'Bravo, Mac!' said one and another, some in sincerity, some to humour the old actor.
'You are certainly right, sir,' said one of the strangers, speaking with the deference due to so eminent an authority. Your glass is empty; will you fill again?'
'Ay, till the crack of doom,' was the ready reply. 'Right, sir! of course I'm right.'
'But,' said another of the strangers, not quite so deferential as the former speaker, some one must play second fiddle.'
'Second fiddle, sir! Yes, I admit it, sir. Some one must play second fiddle--and third fiddle too, if you like. But let the man who plays second fiddle be a second fiddle, and not a first fiddle.'
'Who is to blame for all this?' asked the deferential stranger.
'Who's to blame, sir! The public, sir--the public. But what consolation is that to me? I must live, sir, I suppose. I must feed my family, or answer for it to the beak. Here am I, who will place my Macbeth in comparison with any man's--who can play Hamlet, Lear, Othello, Brutus, in a masterly manner--I don't say it of myself; it has been said of me--here am I compelled to knuckle-under to a man young enough to be my son, and with not a tenth part of my brains or experience. And what's the consequence? I haven't had a call for six months, while he gets called on three times a night. Why, sir, I remember the time when a discriminating audience called me on six times in one piece! I've had a dozen bouquets thrown to me in one night! And now, sir, these things are forgotten, and old Mac is shelved, sir, shelved!'
'The public ought to be ashamed of themselves,' said the deferential stranger.
But the public's not all to blame.. It's the managers, who allow themselves to be led, like tame sheep, into the trap; they haven't the moral courage to stand up against it. And what's a man, or a manager, without moral courage? I wouldn't mind it so much, but what's the consequence? A star is engaged upon shares, at an enormous screw, and to make this up, all our screws are reduced. That's where it comes hard. I pledge you my dramatic word, my screw isn't so much by seven-and-sixpence a week as it was six months ago. Who gets my seven-and-six? Why, who but the star? And my poor children must starve and perish, or go on the parish, if they hadn't a self-denying parent, who would pawn his shirt before they should come to want. I'll take another glass of whisky-toddy--my last, sir, my last to-night. Old Mac knows when he's had enough. Turk, my son, a word in your ear.'
Turk went aside with him, and I heard the jingling of coin.