“What? I can’t hear you very plainly. That’s better. Oh! You’ll make it three hundred pounds? Very well. Have the contract ready to-morrow for me to sign.”
Ring off.
Exit Mr. Swanker from the telephone-box. He strolls nonchalantly to the bar.
“Have a drink, boys?”
We assent.
Enter the then manager of the club, Mr. Case. “Excuse me, sir, but that telephone has been out of order since yesterday; we’re expecting a man in to see to it directly.”
Sudden and complete exit from the club of Mr. Swanker, followed by a roar of laughter from all the other members.
I may add that a “pro.’s” salary, his real salary that is to say, is always a jealously guarded secret. Ask, and you generally get told a lie. The public hardly ever knows, in fact I might almost say it never knows. Newspaper “pars” are no criterion. Neither is the position of an artiste’s name on the bill. “Tops” and “bottoms” are supposed to be the “star turn” positions. But I myself have topped the bill at £5 a week in my early days, with artistes getting £50 a week in very much smaller type below me. In fact the very first bill I ever topped I got £5 only, and it cost me about £3 in tips to stage hands and others to live up to my that week’s (supposed) reputation.
Another little Vaudeville Club telephone wheeze! We were sitting in the smoke-room one day, when a member was smitten with a sudden brilliant idea. Going to the box he rang up about a score of well-known “pro.’s,” and told each one who answered his call to ring up “625 Chiswick.”
“You’re wanted there badly,” he explained.