For a week before the first appearance in vaudeville of "Flo Dearmore,"
Tommy Watson's behaviour alarmed his friends. He ate little; it was
plain to those who met him daily that he slept little, and William
Adolphus Turnpike confided to Whimple that Tommy was "shaping up for
the asylum." "He don't know what he's sayin' half the time, and the
other half he ain't sayin' anything, he's just singing Scotch songs,
and Tommy's singing ain't much diff'rent to the hootin' of a factory
whistle," he said earnestly.
"You sing some old country songs pretty well yourself, William."
"Pa says so, and so does Ma, but----" he paused.
"Well?"
"Well--I ain't laying out to be no singer. Tommy took me to one of
them singing factories one day, and the feller what heard me says,
'Well,' he says, 'he has a sweet enough voice, but that's about all for
him.'"
"That was encouraging though."
"But I ain't hankering to get my living by singing. Anyway, that's not
worrying me now--it's Tommy. Mister Epstein says he can guess, but he
won't tell."
"Guess what's troubling Tommy?"
"Yes--and I wish I did. Maybe I could help--if I am only a boy."
"Well, we'll have to go slowly, William; it won't do to intrude on a
man's private affairs."
"That's what Jimmy Duggan said when he laid out the burglar what was
crackin' his safe in the coal yard office; only this is diff'rent;
nobody ain't swipin' Tommy's money. I asked him and he says to me,
'Willyum, you know what our old friend Bill Shakespeare says.' And I
says, 'What?' 'Well,' he says, 'Bill has a few lines to say it don't
matter much who swipes me purse, it's what hits me heart that counts.'"
"Um--well, that may be Tommy's version of it: Shakespeare's was
somewhat different."
There the conversation dropped. Whimple thought no more about it until
the following Monday night when he received from Epstein an invitation
to go to the Variety with him. He met the old comedian at the door of
the theatre, and found Watson and William with him. They had seats in
the front row of the balcony. Epstein and Whimple sat together, Watson
next to the barrister, and William next to Watson. It was a fair bill
as vaudeville bills go, with Flo Dearmore about half-way down on the
programme. Whimple noticed that Watson paid no heed to the various
turns, though William was revelling in them. But when Flo Dearmore's
number went up he saw Watson lean forward with his arms on the rail in
front of him, and even in the vague light of the semi-darkened theatre
he noticed that his face was pale and drawn. The very simplicity of
"the turn" constituted one of its greatest charms. Flo came on the
stage and sang in a pure contralto voice several old country songs. A
pretty woman she was, not tall, but gracefully formed, with dark blue
eyes and a wealth of black hair, crowning a well-shaped head. She was
a remarkably expressive singer--you saw the scenes of her songs as
clearly as though you were wandering through them with Flo by your
side. The applause was heartier with every song; it grew into an
outburst of cheering when she sang "Come Back to Erin:" and at its
close bowed and smiled her acknowledgments. She would have left the
stage then, but the audience would not have it. Again and again she
advanced and bowed her thanks, and again and again the cheering rolled
out. Finally the lights went up, once more she stepped to the front of
the stage, nodded to the orchestra leader, who waved his baton, and
began "Loch Lomond." Sweet and clear the voice rose and fell; they
cheered after the first verse; they cheered again at the close of the
second; and then--she saw Tommy Watson, who was staring straight at
her, his face brighter now, his eyes aflame, his lips slightly parted.
What was it that brought the tears to her eyes; that made her falter
and sway a little, and then stand silent and helpless while the
orchestra twice started the air for the third verse, and the audience
begin to grow restless?
The stage manager, alarmed and worried, was about to ring down the
curtain when, from the balcony, a clear boyish voice took up the song.
All eyes were turned in that direction. Flo Dearmore herself flung out
her hands as though urging the people to listen and the orchestra to
play on. Whimple started from his seat and then sat down again on
Epstein's sharp "Leave him alone," and William, looking down on the
stage, unconscious of anything but the vision of helpless loveliness
there, sang in his sweet boyish voice:--
"The wild flowers spring, and the wee birdies sing,
And in sunshine the waters are gleaming,
But the broken heart, it kens nae second spring,
Though the waeful may cease frae their greetin'."
She joined him then in the refrain, both keeping perfect time:--
"Oh! you'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me an' my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."
There followed a scene the like of which the Variety had never
witnessed. For long minutes the applause and cheering echoed and
re-echoed through the theatre. Everybody told everybody else what a
clever act it was; but they had been "on to it" from the first. Scores
of people confided to other scores that they had noticed the lad come
into the theatre and take the seat reserved for him. They wondered how
old he was; if he was "her brother," and between times they hoped that
there would be a repeat.
But as a "repeater" William would not have been a success. He was
trembling and almost hysterical when he sat down, and Tommy Watson was
in almost as bad a condition. Whimple was uneasy; Epstein only seemed
to be cool. He passed the word along, and, as the curtain went up for
the next act, the four friends quietly left their seats and walked down
the stairs into the main entrance of the theatre. Here they were met
by the manager, who seized Epstein by the arm. "Say, 'Chuck," he said
excitedly, "that was a great stunt. How much will the kid take for the
week?"
Epstein smiled and turned to William. "I wouldn't do it again for a
hundred dollars a night," said William pointedly, "and I don't know
what I did it for anyway."
"But, see here, my boy," said the manager, "there's big money in it for
you--say----"
William, however, was already at the door, and Whimple, not wholly
understanding what lay behind Epstein's murmured, "Sorry--but I'll have
to explain later," followed him.
The manager was talking now to Tommy. "Flo Dearmore wants to see you,
Mr. Watson," he said. "Do you know her?"
Tommy nodded. "Come along then--you coming too, Epstein?"
"No." The old comedian smiled affectionately on Tommy as the latter
went off with the manager, and then walked away slowly, his lips moving
as though he was communing with himself.
At the door of the dressing-room the manager left Tommy, who knocked
gently. The door was opened at once by a coloured maid of uncertain
age, who turned to her mistress at the sight of Tommy. "It's a gent,
honey," she said, and Flo, who was already in street attire, turned to
the door. "Come in, Tommy Watson," she said quietly. "Toots," to the
maid, "leave us a little while."
Tommy stood near the door, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks full of
colour now, his hands rigid by his side. Flo waited, her own cheeks
burning, her heart beating fast. Tommy came a little nearer to her,
and, "It seems like a long, long time since you went on the stage, Flo
Dearmore," he said.
She nodded, and recovering a little of her dashing self, answered,
"It's only ten years, Tommy."
"No," said Tommy, "it's more than that--it's all of twenty."
"Tommy!"
"I'm forty and you're thirty--think of that, Flo, and you were ten the
first time I saw you on the stage. Don't you remember the pantomime in
the old schoolhouse? You were the Queen of the Fairies, and----"
"Yes, but I was still a school-girl."
"And your heart was already set upon the stage. I've never forgotten
that night, Flo; such a winsome little fairy you were."
"But--but----" she faltered.
"I did--I tell you," he asserted stoutly, as though she had
contradicted him--"I fell in love with you that night; I watched you
grow into young womanhood, Flo; and always--and always--you filled my
heart."
"Don't, Tommy."
"And when I asked you--and when you laughed----" he broke off abruptly.
"Don't," she pleaded--"don't, Tommy. It was cruel of me----"
He came nearer still--his arms outstretched now. She rose with a
swift, "No, no, Tommy, I cannot--not yet--wait a little longer--give me
a little time," and there was a note of appeal in her voice. She went
on rapidly. "I must feel that I can give you all that you would have,
Tommy. There is no other man--believe me--and my work--my work--well,
it is not all now. There are times when--" and again she halted. Then
looking at him bravely, she said, "Tommy, if you are of the same mind
at the end of the season, and there is no other woman," this with a
gleam of mischief in her eyes, "perhaps I'll know for sure."
And Tommy, the silver-tongued auctioneer, the man whose eloquence
opened people's pockets and made them buy bargains they didn't want,
meekly accepted her rebuff when she refused even to allow him to kiss
her hand, and left her when she said, "It must be good-night, Tommy,
now."
The next morning the newspapers with one accord paid tribute to the
cleverness of the Loch Lomond scene in "Flo Dearmore's turn," and at
every remaining performance it was repeated. But William had no part
in it. A choir boy from a city church got "the big money" the manager
had talked of. And Tommy Watson, who attended every performance during
the week for just so long as Flo Dearmore's act lasted, began to eat
like a man who had many slim meals to make up for.