“I can’t write Bright Pokers. I am a moral man, and the father of a family.”
“There’s nothing immoral in our piece, come, young virtuous. You have not seen it.”
“I have, three times.”
“More shame to you, if it isn’t correct. Shows your real nature. But the fact is, there is not an objectionable word in the whole thing.”
“No. But the plot is simply an illustration of how a married woman can conceal a disgraceful intrigue by the most enormous lying.”
“Ah, and don’t she lie well? But it’s a French notion, and French morals are admitted duty free.”
“Very neat, but proves nothing, except, as I say, Aventayle, that you ought to write your own pieces.”
“I prefer paying you. And I don’t pay badly, do I, come?”
“No, on the contrary. But let us see, you have been debilitating your company, haven’t you?”
“No such thing; so there’s not that excuse for you.”
“I saw in a paper that Mrs. Dumbarton was leaving you.”
“Well, she doesn’t attract, and she doesn’t play half as well as she did.”
“You thought differently at Easter.”
“Certainly, because she was then coming to me, and now she’s going away. If she comes back at Christmas, I shall be prepared to think about her as I thought in March, namely, that she is a capital actress, and a very disagreeable woman. That is the only change in my company, Hawkesley of Maida Hill.”
“No, no, Salter told me that Miss Pinnock was leaving you.”
“Salter lied. Miss Pinnock some time ago got from her Catechism to her Marriage Service, and the result may detain her at home for a moon or so, but she will be quite ready to play your young lady. Any other mean excuse for not getting to work?”
“Well, I’ll look up some jottings I made for a piece, and let you know whether I see my way in it.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Aventayle, taking out a memorandum book. “You will state to me here, with your foot upon your native park, and your name McHawkesley, what day I am to receive the first act. Now, let me write it down.”
“You shall have the first when you have the rest. They say women and fools ought never to be allowed to see anything in an unfinished state, and though you are neither woman nor fool, I have a prejudice for extending the rule to people who have to get up a play.”
“My dear fellow, I should not think of looking at your manuscript until I got the whole of it. But I like to have an instalment under lock and key. When will you hand over the whole?”
“Don’t tie me down, that’s a good fellow. I’ll not lose time.”
“Will it be a full piece?”
“Yes, I will use as many of your stars as I can, never fear.”
“None of your scoffs. It is the best company in London, which is the reason, Mr. Hawkesley of Maida Hill, why I apply to the best author to write for it. Give me an idea of the scenery, and I will set Vister to work.”
“Well—first act, before a gentleman’s country-house.”
“Manly sports on the lawn, greased pole, and leg of mutton, running in sacks, and all that. Or, I say, take it into Scotland, and let the tenants be putting the stone, tossing the caber, and so on. The Highland dresses will look well.”
“Keep such things for your pantomimes, sir, and don’t seek to degrade the drama. Upon second thoughts, I don’t mind some targets, and girls in archery costume, only your girls are such guys.”
“I tell you that you don’t know the company. Little Fanny Tudor is as pretty a girl as is on the stage, and then there’s Maria Lincoln, come, and Julia Greening, come, and Loo Fennell, come. If those girls are guys, I wish it was fifth of November all the year round.”
“I forgot your resources. Well, make a pretty house, and a lawn, and have Fanny, and Maria, and Julia, and Loo taught some shooting, and I will let you know about the second act as soon as I can.”
“But make it as great a contrast to the sunshiny lawn as you can. You couldn’t lay the next scene down a coal-pit, could you?”
“And end with an explosion of fire-damp, and call the piece ‘Davy’s Lamp.’ Thank you.”
“Hm,” said the manager, “many a good word is spoken in jest, and if I don’t have a fire-damp explosion before long—never mind. Do you copyright the suggestion.”
“No, I present it to you.”
The manager, with a look of affected solemnity of the most awful description, made a note in his pocket-book.
“By the way,” he said, closing it, “I have something else to say to you, which is also of a professional kind. I have had a piece sent to me by a man whose name I never heard, but the drama is full of good stuff, only crudely put together. I have a strong notion that it would do, but it wants manipulation. Would you give it a look over, and see whether you agree with me. If you would do the necessary work to it yourself, of course it should be worth your while, but, anyhow, look it over.”
“Send it me. Who’s the man.”
“His name is Adair. Probably a nom de plume. But he is a very smart fellow, and has a genius for ‘situation.’ Also he writes a beautiful hand, which is more than can be said of every friend of mine.”
“Distrust any man who writes too good a hand, that is, a hand in the least degree better than mine.”
“I shall be happy to distrust him; but if you think as well of his piece as I do, I shall also be very happy to play it.”
“Then you can give me a couple of months longer for mine.”
“Not an hour. If you were ready to-day, I would underline it to-morrow, and I will on
