His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.
"There is only one career in the world—the theatre!... There is only one profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have succeeded! And without having received the least instruction, for my parents never cared a hang for my future—I soon earned plenty money; now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the point of making a fortune!"
The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age—no chicken.
His companion gazed at him admiringly.
Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold, English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a bulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts.
"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler with a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"
The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glasses of whisky were having their effect.
Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:
"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and already I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the same on your side?"
Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glass and declared: