Poor old Bulmore was an indifferent patient—subject to fits of depression and excitement. The sound of the postman’s knock in the street brought him to his elbow at once.
“Down you go, down you go!” he would cry; then when Eliphalet returned empty-handed, he would work himself into a passion and curse the dilatoriness of managers or accuse Eliphalet of having addressed the envelopes wrongly.
Then, one day, about three weeks after his illness began, two more copies of the play were returned. In one there was no comment at all, and in the other a letter stating that a market for such stereotyped work no longer existed.
“Oh, oh!” cried Eliphalet, with the tone of a wounded child. “They don’t understand.”
“There was something that time,” exclaimed Bulmore, as he slowly entered the room. “Quick—what was it?”
“Lambert has written,” he said. “Wants to see me in Bradford—to-morrow.”
The old comedian’s body relaxed, and he gave a sigh of wonderful relief. “Good God! To-morrow, eh? That will be to discuss terms—yes. You’ll have to be firm—he’s slippery—’ll want watching. Pity I’m like this. Pity—pity!”
Then followed a mass of details that Eliphalet must be sure to observe, and in the midst of them the doctor arrived.
“You’ll want that nurse,” he said, as Eliphalet conducted him downstairs. “He’s very rocky—practically living on nervous energy. A bit intemperate in the past, I should say. Well, well! I’ll send her in to-night. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Eliphalet, and turned into the sitting-room to review the situation. At the present rate of expenditure his finances could scarcely be relied upon to last much longer. Yet what could he do? Bulmore must have everything he wanted, of course, and the lie about the play must be maintained.