The Man with Two Left Feet, and Other Stories Read online

  EXTRICATING YOUNG GUSSIE

  She sprang it on me before breakfast. There in seven words you have acomplete character sketch of my Aunt Agatha. I could go on indefinitelyabout brutality and lack of consideration. I merely say that she routedme out of bed to listen to her painful story somewhere in the smallhours. It can't have been half past eleven when Jeeves, my man, woke meout of the dreamless and broke the news:

  'Mrs Gregson to see you, sir.'

  I thought she must be walking in her sleep, but I crawled out of bedand got into a dressing-gown. I knew Aunt Agatha well enough to knowthat, if she had come to see me, she was going to see me. That's thesort of woman she is.

  She was sitting bolt upright in a chair, staring into space. When Icame in she looked at me in that darn critical way that always makes mefeel as if I had gelatine where my spine ought to be. Aunt Agatha isone of those strong-minded women. I should think Queen Elizabeth musthave been something like her. She bosses her husband, Spencer Gregson,a battered little chappie on the Stock Exchange. She bosses my cousin,Gussie Mannering-Phipps. She bosses her sister-in-law, Gussie's mother.And, worst of all, she bosses me. She has an eye like a man-eatingfish, and she has got moral suasion down to a fine point.

  I dare say there are fellows in the world--men of blood and iron, don'tyou know, and all that sort of thing--whom she couldn't intimidate; butif you're a chappie like me, fond of a quiet life, you simply curl intoa ball when you see her coming, and hope for the best. My experience isthat when Aunt Agatha wants you to do a thing you do it, or else youfind yourself wondering why those fellows in the olden days made such afuss when they had trouble with the Spanish Inquisition.

  'Halloa, Aunt Agatha!' I said

  'Bertie,' she said, 'you look a sight. You look perfectly dissipated.'

  I was feeling like a badly wrapped brown-paper parcel. I'm never at mybest in the early morning. I said so.

  'Early morning! I had breakfast three hours ago, and have been walkingin the park ever since, trying to compose my thoughts.'

  If I ever breakfasted at half past eight I should walk on theEmbankment, trying to end it all in a watery grave.

  'I am extremely worried, Bertie. That is why I have come to you.'

  And then I saw she was going to start something, and I bleated weaklyto Jeeves to bring me tea. But she had begun before I could get it.

  'What are your immediate plans, Bertie?'

  'Well, I rather thought of tottering out for a bite of lunch later on,and then possibly staggering round to the club, and after that, if Ifelt strong enough, I might trickle off to Walton Heath for a round ofgolf.'

  I am not interested in your totterings and tricklings. I mean, have youany important engagements in the next week or so?'

  I scented danger.

  'Rather,' I said. 'Heaps! Millions! Booked solid!'

  'What are they?'

  'I--er--well, I don't quite know.'

  'I thought as much. You have no engagements. Very well, then, I wantyou to start immediately for America.'

  'America!'

  Do not lose sight of the fact that all this was taking place on anempty stomach, shortly after the rising of the lark.

  'Yes, America. I suppose even you have heard of America?'

  'But why America?'

  'Because that is where your Cousin Gussie is. He is in New York, and Ican't get at him.'

  'What's Gussie been doing?'

  'Gussie is making a perfect idiot of himself.'

  To one who knew young Gussie as well as I did, the words opened up awide field for speculation.

  'In what way?'

  'He has lost his head over a creature.'

  On past performances this rang true. Ever since he arrived at man'sestate Gussie had been losing his head over creatures. He's that sortof chap. But, as the creatures never seemed to lose their heads overhim, it had never amounted to much.

  'I imagine you know perfectly well why Gussie went to America, Bertie.You know how wickedly extravagant your Uncle Cuthbert was.'

  She alluded to Gussie's governor, the late head of the family, and I ambound to say she spoke the truth. Nobody was fonder of old UncleCuthbert than I was, but everybody knows that, where money wasconcerned, he was the most complete chump in the annals of the nation.He had an expensive thirst. He never backed a horse that didn't gethousemaid's knee in the middle of the race. He had a system of beatingthe bank at Monte Carlo which used to make the administration hang outthe bunting and ring the joy-bells when he was sighted in the offing.Take him for all in all, dear old Uncle Cuthbert was as willing aspender as ever called the family lawyer a bloodsucking vampire becausehe wouldn't let Uncle Cuthbert cut down the timber to raise anotherthousand.

  'He left your Aunt Julia very little money for a woman in herposition. Beechwood requires a great deal of keeping up, andpoor dear Spencer, though he does his best to help, has notunlimited resources. It was clearly understood why Gussie wentto America. He is not clever, but he is very good-looking, and,though he has no title, the Mannering-Phippses are one of the bestand oldest families in England. He had some excellent letters ofintroduction, and when he wrote home to say that he had met themost charming and beautiful girl in the world I felt quite happy.He continued to rave about her for several mails, and then thismorning a letter has come from him in which he says, quite casuallyas a sort of afterthought, that he knows we are broadminded enoughnot to think any the worse of her because she is on the vaudevillestage.'

  'Oh, I say!'

  'It was like a thunderbolt. The girl's name, it seems, is Ray Denison,and according to Gussie she does something which he describes as asingle on the big time. What this degraded performance may be I havenot the least notion. As a further recommendation he states that shelifted them out of their seats at Mosenstein's last week. Who she maybe, and how or why, and who or what Mr Mosenstein may be, I cannot tellyou.'

  'By jove,' I said, 'it's like a sort of thingummybob, isn't it? A sortof fate, what?'

  'I fail to understand you.'

  'Well, Aunt Julia, you know, don't you know? Heredity, and so forth.What's bred in the bone will come out in the wash, and all that kind ofthing, you know.'

  'Don't be absurd, Bertie.'

  That was all very well, but it was a coincidence for all that. Nobodyever mentions it, and the family have been trying to forget it fortwenty-five years, but it's a known fact that my Aunt Julia, Gussie'smother, was a vaudeville artist once, and a very good one, too, I'mtold. She was playing in pantomime at Drury Lane when Uncle Cuthbertsaw her first. It was before my time, of course, and long before I wasold enough to take notice the family had made the best of it, and AuntAgatha had pulled up her socks and put in a lot of educative work, andwith a microscope you couldn't tell Aunt Julia from a genuinedyed-in-the-wool aristocrat. Women adapt themselves so quickly!

  I have a pal who married Daisy Trimble of the Gaiety, and when I meether now I feel like walking out of her presence backwards. But therethe thing was, and you couldn't get away from it. Gussie had vaudevilleblood in him, and it looked as if he were reverting to type, orwhatever they call it.

  'By Jove,' I said, for I am interested in this heredity stuff, 'perhapsthe thing is going to be a regular family tradition, like you readabout in books--a sort of Curse of the Mannering-Phippses, as it were.Perhaps each head of the family's going to marry into vaudeville forever and ever. Unto the what-d'you-call-it generation, don't you know?'

  'Please do not be quite idiotic, Bertie. There is one head of thefamily who is certainly not going to do it, and that is Gussie. And youare going to America to stop him.'

  'Yes, but why me?'

  'Why you? You are too vexing, Bertie. Have you no sort of feeling forthe family? You are too lazy to try to be a credit to yourself, but atleast you can exert yourself to prevent Gussie's disgracing us. You aregoing to America because you are Gussie's cousin, because you havealways been his closest friend, because you are the only one of thefamily who has absolutely not
hing to occupy his time except golf andnight clubs.'

  'I play a lot of auction.'

  'And as you say, idiotic gambling in low dens. If you require anotherreason, you are going because I ask you as a personal favour.'

  What she meant was that, if I refused, she would exert the full bent ofher natural genius to make life a Hades for me. She held me with herglittering eye. I have never met anyone who can give a better imitationof the Ancient Mariner.

  'So you will start at once, won't you, Bertie?'

  I didn't hesitate.

  'Rather!' I said. 'Of course I will'

  Jeeves came in with the tea.

  'Jeeves,' I said, 'we start for America on Saturday.'

  'Very good, sir,' he said; 'which suit will you wear?'

  New York is a large city conveniently situated on the edge of America,so that you step off the liner right on to it without an effort. Youcan't lose your way. You go out of a barn and down some stairs, andthere you are, right in among it. The only possible objection anyreasonable chappie could find to the place is that they loose you intoit from the boat at such an ungodly hour.

  I left Jeeves to get my baggage safely past an aggregation ofsuspicious-minded pirates who were digging for buried treasures amongmy new shirts, and drove to Gussie's hotel, where I requested the squadof gentlemanly clerks behind the desk to produce him.

  That's where I got my first shock. He wasn't there. I pleaded with themto think again, and they thought again, but it was no good. No AugustusMannering-Phipps on the premises.

  I admit I was hard hit. There I was alone in a strange city and nosigns of Gussie. What was the next step? I am never one of the masterminds in the early morning; the old bean doesn't somehow seem to getinto its stride till pretty late in the p.m.'s, and I couldn't thinkwhat to do. However, some instinct took me through a door at the backof the lobby, and I found myself in a large room with an enormouspicture stretching across the whole of one wall, and under the picturea counter, and behind the counter divers chappies in white, servingdrinks. They have barmen, don't you know, in New York, not barmaids.Rum idea!

  I put myself unreservedly into the hands of one of the white chappies.He was a friendly soul, and I told him the whole state of affairs. Iasked him what he thought would meet the case.

  He said that in a situation of that sort he usually prescribed a'lightning whizzer', an invention of his own. He said this was whatrabbits trained on when they were matched against grizzly bears, andthere was only one instance on record of the bear having lasted threerounds. So I tried a couple, and, by Jove! the man was perfectly right.As I drained the second a great load seemed to fall from my heart, andI went out in quite a braced way to have a look at the city.

  I was surprised to find the streets quite full. People were bustlingalong as if it were some reasonable hour and not the grey dawn. In thetramcars they were absolutely standing on each other's necks. Going tobusiness or something, I take it. Wonderful johnnies!

  The odd part of it was that after the first shock of seeing all thisfrightful energy the thing didn't seem so strange. I've spoken tofellows since who have been to New York, and they tell me they found itjust the same. Apparently there's something in the air, either theozone or the phosphates or something, which makes you sit up and takenotice. A kind of zip, as it were. A sort of bally freedom, if you knowwhat I mean, that gets into your blood and bucks you up, and makes youfeel that--

  _God's in His Heaven: All's right with the world_,

  and you don't care if you've got odd socks on. I can't express itbetter than by saying that the thought uppermost in my mind, as Iwalked about the place they call Times Square, was that there werethree thousand miles of deep water between me and my Aunt Agatha.

  It's a funny thing about looking for things. If you hunt for a needlein a haystack you don't find it. If you don't give a darn whether youever see the needle or not it runs into you the first time you leanagainst the stack. By the time I had strolled up and down once ortwice, seeing the sights and letting the white chappie's correctivepermeate my system, I was feeling that I wouldn't care if Gussie and Inever met again, and I'm dashed if I didn't suddenly catch sight of theold lad, as large as life, just turning in at a doorway down thestreet.

  I called after him, but he didn't hear me, so I legged it in pursuitand caught him going into an office on the first floor. The name on thedoor was Abe Riesbitter, Vaudeville Agent, and from the other side ofthe door came the sound of many voices.

  He turned and stared at me.

  'Bertie! What on earth are you doing? Where have you sprung from? Whendid you arrive?'

  'Landed this morning. I went round to your hotel, but they said youweren't there. They had never heard of you.'

  'I've changed my name. I call myself George Wilson.'

  'Why on earth?'

  'Well, you try calling yourself Augustus Mannering-Phipps over here,and see how it strikes you. You feel a perfect ass. I don't know whatit is about America, but the broad fact is that it's not a place whereyou can call yourself Augustus Mannering-Phipps. And there's anotherreason. I'll tell you later. Bertie, I've fallen in love with thedearest girl in the world.'

  The poor old nut looked at me in such a deuced cat-like way, standingwith his mouth open, waiting to be congratulated, that I simply hadn'tthe heart to tell him that I knew all about that already, and had comeover to the country for the express purpose of laying him a stymie.

  So I congratulated him.

  'Thanks awfully, old man,' he said. 'It's a bit premature, but I fancyit's going to be all right. Come along in here, and I'll tell you aboutit.'

  'What do you want in this place? It looks a rummy spot.'

  'Oh, that's part of the story. I'll tell you the whole thing.'

  We opened the door marked 'Waiting Room'. I never saw such a crowdedplace in my life. The room was packed till the walls bulged.

  Gussie explained.

  'Pros,' he said, 'music-hall artistes, you know, waiting to see old AbeRiesbitter. This is September the first, vaudeville's opening day. Theearly fall,' said Gussie, who is a bit of a poet in his way, 'isvaudeville's springtime. All over the country, as August wanes,sparkling comediennes burst into bloom, the sap stirs in the veins oftramp cyclists, and last year's contortionists, waking from theirsummer sleep, tie themselves tentatively into knots. What I mean is,this is the beginning of the new season, and everybody's out huntingfor bookings.'

  'But what do you want here?'

  'Oh, I've just got to see Abe about something. If you see a fat manwith about fifty-seven chins come out of that door there grab him, forthat'll be Abe. He's one of those fellows who advertise each step upthey take in the world by growing another chin. I'm told that way backin the nineties he only had two. If you do grab Abe, remember that heknows me as George Wilson.'

  'You said that you were going to explain that George Wilson business tome, Gussie, old man.'

  'Well, it's this way--'

  At this juncture dear old Gussie broke off short, rose from his seat,and sprang with indescribable vim at an extraordinarily stout chappiewho had suddenly appeared. There was the deuce of a rush for him, butGussie had got away to a good start, and the rest of the singers,dancers, jugglers, acrobats, and refined sketch teams seemed torecognize that he had won the trick, for they ebbed back into theirplaces again, and Gussie and I went into the inner room.

  Mr Riesbitter lit a cigar, and looked at us solemnly over his zareba ofchins.

  'Now, let me tell ya something,' he said to Gussie. 'You lizzun t' me.'

  Gussie registered respectful attention. Mr Riesbitter mused for amoment and shelled the cuspidor with indirect fire over the edge of thedesk.

  'Lizzun t' me,' he said again. 'I seen you rehearse, as I promised MissDenison I would. You ain't bad for an amateur. You gotta lot to learn,but it's in you. What it comes to is that I can fix you up in thefour-a-day, if you'll take thirty-five per. I can't do better thanthat, and I wouldn't have done that if the l
ittle lady hadn't of kep'after me. Take it or leave it. What do you say?'

  'I'll take it,' said Gussie, huskily. 'Thank you.'

  In the passage outside, Gussie gurgled with joy and slapped me on theback. 'Bertie, old man, it's all right. I'm the happiest man in NewYork.'

  'Now what?'

  'Well, you see, as I was telling you when Abe came in, Ray's fatherused to be in the profession. He was before our time, but I rememberhearing about him--Joe Danby. He used to be well known in London beforehe came over to America. Well, he's a fine old boy, but as obstinate asa mule, and he didn't like the idea of Ray marrying me because I wasn'tin the profession. Wouldn't hear of it. Well, you remember at Oxford Icould always sing a song pretty well; so Ray got hold of old Riesbitterand made him promise to come and hear me rehearse and get me bookingsif he liked my work. She stands high with him. She coached me forweeks, the darling. And now, as you heard him say, he's booked me inthe small time at thirty-five dollars a week.'

  I steadied myself against the wall. The effects of the restorativessupplied by my pal at the hotel bar were beginning to work off, and Ifelt a little weak. Through a sort of mist I seemed to have a vision ofAunt Agatha hearing that the head of the Mannering-Phippses was aboutto appear on the vaudeville stage. Aunt Agatha's worship of the familyname amounts to an obsession. The Mannering-Phippses were anold-established clan when William the Conqueror was a small boy goinground with bare legs and a catapult. For centuries they have calledkings by their first names and helped dukes with their weekly rent; andthere's practically nothing a Mannering-Phipps can do that doesn't blothis escutcheon. So what Aunt Agatha would say--beyond saying that itwas all my fault--when she learned the horrid news, it was beyond me toimagine.

  'Come back to the hotel, Gussie,' I said. 'There's a sportsman therewho mixes things he calls "lightning whizzers". Something tells me Ineed one now. And excuse me for one minute, Gussie. I want to send acable.'

  It was clear to me by now that Aunt Agatha had picked the wrong man forthis job of disentangling Gussie from the clutches of the Americanvaudeville profession. What I needed was reinforcements. For a moment Ithought of cabling Aunt Agatha to come over, but reason told me thatthis would be overdoing it. I wanted assistance, but not so badly asthat. I hit what seemed to me the happy mean. I cabled to Gussie'smother and made it urgent.

  'What were you cabling about?' asked Gussie, later.

  'Oh just to say I had arrived safely, and all that sort of tosh,' Ianswered.

  * * * * *

  Gussie opened his vaudeville career on the following Monday at a rummysort of place uptown where they had moving pictures some of the timeand, in between, one or two vaudeville acts. It had taken a lot ofcareful handling to bring him up to scratch. He seemed to take mysympathy and assistance for granted, and I couldn't let him down. Myonly hope, which grew as I listened to him rehearsing, was that hewould be such a frightful frost at his first appearance that he wouldnever dare to perform again; and, as that would automatically squashthe marriage, it seemed best to me to let the thing go on.

  He wasn't taking any chances. On the Saturday and Sunday we practicallylived in a beastly little music-room at the offices of the publisherswhose songs he proposed to use. A little chappie with a hooked nosesucked a cigarette and played the piano all day. Nothing could tirethat lad. He seemed to take a personal interest in the thing.

  Gussie would cleat his throat and begin:

  'There's a great big choo-choo waiting at the deepo.'

  THE CHAPPIE (playing chords): 'Is that so? What's it waiting for?'

  GUSSIE (rather rattled at the interruption): 'Waiting for me.'

  THE CHAPPIE (surprised): For you?'

  GUSSIE (sticking to it): 'Waiting for me-e-ee!'

  THE CHAPPIE (sceptically): 'You don't say!'

  GUSSIE: 'For I'm off to Tennessee.'

  THE CHAPPIE (conceding a point): 'Now, I live at Yonkers.'

  He did this all through the song. At first poor old Gussie asked him tostop, but the chappie said, No, it was always done. It helped to getpep into the thing. He appealed to me whether the thing didn't want abit of pep, and I said it wanted all the pep it could get. And thechappie said to Gussie, 'There you are!' So Gussie had to stand it.

  The other song that he intended to sing was one of those moon songs. Hetold me in a hushed voice that he was using it because it was one ofthe songs that the girl Ray sang when lifting them out of their seatsat Mosenstein's and elsewhere. The fact seemed to give it sacredassociations for him.

  You will scarcely believe me, but the management expected Gussie toshow up and start performing at one o'clock in the afternoon. I toldhim they couldn't be serious, as they must know that he would berolling out for a bit of lunch at that hour, but Gussie said this wasthe usual thing in the four-a-day, and he didn't suppose he would everget any lunch again until he landed on the big time. I was justcondoling with him, when I found that he was taking it for granted thatI should be there at one o'clock, too. My idea had been that I shouldlook in at night, when--if he survived--he would be coming up for thefourth time; but I've never deserted a pal in distress, so I saidgood-bye to the little lunch I'd been planning at a rather decenttavern I'd discovered on Fifth Avenue, and trailed along. They wereshowing pictures when I reached my seat. It was one of those Westernfilms, where the cowboy jumps on his horse and rides across country ata hundred and fifty miles an hour to escape the sheriff, not knowing,poor chump! that he might just as well stay where he is, the sheriffhaving a horse of his own which can do three hundred miles an hourwithout coughing. I was just going to close my eyes and try to forgettill they put Gussie's name up when I discovered that I was sittingnext to a deucedly pretty girl.

  No, let me be honest. When I went in I had seen that there was adeucedly pretty girl sitting in that particular seat, so I had takenthe next one. What happened now was that I began, as it were, to drinkher in. I wished they would turn the lights up so that I could see herbetter. She was rather small, with great big eyes and a ripping smile.It was a shame to let all that run to seed, so to speak, insemi-darkness.

  Suddenly the lights did go up, and the orchestra began to play a tunewhich, though I haven't much of an ear for music, seemed somehowfamiliar. The next instant out pranced old Gussie from the wings in apurple frock-coat and a brown top-hat, grinned feebly at the audience,tripped over his feet, blushed, and began to sing the Tennessee song.

  It was rotten. The poor nut had got stage fright so badly that itpractically eliminated his voice. He sounded like some far-off echo ofthe past 'yodelling' through a woollen blanket.

  For the first time since I had heard that he was about to go intovaudeville I felt a faint hope creeping over me. I was sorry for thewretched chap, of course, but there was no denying that the thing hadits bright side. No management on earth would go on paying thirty-fivedollars a week for this sort of performance. This was going to beGussie's first and only. He would have to leave the profession. The oldboy would say, 'Unhand my daughter'. And, with decent luck, I sawmyself leading Gussie on to the next England-bound liner and handinghim over intact to Aunt Agatha.

  He got through the song somehow and limped off amidst roars of silencefrom the audience. There was a brief respite, then out he came again.

  He sang this time as if nobody loved him. As a song, it was not a verypathetic song, being all about coons spooning in June under the moon,and so on and so forth, but Gussie handled it in such a sad, crushedway that there was genuine anguish in every line. By the time hereached the refrain I was nearly in tears. It seemed such a rotten sortof world with all that kind of thing going on in it.

  He started the refrain, and then the most frightful thing happened. Thegirl next to me got up in her seat, chucked her head back, and began tosing too. I say 'too', but it wasn't really too, because her first notestopped Gussie dead, as if he had been pole-axed.

  I never felt so bally conspicuous in my life. I huddled down in my seatand wi
shed I could turn my collar up. Everybody seemed to be looking atme.

  In the midst of my agony I caught sight of Gussie. A complete changehad taken place in the old lad. He was looking most frightfully bucked.I must say the girl was singing most awfully well, and it seemed to acton Gussie like a tonic. When she came to the end of the refrain, hetook it up, and they sang it together, and the end of it was that hewent off the popular hero. The audience yelled for more, and were onlyquieted when they turned down the lights and put on a film.

  When I had recovered I tottered round to see Gussie. I found himsitting on a box behind the stage, looking like one who had seenvisions.

  'Isn't she a wonder, Bertie?' he said, devoutly. 'I hadn't a notion shewas going to be there. She's playing at the Auditorium this week, andshe can only just have had time to get back to her _matinee_. Sherisked being late, just to come and see me through. She's my goodangel, Bertie. She saved me. If she hadn't helped me out I don't knowwhat would have happened. I was so nervous I didn't know what I wasdoing. Now that I've got through the first show I shall be all right.'

  I was glad I had sent that cable to his mother. I was going to needher. The thing had got beyond me.

  * * * * *

  During the next week I saw a lot of old Gussie, and was introduced tothe girl. I also met her father, a formidable old boy with quickeyebrows and a sort of determined expression. On the followingWednesday Aunt Julia arrived. Mrs Mannering-Phipps, my aunt Julia, is,I think, the most dignified person I know. She lacks Aunt Agatha'spunch, but in a quiet way she has always contrived to make me feel,from boyhood up, that I was a poor worm. Not that she harries me likeAunt Agatha. The difference between the two is that Aunt Agatha conveysthe impression that she considers me personally responsible for all thesin and sorrow in the world, while Aunt Julia's manner seems to suggestthat I am more to be pitied than censured.

  If it wasn't that the thing was a matter of historical fact, I shouldbe inclined to believe that Aunt Julia had never been on the vaudevillestage. She is like a stage duchess.

  She always seems to me to be in a perpetual state of being about todesire the butler to instruct the head footman to serve lunch in theblue-room overlooking the west terrace. She exudes dignity. Yet,twenty-five years ago, so I've been told by old boys who were ladsabout town in those days, she was knocking them cold at the Tivoli in adouble act called 'Fun in a Tea-Shop', in which she wore tights andsang a song with a chorus that began, 'Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay'.

  There are some things a chappie's mind absolutely refuses to picture,and Aunt Julia singing 'Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay' is one of them.

  She got straight to the point within five minutes of our meeting.

  'What is this about Gussie? Why did you cable for me, Bertie?'

  'It's rather a long story,' I said, 'and complicated. If you don'tmind, I'll let you have it in a series of motion pictures. Suppose welook in at the Auditorium for a few minutes.'

  The girl, Ray, had been re-engaged for a second week at the Auditorium,owing to the big success of her first week. Her act consisted of threesongs. She did herself well in the matter of costume and scenery. Shehad a ripping voice. She looked most awfully pretty; and altogether theact was, broadly speaking, a pippin.

  Aunt Julia didn't speak till we were in our seats. Then she gave a sortof sigh.

  'It's twenty-five years since I was in a music-hall!'

  She didn't say any more, but sat there with her eyes glued on thestage.

  After about half an hour the johnnies who work the card-index system atthe side of the stage put up the name of Ray Denison, and there was agood deal of applause.

  'Watch this act, Aunt Julia,' I said.

  She didn't seem to hear me.

  'Twenty-five years! What did you say, Bertie?'

  'Watch this act and tell me what you think of it.'

  'Who is it? Ray. Oh!'

  'Exhibit A,' I said. 'The girl Gussie's engaged to.'

  The girl did her act, and the house rose at her. They didn't want tolet her go. She had to come back again and again. When she had finallydisappeared I turned to Aunt Julia.

  'Well?' I said.

  'I like her work. She's an artist.'

  'We will now, if you don't mind, step a goodish way uptown.'

  And we took the subway to where Gussie, the human film, was earning histhirty-five per. As luck would have it, we hadn't been in the place tenminutes when out he came.

  'Exhibit B,' I said. 'Gussie.'

  I don't quite know what I had expected her to do, but I certainlydidn't expect her to sit there without a word. She did not move amuscle, but just stared at Gussie as he drooled on about the moon. Iwas sorry for the woman, for it must have been a shock to her to seeher only son in a mauve frockcoat and a brown top-hat, but I thought itbest to let her get a strangle-hold on the intricacies of the situationas quickly as possible. If I had tried to explain the affair withoutthe aid of illustrations I should have talked all day and left hermuddled up as to who was going to marry whom, and why.

  I was astonished at the improvement in dear old Gussie. He had got backhis voice and was putting the stuff over well. It reminded me of thenight at Oxford when, then but a lad of eighteen, he sang 'Let's All GoDown the Strand' after a bump supper, standing the while up to hisknees in the college fountain. He was putting just the same zip intothe thing now.

  When he had gone off Aunt Julia sat perfectly still for a long time,and then she turned to me. Her eyes shone queerly.

  'What does this mean, Bertie?'

  She spoke quite quietly, but her voice shook a bit.

  'Gussie went into the business,' I said, 'because the girl's fatherwouldn't let him marry her unless he did. If you feel up to it perhapsyou wouldn't mind tottering round to One Hundred and Thirty-thirdStreet and having a chat with him. He's an old boy with eyebrows, andhe's Exhibit C on my list. When I've put you in touch with him I ratherfancy my share of the business is concluded, and it's up to you.'

  The Danbys lived in one of those big apartments uptown which look as ifthey cost the earth and really cost about half as much as a hall-roomdown in the forties. We were shown into the sitting-room, and presentlyold Danby came in.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Danby,' I began.

  I had got as far as that when there was a kind of gasping cry at myelbow.

  'Joe!' cried Aunt Julia, and staggered against the sofa.

  For a moment old Danby stared at her, and then his mouth fell open andhis eyebrows shot up like rockets.

  'Julie!'

  And then they had got hold of each other's hands and were shaking themtill I wondered their arms didn't come unscrewed.

  I'm not equal to this sort of thing at such short notice. Thechange in Aunt Julia made me feel quite dizzy. She had shed her_grande-dame_ manner completely, and was blushing and smiling. Idon't like to say such things of any aunt of mine, or I would gofurther and put it on record that she was giggling. And old Danby, whousually looked like a cross between a Roman emperor and NapoleonBonaparte in a bad temper, was behaving like a small boy.

  'Joe!'

  'Julie!'

  'Dear old Joe! Fancy meeting you again!'

  'Wherever have you come from, Julie?'

  Well, I didn't know what it was all about, but I felt a bit out of it.I butted in:

  'Aunt Julia wants to have a talk with you, Mr Danby.'

  'I knew you in a second, Joe!'

  'It's twenty-five years since I saw you, kid, and you don't look a dayolder.'

  'Oh, Joe! I'm an old woman!'

  'What are you doing over here? I suppose'--old Danby's cheerfulnesswaned a trifle--'I suppose your husband is with you?'

  'My husband died a long, long while ago, Joe.'

  Old Danby shook his head.

  'You never ought to have married out of the profession, Julie. I'mnot saying a word against the late--I can't remember his name; nevercould--but you shouldn't have done it, an artist like you. Shall I everfo
rget the way you used to knock them with "Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay"?'

  'Ah! how wonderful you were in that act, Joe.' Aunt Julia sighed. 'Doyou remember the back-fall you used to do down the steps? I always havesaid that you did the best back-fall in the profession.'

  'I couldn't do it now!'

  'Do you remember how we put it across at the Canterbury, Joe? Think ofit! The Canterbury's a moving-picture house now, and the old Mogul runsFrench revues.'

  'I'm glad I'm not there to see them.'

  'Joe, tell me, why did you leave England?'

  'Well, I--I wanted a change. No I'll tell you the truth, kid. I wantedyou, Julie. You went off and married that--whatever that stage-doorjohnny's name was--and it broke me all up.'

  Aunt Julia was staring at him. She is what they call a well-preservedwoman. It's easy to see that, twenty-five years ago, she must have beensomething quite extraordinary to look at. Even now she's almostbeautiful. She has very large brown eyes, a mass of soft grey hair, andthe complexion of a girl of seventeen.

  'Joe, you aren't going to tell me you were fond of me yourself!'

  'Of course I was fond of you. Why did I let you have all the fat in"Fun in a Tea-Shop"? Why did I hang about upstage while you sang"Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay"? Do you remember my giving you a bag of bunswhen we were on the road at Bristol?'

  'Yes, but--'

  'Do you remember my giving you the ham sandwiches at Portsmouth?'

  'Joe!'

  'Do you remember my giving you a seed-cake at Birmingham? What did youthink all that meant, if not that I loved you? Why, I was working up bydegrees to telling you straight out when you suddenly went off andmarried that cane-sucking dude. That's why I wouldn't let my daughtermarry this young chap, Wilson, unless he went into the profession.She's an artist--'

  'She certainly is, Joe.'

  'You've seen her? Where?'

  'At the Auditorium just now. But, Joe, you mustn't stand in the way ofher marrying the man she's in love with. He's an artist, too.'

  'In the small time.'

  'You were in the small time once, Joe. You mustn't look down on himbecause he's a beginner. I know you feel that your daughter is marryingbeneath her, but--'

  'How on earth do you know anything about young Wilson?

  'He's my son.'

  'Your son?'

  'Yes, Joe. And I've just been watching him work. Oh, Joe, you can'tthink how proud I was of him! He's got it in him. It's fate. He's myson and he's in the profession! Joe, you don't know what I've beenthrough for his sake. They made a lady of me. I never worked so hard inmy life as I did to become a real lady. They kept telling me I had gotto put it across, no matter what it cost, so that he wouldn't beashamed of me. The study was something terrible. I had to watch myselfevery minute for years, and I never knew when I might fluff my lines orfall down on some bit of business. But I did it, because I didn't wanthim to be ashamed of me, though all the time I was just aching to beback where I belonged.'

  Old Danby made a jump at her, and took her by the shoulders.

  'Come back where you belong, Julie!' he cried. 'Your husband's dead,your son's a pro. Come back! It's twenty-five years ago, but I haven'tchanged. I want you still. I've always wanted you. You've got to comeback, kid, where you belong.'

  Aunt Julia gave a sort of gulp and looked at him.

  'Joe!' she said in a kind of whisper.

  'You're here, kid,' said Old Danby, huskily. 'You've come back....Twenty-five years!... You've come back and you're going to stay!'

  She pitched forward into his arms, and he caught her.

  'Oh, Joe! Joe! Joe!' she said. 'Hold me. Don't let me go. Take care ofme.'

  And I edged for the door and slipped from the room. I felt weak. Theold bean will stand a certain amount, but this was too much. I gropedmy way out into the street and wailed for a taxi.

  Gussie called on me at the hotel that night. He curveted into the roomas if he had bought it and the rest of the city.

  'Bertie,' he said, 'I feel as if I were dreaming.'

  'I wish I could feel like that, old top,' I said, and I took anotherglance at a cable that had arrived half an hour ago from Aunt Agatha. Ihad been looking at it at intervals ever since.

  'Ray and I got back to her flat this evening. Who do you think wasthere? The mater! She was sitting hand in hand with old Danby.'

  'Yes?'

  'He was sitting hand in hand with her.'

  'Really?'

  'They are going to be married.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Ray and I are going to be married.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Bertie, old man, I feel immense. I look round me, and everything seemsto be absolutely corking. The change in the mater is marvellous. She istwenty-five years younger. She and old Danby are talking of reviving"Fun in a Tea-Shop", and going out on the road with it.'

  I got up.

  'Gussie, old top,' I said, 'leave me for a while. I would be alone. Ithink I've got brain fever or something.'

  'Sorry, old man; perhaps New York doesn't agree with you. When do youexpect to go back to England?'

  I looked again at Aunt Agatha's cable.

  'With luck,' I said, 'in about ten years.'

  When he was gone I took up the cable and read it again.

  'What is happening?' it read. 'Shall I come over?'

  I sucked a pencil for a while, and then I wrote the reply.

  It was not an easy cable to word, but I managed it.

  'No,' I wrote, 'stay where you are. Profession overcrowded.'