"Quisby!" repeated the low comedian emphatically; "I say, 'Oo's Quisby? I'll lay anybody 'ere ten to one that Quisby calls us to-morrow to say he ain't responsible. Now? I wish all Syndicates were in 'ell."
The dispute between the powers had ended, and suddenly the prompter's voice rang through the passage. He bawled, "Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus are wanted on the stige!"
The eyes met for a moment, and then the players trooped away, with sinking hearts. The cold, bare stage was in shadow, for the floats and battens had been extinguished, and the only light was shed by a single burner of the T-piece. By the T-piece Mr. Quisby stood, his back to the dark emptiness of the auditorium. The prompter was still heard calling in the distance;—
"Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus on the stige!"
Shivering, they flocked there, some in their plumes and spangles, others already in their shabby street clothes; many were in a state of transition—the faces daubed with grease, the undergarments and naked necks revealed by hasty ulsters. Nobody spoke. When the last comer had scrambled to the crowd, all looked at Mr. Quisby. The suspense that held them mute was pitiable.
Outside, the thirty young men had collected to accost the merry chorus girls.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Quisby, "there will be no performance to-morrow." He forced a hearty air. "I'm going to talk to you like a pal. Things look a bit rocky, but we must hope for the best. I won't disguise from you that there may be no tour. Now you all know as much as I do—there may be no tour. Whether there is, or not, I've no doubt we shall all get what's due to us. I hope we shall, I'm sure—God knows I can't afford to lose what they owe me!" He made a slight pause, to let this sink. "As soon as I hear from London what the Management intends to do, we'll put our heads together again. You worked nobly to-night, nobly—one and all! Some of you ought to be in London, getting your thirty, and forty, quid a week! If the thing's a frost, it won't be the fault of the artists, and I mean to let the Management know it!"
"What Management?" cried the low comedian. "'Ave you left off being manager all of a sudden?"
"Ladies and gentlemen, as you're all aware, the Management is a Syndicate," Mr. Quisby proceeded with difficulty. "If this was my crowd, I should talk very different. Do you know what I should say if this was my crowd? I should say, 'Between you and I, I'm a bit doubtful of the piece—that's straight!—but I've got a first-class company of artists, and by George I mean to keep 'em!' I should say, 'If I can't pull this piece together, then I'll cast the whole blessed crowd for another!' That's what I should say if I was manager. But I'm not. No, I'm one of you. We're all in the same boat. I'm engaged at a salary, like yourselves. Still"—he smeared the perspiration round his lying lips—"still it's always darkest before dawn. There's a silver lining to every cloud, and we may find as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Mr. Omee won't have the piece, and—er—you're all to clear your props out of the theatre first thing in the morning; but there are plenty of other theatres in the kingdom! We must stick together. Where there's a will, there's a way! We must stick together, like Englishmen in the hour of trouble all the world over, and—er, er—be loyal to the show! Ladies and gentlemen—Boys and girls!—Mr. Omee is waiting to see me in his office. That's all."
"Well, he couldn't have spoken any fairer," many of the poor, wretched women said to one another as they lagged through the forsaken streets.