“Have a bit of lunch, Guv’nor, and talk it over quietly afterwards.”
So attractive did the proposition sound that without awaiting the sanction of the master, the entire company trooped to the wings and, grabbing their hats and coats, made for the nearest exit.
Never before in the recollection of the oldest member of the company had “the Guv’nor” given way to the slightest exhibition of temper, and the occasion had seriously unnerved them. That he should have lost control of himself to the extent of using violent language, and kicking his defenceless hat, was a revelation which could only be conversationally approached in the fresh air and sunshine.
Some form of belated courage induced Mr. Cartwright to remain, after the others had departed, brushing his Homburg hat upon his sleeve and buttoning and unbuttoning his gloves. He of all others had the greater reason for flight, and to his credit be it entered that he lingered.
But Eliphalet Cardomay was in no mood to spare him on that account. Like a destroyer circling a troop-ship, he revolved round the unhappy Aloysius, ever and anon firing salvoes of reproach and opprobrium.
Even when, unable to endure longer the whips and scorns of the managerial tongue, Mr. Cartwright sought to escape, Eliphalet was close upon his heels, jerking out verbal grenades of the most poignant nature.
Past the lines of melancholy fishers they pursued their way, hunted and hunter; through the turnstile of what might be called the super-pier upon which the Pavilion was situated, they made their way—Mr. Cartwright doing his best to preserve an air of stoic endurance, and Eliphalet Cardomay following with periodical explosions of artistic wrath.
Above the box-office, the lurid poster of the hero leaping into the canal insisted upon recognition.
“Look!” cried Eliphalet, restraining his quarry with the crook of his stick. “Look, and be ashamed! That is what I have led the public to expect, and——” His eye fell upon the photographer’s booth, not five yards distant, beside which sat a young lady, tilting back her chair against the chain bulwarks of the pier. “HA! It is not too late to make amends. I have never yet cheated my public. Come!” And seizing the youth by the arm, he dragged him protestingly towards the temple of photographic art.
The photographer was seated within, indulging his appetite with a cut from the joint and two vegetables imported from a neighbouring café. He rose, politely masticating, as the two came in, and inquired, to the best ability of his well-filled mouth, in what manner he could be of service to them.