“A pickle manufacturer!”
“Yes. They said it ought to be a comedy part.”
If agony had not caused Mr Pilkington to clutch for support at the back of a chair, he would undoubtedly have wrung his hands.
“But it was a comedy part!” he wailed. “It was full of the subtlest, most delicate satire on Society. They were delighted with it at Newport! Oh, this is too much! I shall make a strong protest! I shall insist on these parts being kept as I wrote them! I shall … I must be going at once, or I shall miss my train.” He paused at the door. “How was business in Baltimore?”
“Rotten!” said Freddie, and returned to his National Geographic Magazine.
Otis Pilkington tottered into his cab. He was shattered by what he had heard. They had massacred his beautiful play, and, doing so, had not even made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights. Business at Baltimore had been rotten! That meant more expense, further columns of figures with “frames” and “rehl” in front of them! He staggered into the station.
“Hey!” cried the taxi-driver.
Otis Pilkington turned.
“Sixty-five cents, mister, if you please! Forgetting I’m not your private shovoor, wasn’t you?”
Mr Pilkington gave him a dollar. Money—money! Life was just one long round of paying out and paying out.