“Yes,” replied Mendel, though this was precisely what he knew least of all.
“Why don’t you go on the stage?” asked Mitchell.
“I have thought of it. I think I might do well on the halls. There’s a life for you! On at eight in Bethnal Green:—
My old woman’s got a wart on her nose;
How she got it I will now disclose.
Off again in a motor-car to the Oxford:—
My old woman’s got a wart on her nose.
Off again to Hammersmith or Kensal Rise:—
My old woman’s got a wart on her nose.
My God! What a life! But I love the halls. They are all that is left of old England!”