“That’s your week’s salary, my boy. You needn’t come again.”
“I demand your reason for this summary dismissal,” said the chagrined performer, standing greatly on his dignity.
“Well,” said Giovanelli, shrugging his shoulders, “if you will ’ave it—it’s because you’re a dam bad low comedian.”
“And what price you as a comedian?” exclaimed the other.
“I know, I know, my boy,” replied Giovanelli, in his oily, deprecating way; “but, you see, the public won’t stand two dam bad low comedians.”
Some time since I saw in the Death advertisements of the Times an announcement of the decease of Mr. Richard Barnard. “Dick” Barnard was one of the most impenetrable mysteries of the Strand. He was always well dressed; he posed as a racing man, as a journalist, as a flâneur. He managed to procure first-night invitations to all the important premiers. He had scraped an acquaintance with some of the best-known men on the turf, and was hand-in-glove with theatrical managers. The major portion of his time was spent in Romano’s bar. But, for all his pose, Barnard never owned a race-horse, never was a journalist, never had the slightest interest in the stage. His success was founded on a well-groomed person, a supercilious manner, the judicious communication of any good racing information that came his way, and—indomitable cheek. For Dick was an adventurer pure and simple, having abandoned the career of billiard-marker in Birmingham for the greater possibilities of the Metropolis.
Like most of his kidney, his life was a series of financial “ups and downs.” Sometimes he was full of money; as often he was stony-broke. It was during one of these latter periods that he was sitting in “the Roman’s” lonely and disconsolate. To him entered, like a ray of sunshine, a man-about-town in his little way, a votary of the drama, and an habitué of Romano’s. He was one of those, also, who took Dick Barnard seriously, supposing him to be a person of great influence on the Turf, the Stage, and in Society.
Dick brightened up at the advent of his friend, but, of course, he did not evince any particular elation. His satisfaction was naturally enhanced when the young man from the country invited him to lunch.
Barnard accepted in the manner of a man who was conferring a favour. They went into the narrow dining-saloon behind the bar—that was the only salle à manger Romano boasted in his halcyon days—and ordered luncheon for two from Otto the waiter. During lunch Barnard related such items of news as he thought would interest. And in return for these bits of scandal his friend told him that he had just been down in the Boro’ selling his father’s crop of hops, and that he was carrying home the spoils in his note-case—spoils amounting to several hundred pounds. To a man who had not fingered a banknote for a month of Sundays this was news indeed.
They did themselves fairly well—as well as a bill of fifteen shillings will allow two lunchers to do themselves at “the Roman’s.” When coffee had been served, and the lofty-minded Otto had gone to take orders from another customer, the young gentleman leaned across the table, and whispered to Barnard: