It was a sorry-looking and draggle-tailed trio who eventually came to port at the little iron stairway by the pier-head. Between them Cartwright and Mr. Manning conveyed Eliphalet Cardomay to a couch in his dressing-room. The young lady who caused these sensational happenings was carried off by one of the peroxide sisterhood, and departs from our field of vision in a semi-hysterical condition.
It was Mr. Manning who took entire charge of the work of bringing “the Guv’nor” round, and did it with that thoroughness which distinguished all his undertakings.
Eventually Eliphalet opened his eyes and let them drift round the room until they came to rest on Aloysius Cartwright, who was forming an island in an ocean that dripped from his clothes. Eliphalet regarded him with a puzzled expression which suddenly cleared and was supplanted by a rare and almost beautiful smile.
“That was a wonderful dive, Mr. Cartwright,” he murmured. “Just what I wanted.” The smile transformed itself into a look of great contentment. “I have always believed I could bring out the best in any member of my company. I think I am justified in holding that opinion still.”
This is an advertising age, and the success of a commodity depends not so much on its quality as the quality of the advertisement bringing it before the public eye. Nevertheless, and despite the packed houses which patronised his new production, Eliphalet Cardomay was highly incensed when asked by a reporter to confide to the columns of the Brestwater Mercury the precise sum he had paid in gold to the young lady who fell into the sea.
CHAPTER VI
QUICKSANDS OF TRADITION
People who imagine an actor’s life is all honey forget that he has to read plays, and the reading of plays is at once the most onerous and exacting of all tasks.
Not one in a hundred is fit to be read, and scarcely one in a thousand deserves production.
Nearly everyone believes he can write a play, and most of these believers have a shot at it—and good, bad or indifferent, each one of these shots is stuffed into the barrel of a quarto envelope, charged with the address of this or that theatrical manager, and propelled by means of a given number of postage-stamps to its billet upon the managerial desk. Should the desk pertain to one of the more illustrious lights of the stage, the envelope is carried off by some erudite young gentleman, employed for the purpose, who cons the manuscript by the light of midnight oil, and directs its future career forward or backward, as the merit of the work suggests.
In pursuance of this melancholy vocation the optic nerves and digestive organs invariably become impaired. The reader loses interest in life and sense of appreciation. He becomes a confirmed cynic and usually blights his own career by throwing out an obvious winner, and being thrown out himself for so doing.