The Old Adam: A Story of Adventure

by Arnold Bennett

  VIII.

  "I say, Cunningham's made a hit!" Mr. Marrier almost shouted at him ashe entered the managerial room at the Regent.

  "Cunningham? Who's Cunningham?"

  Then he remembered. She was the girl who played the Messenger. She hadonly three words to say, and to say them over and over again; and shehad made a hit!

  "Seen the notices?" asked Marrier.

  "Yes. What of them?"

  "Oh! Well!" Marrier drawled. "What would you expect?"

  "That's just what _I_ said!" observed Edward Henry.

  "You did, did you?" Mr. Marrier exclaimed, as if extremely interested bythis corroboration of his views.

  Carlo Trent strolled in; he remarked that he happened to be justpassing. But the discussion of the situation was not carried very far.

  That evening the house was nearly full, except the pit and the gallery,which were nearly empty. Applause was perfunctory.

  "How much?" Edward Henry enquired of the box-office manager when figureswere added together.

  "Thirty-one pounds two shillings."

  "Hem!"

  "Of course," said Mr. Marrier. "In the height of the London season,with so many counter-attractions--! Besides, they've got to get used tothe idea of it."

  Edward Henry did not turn pale. Still, he was aware that it cost him atrifle over sixty pounds "to ring the curtain up" at every performance,and this sum took no account of expenses of production nor of author'sfees. The sum would have been higher, but he was calculating as rent ofthe theatre only the ground-rent plus six per cent. on the total priceof the building.

  What disgusted him was the duplicity of the first-night audience, and hesaid to himself violently: "I was right all the time, and I knew I wasright! Idiots! Chumps! Of course I was right!"

  On the third night the house held twenty-seven pounds and sixpence.

  "Naturally," said Mr. Marrier. "In this hot weathah--! I never knewsuch a hot June! It's the open-air places that are doing us in the eye.In fact I heard to-day that the White City is packed. They simply can'tbank their money quick enough."

  It was on that day that Edward Henry paid salaries. It appeared to himthat he was providing half London with a livelihood: acting managers,stage managers, assistant ditto, property men, stage hands,electricians, prompters, call boys, box-office staff, general staff,dressers, commissionaires, programme girls, cleaners, actors, actresses,understudies, to say nothing of Rose Euclid at a purely nominal salaryof one hundred pounds a week. The tenants of the bars were grumbling,but happily he was getting money from them.

  The following day was Saturday. It rained--a succession ofthunderstorms. The morning and the evening performances producedtogether sixty-eight pounds.

  "Well," said Mr. Marrier. "In this kind of weathah you can't expectpeople to come out, can you? Besides, this cursed week-ending habit--"

  Which conclusions did not materially modify the harsh fact that EdwardHenry was losing over thirty pounds a day--or at the rate of over tenthousand pounds a year.

  He spent Sunday between his hotel and his club, chiefly in reiteratingto himself that Monday began a new week and that something would have tooccur on Monday.

  Something did occur.

  Carlo Trent lounged into the office early. The man was forever beingdrawn to the theatre as by an invisible but powerful elastic cord. Thepapers had a worse attack than ever of Isabel Joy, for she had beenconvicted of transgression in a Chicago court of law, but a tremendouslawyer from St. Louis had loomed over Chicago and, having examined thedocuments in the case, was hopeful of getting the conviction quashed.He had discovered that in one and the same document "Isabel" had beenspelt "Isobel," and, worse, Illinois had been deprived by a carelessclerk of one of its "l's." He was sure that by proving these graveirregularities in American justice he could win on appeal.

  Edward Henry glanced up suddenly from the newspaper. He had beeninspired.

  "I say, Trent," he remarked, without any warning or preparation, "you'renot looking at all well. I want a change myself. I've a good mind totake you for a sea voyage."

  "Oh!" grumbled Trent. "I can't afford sea voyages."

  "_I_ can!" said Edward Henry. "And I shouldn't dream of letting it costyou a penny. I'm not a philanthropist. But I know as well as anybodythat it will pay us theatrical managers to keep you in health."

  "You're not going to take the play off?" Trent demanded suspiciously.

  "Certainly not!" said Edward Henry.

  "What sort of a sea voyage?"

  "Well--what price the Atlantic? Been to New York? ... Neither have I!Let's go. Just for the trip. It'll do us good."

  "You don't mean it!" murmured the greatest dramatic poet, who had nevervoyaged farther than the Isle of Wight. His eyeglass swung to and fro.

  Edward Henry feigned to resent this remark.

  "Of course I mean it. Do you take me for a blooming gas-bag?" He rose."Marrier!" Then more loudly: "Marrier!" Mr. Marrier entered. "Do youknow anything about the sailings to New York?"

  "Rather!" said Mr. Marrier, beaming. After all he was a most preciousaid.

  "We may be able to arrange for a production in New York," said EdwardHenry to Carlo, mysteriously.

  Mr. Marrier gazed at one and then at the other, puzzled.