Part 33 (1/2)

I packed up the play in its brown paper, and rushed from the house. At the post-office, at the bottom of the King's Road, I stopped to send a telegram. It consisted of the words, ”Accept thankfully.--Cloyster.”

Then I took a cab from the rank at Sloane Square, and told the man to drive to the stage-door of the Briggs Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue.

The cab-rank in Sloane Square is really a Home for Superannuated Horses. It is a sort of equine Athenaeum. No horse is ever seen there till it has pa.s.sed well into the sere and yellow. A Sloane Square cab-horse may be distinguished by the dignity of its movements. It is happiest when walking.

The animal which had the privilege of making history by conveying me and _The Girl who Waited_ to the Briggs Theatre was asthmatic, and, I think, sickening for the botts. I had plenty of time to cool my brain and think out a plan of campaign.

Stanley Briggs, whom I proposed to try first, was the one man I should have liked to see in the part of James, the hero of the piece. The part might have been written round him.

There was the objection, of course, that _The Girl who Waited_ was not a musical comedy, but I knew he would consider a straight play, and put it on if it suited him. I was confident that _The Girl who Waited_ would be just what he wanted.

The problem was how to get him to himself for a sufficient s.p.a.ce of time. When a man is doing the work of half a dozen he is likely to get on in the world, but he has, as a rule, little leisure for conversation.

My octogenarian came to a standstill at last at the stage-door, and seemed relieved at having won safely through a strenuous bit of work.

I went through in search of my man.

His dressing-room was the first place I drew. I knew that he was not due on the stage for another ten minutes. Mr. Richard Belsey, his valet, was tidying up the room as I entered.

”Mr. Briggs anywhere about, Richard?” I asked.

”Down on the side, sir, I think. There's a new song in tonight for Mrs.

Briggs, and he's gone to listen how it goes.”

”Which side, do you know?”

”O.P., sir, I think.”

I went downstairs and through the folding-doors into the wings. The O.P. corner was packed--standing room only--and the overflow reached nearly to the doors. The Black Hole of Calcutta was roomy compared with the wings on the night of a new song. Everybody who had the least excuse for being out of his or her dressing-room at that moment was peering through odd c.h.i.n.ks in the scenery. Chorus-girls, show-girls, chorus-men, princ.i.p.als, children, scene-s.h.i.+fters, and other theatrical fauna waited in a solid ma.s.s for the arrival of the music-cue.

The atmosphere behind the scenes has always had the effect of making me feel as if my boots were number fourteens and my hands, if anything, larger. Directly I have pa.s.sed the swing-doors I shuffle like one oppressed with a guilty conscience. Outside I may have been composed, even jaunty. Inside I am hangdog. Beads of perspiration form on my brow. My collar tightens. My boots begin to squeak. I smile vacuously.

I shuffled, smiling vacuously and clutching the type-script of _The Girl who Waited_, to the O.P. corner. I caught the eye of a tall lady in salmon-pink, and said ”Good evening” huskily--my voice is always husky behind the scenes: elsewhere it is like some beautiful bell. A piercing whisper of ”Sh-h-h-!” came from somewhere close at hand. This sort of thing does not help bright and sparkling conversation. I sh-h-hed, and pa.s.sed on.

At the back of the O.P. corner Timothy Prince, the comedian, was filling in the time before the next entrance by waltzing with one of the stage-carpenters. He suspended the operation to greet me.

”Hullo, dear heart,” he said, ”how goes it?”

”Seen Briggs anywhere?” I asked.

”Round on the prompt side, I think. He was here a second ago, but he dashed off.”

At this moment the music-cue was given, and a considerable section of the mult.i.tude pa.s.sed on to the stage.

Locomotion being rendered easier, I hurried round to the prompt side.

But when I arrived there were no signs of the missing man.

”Seen Mr. Briggs anywhere?” I asked.

”Here a moment ago,” said one of the carpenters. ”He went out after Miss Lewin's song began. I think he's gone round the other side.”