Eliphalet waited for no more, but flushing for shame, slipped out into the street and hurried away.
“I made a favour of doing it,” he muttered. Bulmore’s money in his pocket burnt like a hot coal.
Awaiting him at home was a statement of the week’s account from the manager of Mornice’s tour. The expenses were twenty-two pounds in excess of the takings. He also received a postcard from Mornice saying she was dreadfully miserable that the tour was finishing the following week, but it would be lovely to see him again.
“She’ll never be happy unless she’s acting,” he thought.
He wrote some figures on the back of an envelope, figures which showed that her tour had realised a loss of eighty pounds. Eighty pounds. He had earned nothing for the last ten weeks save—and he looked at the cheque for thirty-five guineas—money defrauded from a friend, and ill-earned at that.
“This is no good,” he argued, his thoughts resting on the cherished wish to play ‘Hamlet.’ “No good—and after all, blessed is he that humbleth his pride.”
So he sat down to write, addressing the letter to Mr. Shingles, Chairman of the Syndicate. A reply was received two days later, and he duly entrained for Bradford to attend the meeting.
His reception was chilly.
“I have re-considered my views, gentlemen,” he said, “and withdraw my proviso with regard to the ‘Hamlet’ production.”
“I knew we’d starve you out,” squeaked Mr. Wilfur, rubbing his bony hands. “Oh, yes, money always counts—money wins, money does.”