“On the contrary,” said Mr Hill, “I’m resigning.” He drew a green-covered script from his pocket and handed it with an air to the pallid assistant stage-director. Then, more gracefully than ever Freddie Rooke had managed to move downstage under the tuition of Johnson Miller, he moved upstage to the exit. “I trust that you will be able to find someone who will play the part according to your ideas!”
“I’ll find,” bellowed Mr Goble at his vanishing back, “a chorus-man who’ll play it a damned sight better than you!” He waved to the assistant stage-director. “Send the chorus-men on the stage!”
“All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!” shrilled the assistant stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever.
“Mr Goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!”
There was a moment, when the seven male members of “The Rose of America” ensemble lined up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes, when Mr Goble repented of his brave words. An uncomfortable feeling passed across his mind that Fate had called his bluff and that he would not be able to make good. All chorus-men are exactly alike, and they are like nothing else on earth. Even Mr Goble, anxious as he was to overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that in their ranks stood even an adequate Lord Finchley. And then, just as a cold reaction from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceived that Providence had been good to him. There, at the extreme end of the line, stood a young man who, as far as appearance went, was the ideal Lord Finchley,—as far as appearance went, a far better Lord Finchley than the late Mr Hill. He beckoned imperiously.
“You at the end!”
“Me?” said the young man.
“Yes, you. What’s your name?”
“Rooke. Frederick Rooke, don’t you know.”
“You’re English, aren’t you?”