“That’s it. Growing concern, old man, getting a bigger hold on the public every day.”
“The mushroom season is a short one,” commented Eliphalet drily.
“Well, they both do best in the dark,” said Bulmore, with a laugh. “But the Cinema has come to stay, laddie, mark my words; and it’s up to you and me to have a dip in the pie.”
Eliphalet Cardomay rose and assumed a position of importance by the fireplace.
“It is up to you and me, and all those who treasure the traditions of our noble calling, to manifest our disapproval of this mechanical device for—what shall I say?—for potting our artistry, by leaving it severely alone.”
Bulmore, who was expecting his old friend to embrace the opportunity he had come to offer, was wholly unprepared for so hostile an attitude. He kicked himself, metaphorically, for introducing the subject in this roundabout way instead of walking straight up and saying, “You’re broke, old man; here’s a job for you.” But having chosen his means he had no other course but to continue on the lines of his beginning.
“Agreed,” he said. “Still, there are times when we must tone down our ideals a bit and take what pickings lie around. Matter of fact, I was talking to Eastlake this morning—Eastlake’s Exclusives, y’know—and he gave me to understand he’d be very glad of your services.”
“I am sorry to disappoint the gentleman, Bulmore, but my views on this subject are too pronounced to allow me to relax them on his account.”
This was pride with a vengeance, thought Bulmore, and he stumbled badly.
“Money’s good,” he said. “Thirty-five pounds for two weeks’ work can’t be sneezed at, y’know.”