likes to see a bit of style. You
could put a comic stoker in ... that 'ud do for me, but of course as I
told you, you needn't worry much about my part. I'll look after myself.
Now, do you think you could do anything with that idea? Dolly's dead
set on playing an Irish girl, and of course, you being Irish and all
that, you'd know the ropes!"
"I'll think about it," said John.
"Do. That's a good chap. And perhaps you can let me have the manuscript
at the end of the week ... in the rough anyhow!"
He finished his whiskey and soda.
"Have another?" Hinde said.
"No, thanks, no. You know. Mac, the stage is a funny place. The average
author doesn't realise what a funny place it is. I've met a few authors
in my time, high-brow and low-brow and no-brow-at-all, and they're all
the same: think they know more about the theatre than the actor does.
But they don't. They all want to be littery. And that's no good ... in
the music-halls anyhow. If you've got anything to say to a music-hall
audience, don't waste time in being littery or anything like that. Bung
It At 'Em, Mac!" He pronounced the last injunction with enormous
emphasis. "An audience is about the thickest thing on earth. Got no
brains to speak of, and doesn't want to have any. Mind you, each person
in the audience may be as clever as you like, but as an audience ...
see? ... they're simply thick. And if you want 'em to understand
anything, you've got to Bung It At 'Em. No use being delicate or pretty
or anything like that. That's what authors don't understand. Now, you
heard those back-chat-comedians at the Oxford to-night?"
John nodded his head. "They weren't much good," he said.
"Why?" Cream demanded, and then, before John could speak, he went on to
give the answer to his question. "Because they don't know how to get
their stuff over the footlights. That's why! They had good stuff to
work with, but they didn't know what to do with it. _I_ could have
told 'em. Do you remember that joke about the dog that swallowed the
tape-measure and died?"
"Yes. It sounded rather silly!..."
"And it didn't get a laugh. The silliness of a thing doesn't matter if
it makes you laugh. This is how they said it. The tall chap says to the
little one, 'How's your dog, Joe?' and the little one answered, 'Oh, he
died last week. He swallowed a tape-measure and died by inches!...'"
Hinde laughed. "Do people pay good money to listen to that sort of
stuff?"
"You're a journalist," Cream replied, "and you ought to know they pay
money to _read_ worse than that!"
"So they do," Hinde admitted.
"When I heard those two duffers ruining that joke," Cream continued, "I
felt as if I wanted to run on to the stage and tell 'em how to get it
over to the audience. This is how they ought to have done it!"
He stood up and enacted the characters of the two back-chat comedians,
and as John watched him and listened to him, he realised what a great
actor the little man was.
_"Say, Joe, what're you in mourning for?"
"I'm in mourning for my little dog!"
"Your little dog. Why, your little dog ain't dead, is it?"
"Yes, my little dog's dead!"
"Well, Joe, I'm sorry to hear your little dog's dead. What was the
matter with your little dog?"
"My little dog died last week."
"Yes, your little dog died last week?..."
"He swallowed a tape-measure!..."
"Good heavens, your little dog swallowed a tape-measure?"
"Yes, my little dog swallowed a tape measure, and HE DIED BY
INCHES!"_
Cream sat down when he had finished giving his performance. "That's how
they ought to have done it," he said.
"It makes me angry to see men ruining a good story. You see, Mac,
you've got to lead up to things. Everything in this world has to be led
up to. You can't rush bald-headed at anything. And you've got to get a
climax. These back-chat chaps hadn't got a climax. The joke was over
before the audience had time to realise it was a joke. See?"
"I see," said John.
A few minutes later, Cream went downstairs to his own room.
"That little man knows just how to get an effect," said Hinde. "The
amazing thing about him is that he doesn't know that he can act and
that his wife can't!..."
"Why do you call her his wife?" John replied.
"Out of civility," said Hinde. "I don't see that it matters much
whether she is or not!"
"That's what Lizzie says."
"Lizzie is an intelligent woman. I hope you don't think I was rude to
Lizzie just now?..."
"Oh, no," John answered insincerely.
"I wouldn't hurt Lizzie's feelings for the world," said Hinde. "I'm
going to bed now, but you needn't hurry unless you want to. I'm tired,
and I shall have a busy day to-morrow. I'll see if there's any work
that would suit you on my paper. You ought to have some sort of a job
besides scribbling masterpieces. I suppose you left a girl behind you
in Ballyards?"
John's face flushed. "No," he replied.
"That's good," Hinde said. "You'll be able to get on with your work
instead of wasting time writing letters to a girl. Good-night!"
"Good-night. Mr. Hinde!" said John, suddenly ceremonious.
"Not so much of the Mister. Call me Hinde. I think I'll follow Cream's
example and call you Mac!"
"Very well, Hinde," said John.
"We'll go up to town in the morning together, if you like!"
"I would," said John.