CHAPTER IX
A REVERSIBLE FAVOUR
A certain old actor, whose spirit had passed above the flies, once remarked, referring to “Hamlet,” “This delightful profession of ours is ruined by perennial productions of that most gloomy play.”
Such an observation is, of course, indefensible, nevertheless the magnetic charms of “Hamlet” are, to a certain extent, margined. Without exception it delights the actor who plays the title-rôle, and almost without exception it fails to delight those members of the cast who play the minor parts. Another section of the dramatic world who eye this drama askance are those indispensable gentlemen whose money is reposed in theatrical enterprise.
A syndicate, as a rule, is composed of unemotional persons, whose love of art is subordinated to a love of profit, and with this aim in view they are apt to rebel against the devotion of their capital to presentations of Shakespearian masterpieces.
This, in fact, was what occurred when Eliphalet Cardomay gravely announced this intention at the Round Table of his Supporters. His appearance in town in the character of The Ghost inspired the idea, and he had thought it over very carefully and decided it was good. Little Mornice June was to appear as Ophelia—a revival of “The Night Cry” would be postponed, and it only remained to impart his intentions to the four commercial gentlemen who composed his syndicate and receive their sanction and blessing.
“You will agree,” he said, “to an actor of my calibre a career cannot be regarded as complete if he has failed to appear as the Moody Dane. We have been in the best accord in our past dealings, and I am confident of your approval in this matter.”
For a while no one spoke. Mr. Albert Shingle, owner of a large Drapery Emporium, with branches in several Midland towns, looked furtively at Mr. Thomas Combermare, dealer in dry-goods. But Mr. Combermare only picked his teeth with a tram-ticket and shook his head.
“Well, I don’t know so much,” said Mr. Shingle, at last, expanding his globular waistcoat. “What do you say, Mr. Wardluke?” The gentleman appealed to was a retired doctor, who had done extremely well by opening small surgeries in the poorer parts of Bradford.
“I’d like to agree with Mr. Cardomay,” he said, “for, on the whole, he has done extremely well by us—but—well—‘Hamlet.’ You see what I mean? One must consider the public.” He put a pencil in his ear, stethoscope fashion, as though seeking to learn how the heart-beats of the multitude responded to so extreme a test.
“I am all against it—all against it.”
It was an angular little man who spoke. His name was Wilfred Wilfur, and he had inherited more money than his talents would have earned. His own opinions he valued highly, and was alone in this respect.
“We are here to make money—make it, Mr. Cardomay, make money—not to lose. Now I, personally—and I suppose I count—I’m one of the public, you know—I don’t like ‘Hamlet.’ I’ve never read it—never seen it—and I don’t like it.”
“I am suggesting,” said Eliphalet, patiently, “that in this case you consult my views rather than your own. On examining past records I find you have never made less than eight per cent. each year on the capital I have controlled; in many cases far more. This justifies me, I think, in demanding a certain latitude of action.”
“That’s not business, Cardomay,” said Mr. Shingle. “That’s sentiment, that is, and sentiment’s no good. I put you a plain straightforward question. Which’d make most money—‘Hamlet’ or ‘The Night Cry?’ ”
“Money is not the only consideration.”
“It is with us—it is with us,” chirped Mr. Wilfur excitedly.
Eliphalet fidgeted with his cane.
“Financially, in all probability, ‘The Night Cry’ would show better receipts, but——”
“Exactly. Then that settles it—we will put up ‘The Night Cry.’ ”
Eliphalet compressed his lips and rose.
“It is not settled so easily,” he remarked.
And for the first time in their mutual association there was a scene.
It was decided if Eliphalet desired to retain their services he must adjust his views to theirs. He, as a counter, produced precisely the same terms, and the result was a lock-out. Art versus Commerce. The meeting broke up with generally distributed feelings of grievance and dissatisfaction.
Eliphalet Cardomay took some rooms in Trafford Park and sat down to wait until such a time as they should realise their folly and withdraw the opposition to his demands.
He was never really happy when not working, and even the pleasant companionship of Mornice failed to dispel the gloom of the days that followed. They were both bitterly disappointed. He at the lack of faith shown by his syndicate, and she at losing her first chance of a big part.
It had hurt Eliphalet more than he believed possible to break the news to her after the meeting.
“Oh, never mind,” she had said. “I should have been very dud as Ophelia. Anyway, I shall be in ‘The Night Cry,’ shan’t I?”
When he told her “The Night Cry” was indefinitely postponed, her distress was evident.
Mornice was wholly centred in getting on, and sitting idle in the Trafford Park lodgings was almost more than she could endure. Very discreetly she hinted at being allowed to try for a Cinema engagement to fill in, but on that subject Eliphalet was severe in his disapproval.
“Cinematograph acting is not art,” he would say. “Trust me, and sooner or later you shall have your chance. My syndicate will come to their senses before long.”
And the weeks dragged by, but no word was received from Messrs. Shingle, Wardluke, Wilfur and Combermare.
He made an effort to find a new syndicate, but oddly enough no one rose to the fly. Then Mornice approached the subject again on different lines.
“It’s all nonsense,” she said. “I’m costing you a fearful lot.” (This was not strictly true, for their weekly bills rarely exceeded two pounds.) “And there’s not the slightest reason why I should. Do let me try and get a teeny part in a film. There are two companies in Manchester, now, and if you give me an introduction I’m sure they’d have me.”
Eliphalet refused, but worried over the matter exceedingly. After all, he had promised to help her, and instead he had done nothing beyond the entertainment of his own society and the provision of a very bread-and-butter existence. He reflected that she must be considering herself worse off now than before they had met, and was probably reproaching the impetuosity that led her to play the part of daughter to an old man. It was not fair she should be pilloried on his account. So he lay awake at night and sought for a solution and when he found a way to make good his promise he set about it with characteristic zeal. From the bottom of a theatrical basket he produced a bundle of old plays—Veterans of the Road, with expired copyrights. These he sorted over, collected half-a-dozen, and dropped them into Mornice’s lap.
“Read them carefully,” he said, “and tell me which one you would like to play the most.”
In great excitement Mornice read them all, and decided on a play of the “Sweet Nancy” order.
“Good! You shall play it.”
The next move was to secure a few bookings from small Number 2 towns. This proved rather difficult, since he offered old material and an unknown cast, but by accepting very low terms the dates were secured. A company was engaged, some stock scenery hired, and three weeks later Miss Mornice June, flushed and triumphant, was starring in the “Smalls,” in a comedy “Presented by Mr. Eliphalet Cardomay.”
Presented was an appropriate word, since the receipts were so infinitesimal that it cost Eliphalet about fifteen pounds a week to keep the tour running.
As he was earning no salary at the time, he moved to a humbler lodging off the Palatine Road, and there continued the silent and unsuccessful freezing out of his syndicate.
There was no real occasion for Eliphalet to economise to the extent he was doing, for his banking account showed a comfortable credit (fruit of many years’ saving). To do so, however, was no great privation, for the provincial actor knows better than any other man how to live, and live well, on nothing a week. Better circumstances had brought little change in Eliphalet Cardomay’s mode of life. Joints appeared on the table with great frequency, perhaps, and he did not deny himself a dish of crumpets when the bell of the muffin-man sounded in the street. But these little extras he now excised, and gave further outward evidence of poverty by walking the streets with melancholy mien.
He missed his Art and missed Mornice, and altogether he was ill-content. The delights of prominence so obsessed Miss Mornice that letter-writing, after the first week, showed a pathetic decline. He had to satisfy himself with postcards of which “Having a lovely time—You are a dear” was a fair sample.
One day when meandering down Oxford Road, Eliphalet was heartily accosted by another old actor of the name Sefton Bulmore. Bulmore had once been a popular comedian, but had lost much of his hold upon the public. After eking out a precarious existence with special performances and short tours, he had the good fortune to obtain some fairly regular work with Eastlake’s Exclusive Cinema Company, and had given them satisfaction.
He was a breezy, go-as-you-please old fellow, who would borrow a shilling or lend you a pound with equal good-nature.
“Hullo, Cardomay! Dear old boy, old man—how’s things?” he hailed. “You don’t look too grand. Haven’t seen your poster about lately. Where are you showing now?”
“I am not, at the moment,” replied Eliphalet. “But won’t you step along and take a cup of tea?”
As they walked toward the lodging Sefton Bulmore did most of the talking, but this did not prevent him from casting sidelong glances at his companion.
“Must have come a cropper somehow,” he reflected.
The sight of Eliphalet’s very humble apartment and the modest fare offered strengthened this impression. Discreetly as possible he tried to discover how matters stood, but his masked inquiries failed to produce the required information.
“Well, I must be getting along,” he said at last, with a hearty hand-shake. As he touched the handle of the door an idea flashed into his brain, and he turned:
“Just occurred to me—I’ve come out without any ready. You might lend me a couple of ten shillings.”
Eliphalet hesitated. “I haven’t so much on me,” he answered, “but I daresay——”
“Lord love you, I don’t want it—only a joke—pulling your leg, that’s all. Ha! Well! Must be going, old man. Bye-bye.”
Sefton Bulmore had learnt what he wanted to know—or thought he had. As he walked down the street he muttered to himself:
“Tch, tch! Bad business! Poor old Card! Tch-tch. Getting old—losing ground—hipped—stony!”
On the stage, more perhaps than in any other calling, there exists a wonderful unity and fellowship. You will never appeal in vain for help for one player to another. The hat that goes round empty is always filled before returning.
Sefton Bulmore worried over Eliphalet Cardomay all night, and the liberal supply of whisky he absorbed failed to dispel his anxieties. It would be no good offering money, even if he had it to offer, for the Old Card was far too proud to accept charity. He would have to devise some means of helping him, and, by hook or by crook, he meant to do so. The opportunity arose sooner than he expected, for the very next morning brought an offer by post from Eastlake’s Exclusives of a long part in a Three-Reel Drama, and the terms proposed were thirty guineas.
Then Sefton Bulmore knew that his prayer had been answered, and rejoiced. He donned his brightest clothes, swallowed a hasty Guinness, and sallied forth to interview Mr. Eastlake of the Movies.
“Ha, Bulmore!” that gentleman greeted him. “So you got our letter, eh? Going to accept?”
“Sorry,” replied Bulmore, “very sorry, old boy, but I can’t.”
“What’s the trouble? Terms?”
“Busy, old man; busy.”
“That’s all rot. You’re just the man I want, and I don’t know where to find another if you turn us down.”
“Turn you down! Wouldn’t do it. Matter of fact, I am making you a present by refusing. ’Cause I can put you on to a fine proposition straight away.”
“You can?”
“Yes, and fix details ac dum.”
“Well, let’s have it,” said Eastlake a shade warily.
Sefton Bulmore cast a suspicious eye round the office, as though about to expose a secret of awful moment.
“What would you say to Eliphalet Cardomay?”—he had dropped his voice to a penetrating whisper.
“Who?”
“Eliphalet Cardomay.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Never—what? Come, come, old man, old boy, that’s too rich. But you can’t be born yet if you haven’t heard of him.”
“I may have heard the name, but not in our line of business. What about him, anyway?”
“Only this—I can—get—him—to—play—the—part. Now then!”
Mr. Eastlake did not appear half so impressed as he should have been.
“Hum!” he remarked. “Would he be any use?”
Bulmore cast his eyes ceiling-ward in mute despair.
“Use! Now look here, old boy, I tell you frankly, if you are going to play round with the notion I shall call it off.”
“Well, what’s he doing now?”
“Resting.”
“At liberty—eh?”
“No, resting; and there’s a big difference between the two. Resting means you are not acting because you don’t want to act. At liberty means you want to act, and would at any price, but can’t. Got it?”
“I see. Well, send him along, and I’ll look him over.”
“You don’t understand—you don’t know what you’re saying, old man. Why, he wouldn’t walk to the end of the street to look for jobs, for the simple reason that half the town is coming his way to offer ’em.”
“Like that, eh? Well, I suppose I must take your word, Bulmore, and risk it. For your sake I hope he doesn’t let us down, that’s all. What’s he like, now—is he funny?”
Bulmore stretched his imagination to the fullest.
“You should just hear them shriek at him.”
“And about terms? Would he take a bit less?”
“That’s the one difficulty, old man. I mentioned what you’d said, but he held out that thirty-five guineas was the lowest he’d accept.”
“Well, it’s the highest we’d pay. Tell him that.”
“Well, we’ll let it go at thirty-five, and if you’ve a sheet of paper handy I’ll sign an acceptance form on his behalf.”
Sefton Bulmore’s cherrywood cane, which he spun in his hand as he went whistling down the street, was a peril to the neighbourhood. He did not allow himself to be oppressed in the smallest degree that he had turned over to his friend a sum of money of which he was in great personal need. He felt himself amply repaid by having brought the interview to so successful a conclusion. Great is the balm descending upon him that giveth.
Without losing any time he hastened to inform his old colleague of the news, and with truly dramatic sense did not dull the point by approaching it too directly.
He found Eliphalet Cardomay taking a modest luncheon, and sat down to join him without waiting for an invitation.
“Doesn’t seem right to see you out of harness,” he began, his mouth well filled with cheese and pickles. “What’s more, I can’t believe it agrees with you.”
“One feels the difference, of course,” Eliphalet confessed. “However, it is my own choice.”
Bulmore took this statement as a piece of pardonable pride.
“Still, I wonder you don’t do something as a fill-in. Now, there’s quite a decent income waiting to be picked up with the Cinema, y’know.”
“The Cinema!” Eliphalet’s eyebrows arched disapprovingly.
“That’s it. Growing concern, old man, getting a bigger hold on the public every day.”
“The mushroom season is a short one,” commented Eliphalet drily.
“Well, they both do best in the dark,” said Bulmore, with a laugh. “But the Cinema has come to stay, laddie, mark my words; and it’s up to you and me to have a dip in the pie.”
Eliphalet Cardomay rose and assumed a position of importance by the fireplace.
“It is up to you and me, and all those who treasure the traditions of our noble calling, to manifest our disapproval of this mechanical device for—what shall I say?—for potting our artistry, by leaving it severely alone.”
Bulmore, who was expecting his old friend to embrace the opportunity he had come to offer, was wholly unprepared for so hostile an attitude. He kicked himself, metaphorically, for introducing the subject in this roundabout way instead of walking straight up and saying, “You’re broke, old man; here’s a job for you.” But having chosen his means he had no other course but to continue on the lines of his beginning.
“Agreed,” he said. “Still, there are times when we must tone down our ideals a bit and take what pickings lie around. Matter of fact, I was talking to Eastlake this morning—Eastlake’s Exclusives, y’know—and he gave me to understand he’d be very glad of your services.”
“I am sorry to disappoint the gentleman, Bulmore, but my views on this subject are too pronounced to allow me to relax them on his account.”
This was pride with a vengeance, thought Bulmore, and he stumbled badly.
“Money’s good,” he said. “Thirty-five pounds for two weeks’ work can’t be sneezed at, y’know.”
“If I allowed money to influence me,” responded Eliphalet, “I would never be able to hold up my head again.”
“But—Well! I mean—I hardly know what to say next, old man.”
“Say nothing. We have so many topics in common, it is a pity to pursue one in which we are at variance.”
Bulmore ran his fingers through his thin hair.
“It’s this way, old man,” he said. “You—you’d be doing me a real favour by accepting this shop—a real favour to me.”
“Forgive me asking, but how can that be?”
This was clearly a moment for invention, and Bulmore wrestled with his ingenuity before answering, and finally produced:
“Because I want to make a favourable impression with the firm. If they saw I was a friend of yours, it’ud do me a piece of good.”
“But why not ask for the part yourself?” suggested Eliphalet, by no means displeased with the compliment.
“I did, but they won’t have me. They are dead-set on you, and no one else will do. Now, as a pal——”
“No,” replied Eliphalet firmly; “it is asking too much of friendship. Please let us drop the subject.”
Then Bulmore played his last card.
“If you refuse, you’ll do for me absolutely, because—well, I—I made ’em a solemn promise in your name that you’d take it.”
“Surely not!”
“I did, old man—and signed a contract for you into the bargain.”
For a moment Eliphalet’s indignation was too great for expression. He took several turns up and down the little room, tossing his head and ejaculating “tchas” of displeasure.
“Too bad! Too bad altogether. After all these years, Bulmore! You should have known me better! To prostitute my art in this way! Too—too bad!”
“I’ve done it now,” muttered Bulmore, with hanging head. “And I suppose you’ll do me?”
There was pathos in every line of the little man’s figure, for he could act very realistically when he chose. Eliphalet saw, and could not ignore, the silent appeal. With an effort he walked over and laid a hand on the bent shoulders.
“And you should know me better than to think that,” he said. “I never go back on my friends, whatever the cost. You may tell Mr. Eastlake I am pleased to accept his offer. And now let us say no more about it.”
As Bulmore walked down the street there was no swinging cane to mark the gaiety of his mood. He felt bruised and disappointed. The affair had turned out so differently from expectations.
Sefton Bulmore, in fact, was suffering, as so many others have suffered, from doing a good turn without positively labelling it as a good turn beforehand.
“I would have liked him to have been pleased,” he murmured. “But he’ll earn the money, and that’s what matters.”
The open doors of the Lion lured him to enter. In the saloon he met an acquaintance, and touched him for ten bob and a cigar.
* * * * *
There are peculiar qualities required in film-acting to obtain good results. Being denied speech as a means of expression, you are forced to seek other alternatives. Facial expression and gesture will not suffice. There remains but one solution—you must think right. Do this, or, in other words, let your thoughts be in accord with the scene you are required to play, and you will find automatically all the emotions will have portrayed themselves. Also you must have a good nerve, for to many the rotation of the operator’s hand and the precise tick-tick-tick of the camera produce an even more disconcerting effect than does a first-night audience.
If you are fearless, clear-brained and receptive, put on your best bib and tucker, and sally forth to Wardour Street, the G.H.Q. of Filmland, for there a fortune is awaiting you.
To a certain extent Eliphalet Cardomay thought right, and his actions were always graceful; but he could not conquer embarrassment of the camera. His performance was marred by nervousness, and nervousness shows with alarming fidelity on the screen. From this cause many promising scenes had to be re-taken again and again, and the producer, an American who savoured of pistols and the Wild West, danced in indignation.
“I ask you, Mr. Cardomay,” he implored, “not to look at the camera as if it were loaded. We’re trying to get stuff into the machine, and not out of it. Now, once again, please. Ready, Cable? Go, then!”
The operator would start to turn, Eliphalet to enter, and the producer to talk, all at the same time.
“Down stage a little, please. That’ll do. Take out your penknife—cut the string so. Raise your chin—a little more, more—don’t look at me!”
Then Eliphalet would throw down the penknife and exclaim:
“I really cannot act if you will talk.”
“Stop turning, Cable. There goes another eighty feet. Now why in hell did you leave off? Pardon my language, but oblige me with an answer.”
“I cannot act if you talk.”
“I’m here to talk—wouldn’t be a film if I didn’t. How can you hope to keep the audience from beating it unless I put a bit of variety in your positions?”
“But your talking interferes with my acting.”
“Don’t want you to act. Want you to cut the string of a parcel and put the knife back in your pocket. You wouldn’t have straw down on the sidewalk before your villa, if you were doing that at home.”
Eliphalet was mortally offended, and only loyalty to his old friend prevented him from throwing up the engagement.
Considering the ceaseless irritations he was subjected to, his behaviour throughout was exemplary.
It was in the comic scenes he appeared at his worst. Seeing no humour in them himself, he registered nothing beyond the suggestion of outraged dignity upon the film.
When Mr. Eastlake saw Eliphalet’s comedy—for he was in the habit of having the day’s work projected for his approval each evening on a miniature screen—he was exceeding wroth. Consequently he visited the studio next morning and engaged the old actor in conversation.
“Seems to me,” he said, “your comedy is not a strong point. Now, Bulmore told me you could be screamingly funny when you like.”
“Funny!” echoed Eliphalet. “I have never been funny in my life.”
“Well, that’s what he told me, and on the strength of it I made the engagement. Sorry to bother you, but if this film is to be released, you really must whack a bit of fun into your part.”
“I will do my best,” said Eliphalet loftily. “But ‘every tree is known by his own fruit. For of thorns men do not gather figs, nor of a bramble-bush gather they grapes.’ ” And having delivered this dictum, he bowed and walked away.
It is doubtful whether Eliphalet’s efforts to be funny would have given amusement to a village idiot. He was frankly at sea with the ridiculous—at sea in an unexplored ocean, and his flounderings were pitiful to behold.
So Mr. Eastlake and the producer held a conference and decided it was useless to proceed.
“We’ll burn the lot,” said Eastlake. “Pay him off and start afresh. That fellow Bulmore fairly sold us a dog.”
Next morning Eliphalet was politely informed that his services were no longer required. No reasons were given, nor any reproaches made. Film companies conduct their business on business lines. There is no “incompetent” clause in their contracts. When a performer has failed to give satisfaction, he is paid in full, and another is engaged. Eliphalet received a cheque for thirty-five guineas, and a polite “Good-day” from the cashier.
While he was buttoning his coat in the hall he heard Mr. Eastlake’s voice sounding through his office door:
“No, Bulmore—and we are not likely to have any more work for you either.”
“But why, old man? Why?”
“I might ask you why—why you told us those wonderful tales about your clever friend. He’s let us in for a couple of thousand feet that aren’t worth the price of fixing salts.”
“Whew! That’s bad! I thought he’d be all right—straight I did.”
“But why turn him on to us if you wanted the job yourself?”
There was a pause; then Bulmore’s voice:
“He was dead broke, and I wanted to do him a good turn.”
“At our expense.”
“And my own, old man, by the looks of it.”
Eliphalet waited for no more, but flushing for shame, slipped out into the street and hurried away.
“I made a favour of doing it,” he muttered. Bulmore’s money in his pocket burnt like a hot coal.
Awaiting him at home was a statement of the week’s account from the manager of Mornice’s tour. The expenses were twenty-two pounds in excess of the takings. He also received a postcard from Mornice saying she was dreadfully miserable that the tour was finishing the following week, but it would be lovely to see him again.
“She’ll never be happy unless she’s acting,” he thought.
He wrote some figures on the back of an envelope, figures which showed that her tour had realised a loss of eighty pounds. Eighty pounds. He had earned nothing for the last ten weeks save—and he looked at the cheque for thirty-five guineas—money defrauded from a friend, and ill-earned at that.
“This is no good,” he argued, his thoughts resting on the cherished wish to play ‘Hamlet.’ “No good—and after all, blessed is he that humbleth his pride.”
So he sat down to write, addressing the letter to Mr. Shingles, Chairman of the Syndicate. A reply was received two days later, and he duly entrained for Bradford to attend the meeting.
His reception was chilly.
“I have re-considered my views, gentlemen,” he said, “and withdraw my proviso with regard to the ‘Hamlet’ production.”
“I knew we’d starve you out,” squeaked Mr. Wilfur, rubbing his bony hands. “Oh, yes, money always counts—money wins, money does.”
“Not always,” said Eliphalet, thinking of Bulmore. “With some men friendship stands on a higher plane.”
“Well, I may say, Cardomay, that you have strained friendship almost to a breaking-point,” commented the obese Mr. Shingles. “Here’s half the autumn gone, and nothing done. Still, if you have come back admitting yourself to be in fault—well—— But what do you say, Doctor?”
“No good harbouring ill-feeling. We may as well carry on, but since we’ve lost so much time and all the best dates, the question of reduced percentage asserts itself,” said Mr. Wardluke.
And thus the thin edge of the wedge implanted itself daintily into the future fortunes of Eliphalet Cardomay. When he left the meeting he had lost ground, and what was left before him was perilously insecure.
On arriving home he sent a letter to Bulmore asking him to supper, and spent the time of waiting purchasing and laying out a really sumptuous spread. In his breast-pocket there was a bulge of banknotes, representing the cashing of Mr. Eastlake’s cheque.
“Ha, ha!” he cried when old Bulmore, looking rather down and out, came into the room. “Here’s the man who brought me luck. Congratulate me, my dear old fellow, for I open again in my own management in a month’s time.”
His tone rang with enthusiasm, and all through the meal he held forth upon the advantageous terms he had arranged with his syndicate and the big success forecasted for the play.
Poor Sefton Bulmore could hardly fail to feel rather out in the cold, but he did his best to reflect the cheerful mood of his host. The effort was pathetically transparent, however, as Eliphalet noted with satisfaction.
“Yes, yes, and to tell you the truth, Bulmore, I was a bit low. That thirty-five guineas you put me in the way of earning was a godsend. But now! they can’t do enough—insisted on my accepting a big advance.” And he flourished a wad of notes before Bulmore’s hungry eyes.
With all the will in the world, the old fellow could not help wishing his friend would be a trifle less arrogant about his finances. It is a severe test on a man who has nothing in his pockets to resist envying one who has so much, especially when he knows that but for a flash of generosity some of that money would have been his own.
Eliphalet Cardomay might not always have shown genius in his portrayal of emotions, but he understood them very thoroughly, notwithstanding.
Eventually Bulmore could endure the ordeal no longer, and rose to take his departure. At the hall door he halted indecisively, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat a good deal, but he said nothing. So Eliphalet took the bull by the horns.
“Yes, I am very grateful indeed,” he repeated for the twentieth time, “and if there is the slightest thing I can do for you by way of return, I shall take it as unfriendly if you fail to name it.”
“Thank ye,” said Bulmore huskily. “I won’t forget.” He descended one step, then turned. “Matter of fact,” he admitted with rather a dry tongue, “I am just a wee bit short of ready at the moment, and a sovereign or two——”
“Why, my dear old friend, I wouldn’t insult you with such a loan. Here, take”—and he produced the roll of notes—“take these. No, no; I insist—please. There! that’s right. Not a word—I beg you. After all, we are friends, and between friends—— But what a moon! Wonderful night—wonderful night.”
“Old man!” said Bulmore, wringing his hand in silent gratitude and sniffling suggestively. “Dear old man!”
For some reason Eliphalet sniffed too.
“We’re a couple of fools, Bulmore,” he said, at last; “a couple of old fools.”
“No, actors, laddie; actors.”
“That’s it—actors. Sometimes I think it is a very great thing to be an actor. Good night.”
“God bless you, old man.”
And, tucking the money in his pocket, he shuffled down the street.