“Dear Mr. Pooter,—Although your junior by perhaps some twenty or thirty years—which is sufficient reason that you ought to have a longer record of the things and ways in this miniature of a planet—I feel it is just within the bounds of possibility that the wheels of your life don’t travel so quickly round as those of the humble writer of these lines. The dandy horse of past days has been known to overtake the slow coach.
“Do I make myself understood?
“Very well, then! Permit me, Mr. Pooter, to advise you to accept the verb. sap. Acknowledge your defeat, and take your whipping gracefully; for remember you threw down the glove, and I cannot claim to be either mentally or physically a coward!
“Revenons à nos moutons.
“Our lives run in different grooves. I live for MY ART—THE STAGE. Your life is devoted to commercial pursuits—‘A life among Ledgers.’ My books are of different metal. Your life in the City is honourable, I admit. But how different! Cannot even you see the ocean between us? A channel that prevents the meeting of our brains in harmonious accord. Ah! But chaçun à son goût.
“I have registered a vow to mount the steps of fame. I may crawl, I may slip, I may even falter (we are all weak), but reach the top rung of the ladder I will!!! When there, my voice shall be heard, for I will shout to the multitudes below: ‘Vici!’ For the present I am only an amateur, and my work is unknown, forsooth, save to a party of friends, with here and there an enemy.
“But, Mr. Pooter, let me ask you, ‘What is the difference between the amateur and the professional?’
“None!!!
“Stay! Yes, there is a difference. One is paid for doing what the other does as skilfully for nothing!
“But I will be paid, too! For I, contrary to the wishes of my family and friends, have at last elected to adopt the stage as my profession. And when the farce craze is over—and, mark you, that will be soon—I will make my power known; for I feel—pardon my apparent conceit—that there is no living man who can play the hump-backed Richard as I feel and know I can.
“And you will be the first to come round and bend your head in submission. There are many matters you may understand, but knowledge of the fine art of acting is to you an unknown quantity.
“Pray let this discussion cease with this letter. Vale!
Yours truly,
“Burwin-Fosselton.”
I was disgusted. When Lupin came in, I handed him this impertinent letter, and said: “My boy, in that letter you can see the true character of your friend.”
Lupin, to my surprise, said: “Oh yes. He showed me the letter before he sent it. I think he is right, and you ought to apologise.”
CHAPTER XII
A serious discussion concerning the use and value of my diary. Lupin’s opinion of ’Xmas. Lupin’s unfortunate engagement is on again.
December 17.—As I open my scribbling diary I find the words “Oxford Michaelmas Term ends.” Why this should induce me to indulge in retrospective I don’t know, but it does. The last few weeks of my diary are of minimum interest. The breaking off of the engagement between Lupin and Daisy Mutlar has made him a different being, and Carrie a rather depressing companion. She was a little dull last Saturday, and I thought to cheer her up by reading some extracts from my diary; but she walked out of the room in the middle of the reading, without a word. On her return, I said: “Did my diary bore you, darling?”
She replied, to my surprise: “I really wasn’t listening, dear. I was obliged to leave to give instructions to the laundress. In consequence of some stuff she puts in the water, two more of Lupin’s coloured shirts have run and he says he won’t wear them.”
I said: “Everything is Lupin. It’s all Lupin, Lupin, Lupin. There was not a single button on my shirt yesterday, but I made no complaint.”
Carrie simply replied: “You should do as all other men do, and wear studs. In fact, I never saw anyone but you wear buttons on the shirt-fronts.”
I said: “I certainly wore none yesterday, for there were none on.”