“Less noise inside there!” commanded the conductor, returned from upstairs.
“Let her sing if she wants to,” said a matronly woman near the door.
“I’m not a-going to have this tramcar turned into a Queen’s Hall,” he declared, “and you ought to know yourself better than encourage her.”
“I was young myself once.”
“That wasn’t yesterday,” he suggested.
The song had received so much favour that I considered the wisdom of giving them either another or diversifying the entertainment by offering some of my celebrated imitations. These have always been highly successful at home and at the houses of relatives; an uncle of mine remarked on one occasion that they were far and away superior to the originals. I had not, however, previously attempted them before an audience of strangers, and this, for the moment, made me shy and nervous. The moment of hesitation over, I started.
“Now, that’s what I call clever,” said the young man near to us. “Milly, if you could only do something like that I might get reelly fond of you!”
My first idea was to make eyes at him; reflection told me that the love of a man who was so easily influenced could never be worth having, and I reassured the girl with a smile. Glancing up and down the car, I could see that I had now secured complete attention. Men had folded up evening newspapers, and were waiting to see what I would do next; women beamed in my direction and one opposite offered me chocolates. I took the box, but my mother, whose knowledge of the rules of etiquette forms the subject of one of her proudest boasts, said it would be more genteel to select only one of the sweets. I accepted the hint, and my mother—now in good temper, and making no attempt to conceal the fact—remarked to the others that I had always been noted for excellence of behaviour.
I gave next a recitation—one of my own composition—a short but telling piece, with somewhat humorous references to the incident of a cat who found its saucer of milk empty. This went only fairly well; I think I must give more care to voice-production. The matronly lady near the door asked what it was supposed to be all about, and my mother readily furnished a sort of synopsis. Some one begged I would sing again, but, discouraged by the cool acceptance of the recital, I declined, until my mother begged and entreated me not to sing. At the conclusion there was that genuine and hearty applause which every public performer recognises and welcomes.
“Bless my soul!” cried some of the passengers, “Shoreditch Church, already!” They said goodbye to me, and I endeavoured to thank them for their kindness in listening to my poor efforts. One offered me a coin, which I flung upon the floor. I am an amateur, not a professional.