—He would have to lift more than a finger before that money was earned. He would have to hang on wires by his toes, and to swim streams, and to be knocked down by runaway horses, and to dash into burning houses, and to fling himself on desperate men, and to ascend into the air in water-planes and to descend in submarines into the deep. Hydrants would be turned on him, and sacks of flour poured on him, and hogsheads of whitewash and bags of soot. Not for his brains, but for his good looks and steady nerves and his hard physical condition had he been the chosen one among many. For Stan had joined a Film Producing Company, less as an actor than as an acrobat. Go and see him this evening. He is as well worth your hour as many a knighted actor. And the scene from “Quentin Durward,” in which Bonthron is strung up with the rope round his neck, is not fake. They actually did string Stan up, in the studio near Barnet that had been a Drill Hall, and came precious near to hanging him into the bargain.
But he passed lightly over these and other perils as he poured it all out to Dorothy at tea. Pounds, not perils, were the theme of his song.
“I didn’t say anything about it for fear it didn’t come off,” he said, “but I’ve been expecting it for weeks.” He swallowed tea and cake at a rate that must have put his internal economy to as severe a strain as “Mazeppa” (Historical Film Series, No. XII) afterwards did his bones and muscles. “I start on Monday, so breakfast at eight, sharp, Dot. ‘Lola Montez.’ They’ve got a ripping little girl as Lola; took her out to tea and shopping the other day; I’ll bring her round.” (“No you don’t—not with me sitting here like a Jumping Bean,” quoth Dorothy). “Oh, that’s all right—she’s getting married herself next month—furnishing her flat now—I helped her to choose her electric-light fittings—you’d like her.... Ain’t it stunning, Dot!——”
It was stunning. Part of the stunningness of it was that Dorothy, with an abrupt “Excuse me a moment,” was enabled to cross to her desk and to dash off a note to Harrods. Second-hand woollies for her Bits! Oh no, not if she knew it!... “Yes, go on, dear,” she resumed, returning to the tea-table again. “No, I don’t wish it was something else. If we’re poor we’re poor, and the Services are out of the question, and it’s just as good as lots of other jobs.—And oh, that reminds me: I had Mr. Miller in this afternoon!”...
“And oh!” said Stan ten minutes later; “I forgot, too! I met a chap, too—forgotten all about it. That fellow I gave a dressing-down about India to up at the Pratts’ there. He stopped me in the street, and what do you think? It was all I could do not to laugh. He asked me whether I could put him on to a job! Me, who haven’t started myself yet!... I said I could put him on to a drink if that would do—I had to stand somebody a drink, just to wet my luck, and I didn’t see another soul—and I fetched it all out of my pocket in a pub in St. Martin’s Lane—,” he fetched it all out of his pocket again now, “—fetched it out as if it was nothing—you should have seen him look at it!—Strong his name is—didn’t catch it that day he was burbling such stuff——”
Dorothy’s eyes shone. Dear old Stan! That too pleased her. No doubt the Pratts would be told that Stan was going about so heavily laden with money that he had to divide the weight in order not to walk lop-sided——
Worn woollies for His Impudence’s Bits!——
Rather not! There would be a parcel round from Harrods’ to-morrow!