“An act of kindness is always right,” answered the wag, with tragic solemnity. “Look; he’s starting now, and he’s worse than ever. Don’t tell any one I suggested your showing him. Keep it a dead secret. Now, go to it.”
In perfect good faith Bobby stepped forward, passed the director, saying as he went, “Excuse me, sir,” and ignoring Compton and the “lady” and “gentleman,” strode over to the bellhop. All this, happening though it did in a few seconds, produced an unheard-of effect. The saleslady stopped chewing, the lady and gentleman ceased smiling, Compton looked surprised and intelligent, the director let his jaw drop, and the audience, now swollen to double its size, pressed forward to the cameras. The bellhop himself put on a human expression of inquiry. As Bobby came face to face with the victim every one on the stage seemed to be momentarily paralyzed.
“You poor fish,” said Bob, kindness and energy ringing in his accents, “just let me show you. It’s so easy!”
The bellhop sank back into his seat.
“Now look,” continued Bobby. The left-hand corner of his mouth sagged, his shoulders bent in, and with a walk and a swerve redolent of the old Bowery, Bobby advanced towards Compton, whose eyes were protruding.
“You boob!” announced Bobby. “You are politely requested to make a noise like a train and rattle out of here. Get me?” And as Bobby, not in the way of kindness, laid his hand on Compton, cheers and laughter and hand-clapping disturbed scandalously the quiet of the Lantry cloister.
Bobby, nothing disconcerted, bowed, laying his hand over his heart, and smiled affably. But when the star, Bernadette, came running over, her face beaming with delight, and exclaimed, “Aunty, I’m going to kiss you for that,” he blanched and fled to Compton’s arms.
There was a pause and a deliberation. Compton and the manager conferred together for five minutes. The result of their talk was that Bobby was hired on the spot and the victim of tobacco given a vacation till further notice.
Thus did Bobby Vernon “break into the movies.”