And the two late members of the Cardomay Syndicate congratulated themselves most cordially on the happy insight that led them to “get out of it in time.”
The papers were not kind—they were not even discerning. As Raymond Wakefield foretold, they were mortally offended with Eliphalet for departing from his usual routine and cutting off his hair. Because they were accustomed to see this actor in a “robuster class of work,” they totally ignored the excellent quality of his acting. “There are plenty of companies who can provide us with the modern problem play, without Mr. Cardomay doing so. We look to him to uphold the good old traditions of the drama, and instead——” etc.
The rest of the cast were very properly chewed up, and questions were put as to what reasons existed for advertising a certain unknown and very amateurish young lady as a star.
The receipts for the first week were negligible, and the second showed a substantial margin on the wrong side.
“We have ten more bookings, and I must play them out,” said Eliphalet desperately.
“What are the fines in default of appearance?” suggested Manning.
But Eliphalet shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “There’s the company to consider. I promised them three months.”
“And d’you think there’s a single damned one of ’em who’d hold you to that?” came the fierce rejoinder.
“Let us lose like gentlemen,” said Eliphalet.
And his savings dripped from him like the sweats of fear.