“Did you say you were a tenor?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.
“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost gasps.
“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod.
“Have we your address?” asks one of them.
“Yes, sir, I left it at the stage door.”
“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer.
Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.”