"And now," I said, while the waiter was bringing the bill, "where
would you like to go?"
"I don't mind," he said. "What about a music-hall? I haven't seen one
for twenty years. There's a cinema about five miles from my place, but
it's too dear. Only the millionaires can use it."
"Very well, then," I said, "we'll go to a music-hall; but you'll find
that they've changed a bit."
"I don't mind," he said, "so long as there's something good. There's
so much variety in a music-hall, one turn after another, don't you
know, that you can't go far wrong."
My spirits sank. East Africa had kept his youth in camphor, and he had
no knowledge of the wonderful advances that we have been making. Turns
indeed!
"I'll do the best I can for you," I said, "but I'm afraid you'll be
disappointed."
"Oh, no," he assured me stoutly, "not in a music-hall. I've been
wanting to see one again for years. I suppose Jimmy Fawn isn't still
going?"
My spirits fell lower.
We went to one of the regular places, and, as I had feared, found
a revue in full blast. Topical talk, scenery and American songs
interminably. Every time a new person came on the stage my friend
eagerly perked up and lost his depression, hoping that at last it
might be one of his old delights--a juggler or knockabout or something
like that--but always he was disappointed.
"I say, where are we?" he asked. "This isn't a music-hall, is it?"
"One of the best," I replied.
He looked round in dismay.
"But where are the waiters?" he asked.
"Not allowed among the audience any more," I told him; "in fact, some
music-halls don't even have licences."
He stared at me in astonishment and sank into apathy. Coming up again
he said, "Do you remember those two fellows with enormous stomachs and
hooked sticks? They were funny, if you like. Don't you have that sort
of thing any more?"
"No," I said.
"Do you remember that act," he said--"I believe it was called the
Risley act--where a man lay on his back, with his legs up in the air,
and flung his family about with his feet? That was jolly clever. Don't
you have that any more?"
"No," I said.
"And the Sisters something or other," he said, "dashed pretty girls,
who did everything at the same time--are they gone for ever?"
"For ever," I said.
"And no comic songs either?" he asked.
"You've heard a lot of comic songs this evening," I replied.
"Oh, those," he said. "I don't call those comic. They're not comic
songs, they're comic-opera songs. Don't you have the others any more?"
"Not at this kind of hall," I said. "I daresay there may be a singer
or so left somewhere, with too big a coat and too small a hat, but not
here."
"Then what are all the old performers doing?" he asked.
"I believe they're starving," I said.
* * * * *
"A NOVEL HOSPITAL AT SHEFFIELD."--_Yorkshire Post._
Some of them certainly want a bit of doctoring.
* * * * *