"Come, now; forty pound from one hall and thirty from another——"
"It ain't enough, Mordy; nothink under the century suits my book, and it didn't ought to suit yours, neither. You must get me another show—another thirty quid. You know you'll get your commission off it."
Yes, Mr. Mordaunt reckoned that he would get his ten per cent.
"But, you see, Vicky, there's ever so many ladies who can sing bet—nearly as well as you—walking about London, with their hands in their tailor-made pockets."
"Not one of 'em whose songs have ever caught on like my 'Rats' and 'The Demon of Drink.'"
"Those were two ripping songs, Vicky. But your new ones haven't hit as hard. They're mawkish, Vicky; too much milk-and-water, and not enough Tabasco. 'Rats' was a fine song—and you did the 'D.T.' first-class."
"The man who wrote 'Rats' is dead," said Miss Vernon, with a gloomy look. "He was a genius, poor devil. Could knock off a song like that in a day—if he could keep sober—band-parts and all."
"I wonder how much you gave him for 'Rats'?"
"Wouldn't you like to know? Well, then, not so much by ten touch-me's as I give for this sun-shade," said the charmer, with a winning laugh, flourishing her gold-handled parasol.
"You gave the poor devil a fiver for a song that has earned you five thou.," said the agent. "Oh, I know the ladies. They haven't got much head for figures, but they are closer——"