But Darco rarely said a thing once without repeating it many times, and at length Paul understood that the play was to be played ‘on the dog,’ which is theatrical English for the production of a new piece at an obscure house in the country. It was tried, but the dog never took to it with any great kindness. Darco swore it was the first comedy which had been produced since the days of Sheridan. He put it into the repertoire, and played it once a week, and whenever it was played it brought a guinea to Paul’s pocket. It is not every first effort in any work of art which does as much as this, however, and Paul had the good sense to see that he was fortunate, and looked hopefully to the future. He crept into the gallery when the piece was played in any town, and watched his neighbours, and listened to their comments on the action and to their talk between the acts. This taught him a great deal, for he saw how little the popular instinct varies in matters of emotion, and the verdict to which he listened was everywhere substantially the same.
There came an especially memorable afternoon when Mr. Warr in a four-wheeled fly drove to Darco’s lodgings, and announced the sudden sickness of the juvenile lead. Darco pounced on Paul as the sick man’s successor.
‘My dear sir,’ said Paul, ‘I never spoke a word in public in my life. I can’t do it.’
‘That’s all right, my poy,’ said Darco. ‘You’ve got to do it.’
There was no arguing the matter.
Mr. Warr was despatched in the fly to gather the members of the company. Darco thrust into Paul’s hands the part he had to study, and went off tranquilly to his own room to sleep. Paul slaved for an hour, and seemed to have mastered nothing. Darco, having timed himself to sleep for one hour precisely, awoke to the minute, and bundled off his victim to the theatre. There such members of the company as Mr. Warr had succeeded in finding were already collected, and the scenes in which Paul was concerned were run through again and again until he began to have some idea of what was expected of him, and even some distant knowledge of the words. But the whole thing was like a nightmare, and whenever the thought of the coming night crossed his mind, it afflicted him with a half paralysis. Darco worried him incessantly, bubbling with unhelpful enthusiasm, roaring at him, pushing and hauling him hither and thither, so that at last he resigned himself to a stupor of despair. The leading lady intervened, and she and Darco talked together for a minute.
‘Tam it!’ he shouted. ‘Do you think I want anypoty to deach me? I am Cheorge Dargo. I know my drade!’
But the leading lady stuck to him, and at last he went away.
‘Now, my dear,’ said Miss Belmont to Paul. ‘I’ll shepherd you. You’re mostly with me, and so long as we’re together you’re safe. Darco’s a darling when you know him, but he’s enough to break a beginner’s heart. Now, dears ‘—she appealed here to her whole public—‘put your hearts into it, and help the young gentleman through.’
The rehearsal went on again, and the nightmare feeling wore away a little.