“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires:
“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.”
Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters name, voice, previous experience, height, and age. There is also a column headed “Remarks,” which the would-be actor feels inclined to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage manager fills in this column himself.”
At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:
“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:
“Where is your form?”
He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:
“Now then, please, if you’re ready.”
The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by: