"Here's Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom," said Munroe. "Shake hands with him. You're both good fellows."
Tinsley was as cordial as he could be. We sat and chatted for a bit, and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of the conversation in gude enow fashion, bad as I felt. But when, Munroe put in a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come over Tinsley's face. I could guess how many times in a day he had to meet ambitious, struggling artists.
"So you're here looking for a shop, hey?" he said, turning to me. His manner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordiality had vanished. But I was not to be cast down. "What's your line?"
"Scotch comedian," I said. "I——"
He raised his hand, and laughed.
"Stop right there—that's done the trick! You've said enough. Now, look here, my dear boy, don't be angry, but there's no use. We've had Scotch comedians here in London before, and they're no good to us. I wish I could help you, but I really can't risk it."
"But you've not heard me sing," I said. "I'm different frae them ye talk of. Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye'll not think sae yersel?"
"I tell ye it's no use," he said, a little impatiently. "I know What my audiences like and what they don't. That's why I keep my hall going these days."
But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was we were getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o' the ithers! Ye can judge by that hoo they'd handled us.
"Oh, come, Tom," said Munroe. "It won't take much of your time to hear the man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week. As a favor to me—come, now——"