There was deep stillness for a second, and Zoëtique’s unconcerned, clear voice broke it.
“Excusez-la” he said.
For a moment we were too stirred to join Bob’s energetic hand clapping. “Don’t you like it?” the youngster demanded. “I think it’s great. For cat’s sake, why don’t you encourage the lad?”
And, so adjured, we broke into as great a storm of applause as six people can manage, and, after, we discussed the sensation of the evening from boat to boat while the performers arranged further their hand-to-mouth programme. The concert went on; there were choruses, charming to listen to, in the ten men’s voices, all sweet with the musical sense of these people; there were separate solos, “A l’école du Roi,” “Au clair de la lune,” “Alouette, gentille alouette,” and others characteristically voyageur and habitant; and old Henri was made to play again on his mouth-organ. But the hero of the concert was the whistler, and three times more he was called before the curtain—which is to say that three times more from out of the mysterious darkness of the trees the flute notes flooded full down the moon-path and thrilled the misty air about us. And each time, at the end came Zoëtique’s unconscious, honest little speech of two words:
“Excusez-là.”
It was only Mr. Esmond, I remarked, who did not discuss the whistling as we paddled back to “the camp of the messieurs,” where the lamplight through the scarlet-curtained windows of the long front sent out a comfortable glow to welcome us. It seemed to me that Esmond was strangely silent for a man as talkative as he had shown himself. Even Mrs. Morgan could not make him express enthusiasm as to the hit of the evening.
“I’m afraid you didn’t like our whistling gentleman as much as we did,” she complained at last, as I helped her out of the canoe.
“Mrs. Morgan,” Esmond answered quickly, in his decisive, impressive manner, “I liked it far more than anybody, because, from my peculiar position, I am able to appreciate its value better and to see more possibility in it than any one here. I am going to prove that to you.” The moment we were inside the camp Esmond turned to his host. “I don’t want to impose on your hospitality, and I won’t make any move without your consent, but I’d like to explain to you who I am and what I want to do.”
Everybody looked surprised, and conversation stopped. “Yes,” Morgan answered tentatively.
“Perhaps you know my name, if you’re theatre-goers,” the stranger went on. “I’m Charles Esmond, the theatrical manager, and I have quite a lot of stock companies and theatres more or less under my control. Looking out for new stars isn’t my business nowadays, but it used to be, and I haven’t lost my scent for a good thing, and the minute I heard that boy whistle I knew he was a good thing. He does what is called double-tongue whistling, and that in itself is not common. But that is only incidental—it’s the quality of his performance that is extraordinary. I have heard the best people that are known at the business—it’s a limited business—and I’ve never heard any one who touches this guide of yours. Take that young fellow and put him on the stage and he’d make a hit for us, and for himself he’d make what would seem a big fortune in little or no time. I’d like to talk to him—now—to-night. May I?”