I promised to make a note of it.
“Her father, apoplectic old idiot—make him comic: 'Damme, sir! By gad!' all that sort of thing.”
By persuading him that I understood what he meant, I rose in his estimation.
“He won't have anything to say to me—thinks I'm an ass. I'm a simple sort of fellow—on the outside. But I'm not such a fool as I look.”
“You don't think we are getting too much out of the groove?” I enquired.
His opinion was that the more so the better.
“Very well. Then, in the second act I disguise myself. I'll come on as an organ-grinder, sing a song in broken English, then as a policeman, or a young swell about town. Give me plenty of opportunity, that's the great thing—opportunity to be really funny, I mean. We don't want any of the old stale tricks.”
I promised him my support.
“Put a little pathos in it,” he added, “give me a scene where I can show them I've something else in me besides merely humour. We don't want to make them howl, but just to feel a little. Let's send them out of the theatre saying: 'Well, Charlie's often made me laugh, but I'm damned if I knew he could make me cry before!' See what I mean?”
I told him I thought I did.