The Bill-Toppers

by J. André Castaigne

“There will be eight minutes of this,” said Jimmy, taking out his watch. “What have you to say to me, Mr. Clifton?”

Oh, what he had to say was very simple; he wouldn’t have mentioned it himself, but Mrs. Clifton had asked him to. To cut a long story short, wasn’t it a shame that gentlemen should throw bouquets on the stage when Lily was giving her show? Like last night, for instance: why, it was making game of a child, putting ideas into her head! Lily, of course, paid no attention to it. However, was it or was it not allowed to throw or send bouquets on the stage?

“Why, you know it is!” said Jimmy. “How would you have me prevent it?”

If he could have prevented it, he would. To begin with, Jimmy realized the bothers which it brought down upon Lily. Moreover, Jimmy, who was vaguely uneasy himself, wondered who that ardent admirer could be. Some of Roofer’s girls thought they had recognized Trampy, from the stage, in the front seats. What Jimmy had heard of Trampy did not inspire him with confidence. And Trampy, it appeared, was making love to Lily. Mr. Fuchs had met them at the corner of Oxford Street and Newman Street. The story was quite definite.

Jimmy was astonished at the audacity of a Trampy: what could he say to her? he asked himself, what could he propose to her? Marriage? He was married, they said, in America. To run away with him? His scandalous life, his habit of easy conquest made this very likely. Jimmy had seen plenty of others, big ones who topped the bill and who did not despise a girl’s companionship—on the contrary—and six months later, a year, two years later, left the girl in a hole, stranded, undone; mustard and game for Jim Crow. And he grew more and more anxious on Lily’s behalf: not that Lily would come to that! Yet he had seen plenty of them, since he had frequented the stage, plenty of Lilies who had taken to flight for injuries often less serious than hers. He could have mentioned names: his head was full of those who let their anger, or their folly, get the better of them and escaped at random, and who went back to every-day life—through the door of scandal—sometimes to meet with worse: martyrdom of the heart, base exploitation in the name of love. Oh, he pitied them from the bottom of his soul! No, Lily shouldn’t run away: it was impossible! But what a pity, all the same, that he could think of it! And what chance, what meeting would settle her fate and make her—who could say?—the companion of a loving heart, or a prey to some footy rotter? Oh, how he would have liked to go for Trampy, to break his jaw for him, to teach him to mind his business and leave Lily alone! And what Jimmy wanted to do he was never far from doing! And, then, oh, if he could procure a good position for Clifton, as an equivalent for his star and make Lily love him, marry him: that would be better still!

This idea, perhaps, without his knowing it, dominated his present life, doubled his power of work: to invent something! To get himself talked about! To make money, plenty of money, become somebody! Others before him had risen from nothing. Harrasford, to go no farther ... a chap who had climbed every rung of the ladder: a small music-hall first; then two; then a big one; then two; then ten. And a whole army now toiling and moiling for him every night, for him the chief and master.

“Oh!” thought Jimmy. “If I could only climb the ladder too!”

First of all, he must choose his line, for his efforts to tell. And, since chance had given him a start at the theater, why not go on? Here his scientific luggage would be of use to him. It was only a question of adding pluck to it. He was the man to do so and now more than ever. Things which used to seem impossible to him, such as his invention published in Engineering, appeared quite feasible, now that he had watched Lily do her wonderful feats of balancing on the stage. It was only a question of courage and hard practice. Another line suggested itself: to find capital and start a theater. As regards the stage itself, by this time he understood the management of it from grid to cellar. He seemed to take in at a glance that huge entirety, from the flies with their windlasses, their bridges, the labyrinth of stairs, the maze of passages, down to the dressing-rooms and the painted faces that filled them: here, a Lily; there, a buck nigger; farther on, a living-picture girl. He felt all this rustle round him, carried it all in his head: he knew it all, from the porter’s box at the stage-door to the glittering front of the house, with its palm-trees and its liveried chuckers-out. Jimmy knew what to think of the enchantments of the stage, those luminous visions which the audience admired to the tune of the orchestra: jealousies, vanities, hatreds to knock up against and calm down; recruits to put through their paces; and the whole day of it—and the whole night, too—for a few pounds a week, including the tips received from the artistes, twenty-five to forty shillings a month.

But Jimmy had his idea: he was determined to obtain a thorough grasp of the business; he had already taken possession of the stage-manager’s room and of his desk with the many compartments: photographs, programs, contracts, electric light, staff, scenery. A whole small people depended upon him, and asked his advice, bragged of its successes or told him of its misfortunes. And here again was Clifton continuing his jeremiads: they would drive his daughter silly by making game of her, pretending to be in love with her, at her age! Jimmy listened attentively, with one eye on the stage and the other on his watch:

“Tut!” he said, trying to arrange things. “There’s no great harm in receiving bouquets on the stage. However, as you object, if any more of them come, they shall be handed to you, to dispose of as you please. That’s all that I can do.”