Part 52 (2/2)

”Say, listen! He'll stand for anything I say. I'm the little guy that gives orders round here. I'm the big noise!”

As if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. The effect was magical. The refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been shot. The a.s.sistant stage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had now been turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script.

”Take that over again!” shouted Mr. Goble. ”Yes, that speech about life being like a water-melon. It don't sound to me as though it meant anything.” He c.o.c.ked his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. He clapped his hands. The action stopped again. ”Cut it!” said Mr. Goble tersely.

”Cut the speech, Mr. Goble?” queried the obsequious a.s.sistant stage-director.

”Yes. Cut it. It don't mean nothing!”

Down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, s.h.i.+mmered Mr.

Pilkington, wounded to the quick.

”Mr. Goble! Mr. Goble!”

”Well?”

”That is the best epigram in the play.”

”The best what?”

”Epigram. The best epigram in the play.”

Mr. Goble knocked the ash off his cigar. ”The public don't want epigrams. The public don't like epigrams. I've been in the show business fifteen years, and I'm telling you! Epigrams give them a pain under the vest. All right, get on.”

Mr. Pilkington fluttered agitatedly. This was his first experience of Mr. Goble in the capacity of stage-director. It was the latter's custom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did what Mr. Goble called the breaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in person, undo most of the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their lines, and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr. Goble's hobby. He imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and it was useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which he might have come. He regarded those who did not agree with him with the lofty contempt of an Eastern despot.

Of this Mr. Pilkington was not yet aware.

”But, Mr. Goble ...!”

The potentate swung irritably round on him.

”What is it? What _is_ it? Can't you see I'm busy?”

”That epigram....”

”It's out!”

”But ...!”

”It's out!”

”Surely,” protested Mr. Pilkington almost tearfully, ”I have a voice....”

”Sure you have a voice,” retorted Mr. Goble, ”and you can use it any old place you want, except in my theatre. Have all the voice you like!

Go round the corner and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath! But don't come using it here, because I'm the little guy that does all the talking in this theatre! That fellow makes me tired,” he added complainingly to Wally, as Mr. Pilkington withdrew like a foiled python. ”He don't know nothing about the show business, and he keeps b.u.t.ting in and making fool suggestions. He ought to be darned glad he's getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me how to direct it.” He clapped his hands imperiously. The a.s.sistant stage-manager bent over the footlights. ”What was that that guy said?

Lord Finchley's last speech. Take it again.”

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