This is balm to his soul; after all, he was not hurried off so quickly, and he passes out into the light of day with the “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything,” still ringing in his ears. And so to tea with what appetite he may bring at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as arranged.
Ten weary days pass—he receives no letter, hears nothing. He has almost given up all hope of that small but certain income, when a type-written missive arrives:
“Kindly attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre on Tuesday next at twelve o’clock.”
The words swim before his eyes. Can it be true? Can he be among the successful ones after all? He is so excited he is scarcely able to eat or sleep, waiting for Tuesday to come. It does come at last, and he sets out for the theatre, thinking he will not betray further ignorance, and arrives fashionably late at a quarter to one. This time he sees no signs of life at the stage door.
“Of course, now that I belong to the theatre, I must go in through the front of the house, not at the side entrance,” he says to himself. Round, therefore, he goes to the front, where some one sitting in the box office asks:
“What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, thanks; I am going to rehearsal.”
“You’re late. The chorus have started nearly an hour.”
Good chance here to make an impression.
“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This is not quite true at the moment, but may be in a year or two.