“Isn’t it!” I exclaimed enthusiastically. “But won’t it go?”
“Go?” he shouted, with such energy that several lunchers spun round in their chairs, and a Rand magnate, who was eating peas at the next table, started and cut his mouth. “Go? It’s the limit! This is just the sort of thing to get right at them. It’ll hit them where they live. What made you think of that drivel at the end of Act Two?”
“Genius, I suppose. What do you think of James as a part for you?”
“Top hole. Good Lord, I haven’t congratulated you! Consider it done.”
“Thanks.”
We drained our liqueur glasses to The Girl who Waited and to ourselves.
Briggs, after a lifetime spent in doing three things at once, is not a man who lets a great deal of grass grow under his feet. Before I left him that night the “ideal cast” of the play had been jotted down, and much of the actual cast settled. Rehearsals were in full swing within a week, and the play was produced within ten days of the demise of its predecessor.
Meanwhile, the satisfactory sum which I received in advance of royalties was sufficient to remove any regrets as to the loss of the Orb holiday work. With The Girl who Waited in active rehearsal, “On Your Way” lost in importance.
CHAPTER 26
MY TRIUMPH
(James Orlebar Cloyster’s narrative continued)