So they sat together on the park bench and talked, and a hundred old stage memories and old stage personalities were dug out from the unforgotten past.
“Aha! ha! fine fellows—fine fellows, all of ’em. ’Tisn’t what it was in our young days. The Profession’s going to the dogs, Cardomay, old son, going to the dogs fast.”
“Fate’s been unkind to you?” queried Eliphalet.
“Unkind! Ha! I can remember turning up my nose at forty pounds a week—and look at me now!” He pulled out two empty trouser pockets and turned the palms of his hands up.
Eliphalet considered for a moment.
“Bulmore,” he said, “I have a bit—not much, but a bit, and, old man, I’m sick for someone to talk to. I worked out that, taking things easy, I’ve enough to last about three years—alone. Well, one-and-a-half in company would please me better. Will you share?”
“Mean it?”
“Here’s my hand.”
“By God, the Old Card’s a trump!” cried Bulmore, taking it.
It seemed that years had fallen away from him in a moment.