“Just occurred to me—I’ve come out without any ready. You might lend me a couple of ten shillings.”
Eliphalet hesitated. “I haven’t so much on me,” he answered, “but I daresay——”
“Lord love you, I don’t want it—only a joke—pulling your leg, that’s all. Ha! Well! Must be going, old man. Bye-bye.”
Sefton Bulmore had learnt what he wanted to know—or thought he had. As he walked down the street he muttered to himself:
“Tch, tch! Bad business! Poor old Card! Tch-tch. Getting old—losing ground—hipped—stony!”
On the stage, more perhaps than in any other calling, there exists a wonderful unity and fellowship. You will never appeal in vain for help for one player to another. The hat that goes round empty is always filled before returning.
Sefton Bulmore worried over Eliphalet Cardomay all night, and the liberal supply of whisky he absorbed failed to dispel his anxieties. It would be no good offering money, even if he had it to offer, for the Old Card was far too proud to accept charity. He would have to devise some means of helping him, and, by hook or by crook, he meant to do so. The opportunity arose sooner than he expected, for the very next morning brought an offer by post from Eastlake’s Exclusives of a long part in a Three-Reel Drama, and the terms proposed were thirty guineas.
Then Sefton Bulmore knew that his prayer had been answered, and rejoiced. He donned his brightest clothes, swallowed a hasty Guinness, and sallied forth to interview Mr. Eastlake of the Movies.
“Ha, Bulmore!” that gentleman greeted him. “So you got our letter, eh? Going to accept?”
“Sorry,” replied Bulmore, “very sorry, old boy, but I can’t.”