“I’m sorry to say I seldom go to variety houses,” said Claudia, feeling somehow that she ought to have seen her.
“What!”—she turned, with her face smothered with grease. “You haven’t seen me do my turn? Jack must take you this very night. He’ll be along soon.”
“Oh! I—er—am afraid I’m engaged to-night.”
Polly returned and planked the curls down on the dressing-table.
“Here you are, miss, and Mr. Robins is out in the hall. He wants to see you.” She grinned. “He’s got a bucket for yer.”
“What!” Fay screamed gleefully, “old Joey Robins! Why, this is worth a week’s screw.” She rushed to the door just as she was and called out: “Come in, Joey, my boy. I’m awful glad to see you.”
She flung her arms round the neck of a man whose face was typically that of a low comedian of the old school. He was funny even off the stage, and Claudia vaguely remembered the name. He was somewhere about fifty, and had a habit of blinking as he talked, like a parrot. Claudia found out afterwards that he had acquired it for stage purposes—the audiences shrieked at him when he just blinked and did nothing else—and he could not rid himself of it in private life.
“Come in, do. Joey, this is my sister-in-law. You know Joey? You may not know me, but you know Joey all right. Joey Robins on the Razzle-Dazzle! My! that was a good number, wasn’t it?”
She put her head on one side and her hands on her hips, and began to skip about, humming a catchy tune.
Claudia found the comedian was extending a large and very rough hand. “Glad to make your acquaintance, miss. I say, Fay, there’s a turnip for you outside. Shall I fetch it in?”