Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel

  CHAPTER 25

  BRIGGS TO THE RESCUE_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_

  I finished the last page, and I laid down the typescript reverently.The thing amazed me. Unable as I was to turn out a good acting play ofmy own, I was, nevertheless, sufficiently gifted with an appreciationof the dramatic to be able to recognise such a play when I saw it.There were situations in Margaret's comedy which would grip a Londonaudience, and force laughter and tears from it.... Well, the publicside of that idiotic play is history. Everyone knows how many nights itran, and the Press from time to time tells its readers what were theprofits from it that accrued to the author.

  I turned to Margaret's letter and re-read the last page. She put thething very well, very sensibly. As I read, my scruples began to vanish.After all, was it so very immoral, this little deception that sheproposed?

  "I have written down the words," she said; "but the conception isyours. The play was inspired by you. But for you I should never havebegun it." Well, if she put it like that----

  "You alone are able to manage the business side of the production. Youknow the right men to go to. To approach them on behalf of a stranger'swork is far less likely to lead to success."

  (True, true.)

  "I have assumed, you will see, that the play is certain to be produced.But that will only be so if you adopt it as your own,"

  (There was sense in this.)

  "Claim the authorship, and all will be well."

  "I will," I said.

  I packed up the play in its brown paper, and rushed from the house. Atthe post-office, at the bottom of the King's Road, I stopped to send atelegram. It consisted of the words, "Accept thankfully.--Cloyster."

  Then I took a cab from the rank at Sloane Square, and told the man todrive to the stage-door of the Briggs Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue.

  The cab-rank in Sloane Square is really a Home for SuperannuatedHorses. It is a sort of equine Athenaeum. No horse is ever seen theretill it has passed well into the sere and yellow. A Sloane Squarecab-horse may be distinguished by the dignity of its movements. It ishappiest when walking.

  The animal which had the privilege of making history by conveying meand _The Girl who Waited_ to the Briggs Theatre was asthmatic,and, I think, sickening for the botts. I had plenty of time to cool mybrain and think out a plan of campaign.

  Stanley Briggs, whom I proposed to try first, was the one man I shouldhave liked to see in the part of James, the hero of the piece. The partmight have been written round him.

  There was the objection, of course, that _The Girl who Waited_ wasnot a musical comedy, but I knew he would consider a straight play, andput it on if it suited him. I was confident that _The Girl whoWaited_ would be just what he wanted.

  The problem was how to get him to himself for a sufficient space oftime. When a man is doing the work of half a dozen he is likely to geton in the world, but he has, as a rule, little leisure forconversation.

  My octogenarian came to a standstill at last at the stage-door, andseemed relieved at having won safely through a strenuous bit of work.

  I went through in search of my man.

  His dressing-room was the first place I drew. I knew that he was notdue on the stage for another ten minutes. Mr. Richard Belsey, hisvalet, was tidying up the room as I entered.

  "Mr. Briggs anywhere about, Richard?" I asked.

  "Down on the side, sir, I think. There's a new song in tonight for Mrs.Briggs, and he's gone to listen how it goes."

  "Which side, do you know?"

  "O.P., sir, I think."

  I went downstairs and through the folding-doors into the wings. TheO.P. corner was packed--standing room only--and the overflow reachednearly to the doors. The Black Hole of Calcutta was roomy compared withthe wings on the night of a new song. Everybody who had the leastexcuse for being out of his or her dressing-room at that moment waspeering through odd chinks in the scenery. Chorus-girls, show-girls,chorus-men, principals, children, scene-shifters, and other theatricalfauna waited in a solid mass for the arrival of the music-cue.

  The atmosphere behind the scenes has always had the effect of making mefeel as if my boots were number fourteens and my hands, if anything,larger. Directly I have passed the swing-doors I shuffle like oneoppressed with a guilty conscience. Outside I may have been composed,even jaunty. Inside I am hangdog. Beads of perspiration form on mybrow. My collar tightens. My boots begin to squeak. I smile vacuously.

  I shuffled, smiling vacuously and clutching the type-script of _TheGirl who Waited_, to the O.P. corner. I caught the eye of a talllady in salmon-pink, and said "Good evening" huskily--my voice isalways husky behind the scenes: elsewhere it is like some beautifulbell. A piercing whisper of "Sh-h-h-!" came from somewhere close athand. This sort of thing does not help bright and sparklingconversation. I sh-h-hed, and passed on.

  At the back of the O.P. corner Timothy Prince, the comedian, wasfilling in the time before the next entrance by waltzing with one ofthe stage-carpenters. He suspended the operation to greet me.

  "Hullo, dear heart," he said, "how goes it?"

  "Seen Briggs anywhere?" I asked.

  "Round on the prompt side, I think. He was here a second ago, but hedashed off."

  At this moment the music-cue was given, and a considerable section ofthe multitude passed on to the stage.

  Locomotion being rendered easier, I hurried round to the prompt side.

  But when I arrived there were no signs of the missing man.

  "Seen Mr. Briggs anywhere?" I asked.

  "Here a moment ago," said one of the carpenters. "He went out afterMiss Lewin's song began. I think he's gone round the other side."

  I dashed round to the O.P. corner again. He had just left.

  Taking up the trail, I went to his dressing-room once more.

  "You're just too late, sir," said Richard; "he was here a moment ago."

  I decided to wait.

  "I wonder if he'll be back soon."

  "He's probably downstairs. His call is in another two minutes."

  I went downstairs, and waited on the prompt side. Sir Boyle Roche'sbird was sedentary compared with this elusive man.

  Presently he appeared.

  "Hullo, dear old boy," he said. "Welcome to Elsmore. Come and see mebefore you go, will you? I've got an idea for a song."

  "I say," I said, as he flitted past, "can I----"

  "Tell me later on."

  And he sprang on to the stage.

  By the time I had worked my way, at the end of the performance, throughthe crowd of visitors who were waiting to see him in his dressing-room,I found that he had just three minutes in which to get to the Savoy tokeep an urgent appointment. He explained that he was just dashing off."I shall be at the theatre all tomorrow morning, though," he said."Come round about twelve, will you?"

  * * * * *

  There was a rehearsal at half-past eleven next morning. When I got tothe theatre I found him on the stage. He was superintending the chorus,talking to one man about a song and to two others about motors, anddictating letters to his secretary. Taking advantage of this spell ofcomparative idleness, I advanced (l.c.) with the typescript.

  "Hullo, old boy," he said, "just a minute! Sit down, won't you? Have acigar."

  I sat down on the Act One sofa, and he resumed his conversations.

  "You see, laddie," he said, "what you want in a song like this is tune.It's no good doing stuff that your wife and family and your aunts sayis better than Wagner. They don't want that sort of thing here--Dears,we simply can't get on if you won't do what you're told. Begin goingoff while you're singing the last line of the refrain, not after you'vefinished. All back. I've told you a hundred times. Do try and get itright--I simply daren't look at a motor bill. These fellers at thegarage cram it on--I mean, what can you _do_? You're up againstit--Miss Hinckel, I've got seventy-five letters I want you to takedown. Ready? 'Mrs. Robert Boodle, Sandringham, Mafeking Road, Balham.Dear Madam: Mr
. Briggs desires me to say that he fears that he has nopart to offer to your son. He is glad that he made such a success athis school theatricals.' 'James Winterbotham, Pleasant Cottage,Rhodesia Terrace, Stockwell. Dear Sir: Mr. Briggs desires me to saythat he remembers meeting your wife's cousin at the public dinner youmention, but that he fears he has no part at present to offer to yourdaughter.' 'Arnold H. Bodgett, Wistaria Lodge....'"

  My attention wandered.

  At the end of a quarter of an hour he was ready for me.

  "I wish you'd have a shot at it, old boy," he said, as he finishedsketching out the idea for the lyric, "and let me have it as soon asyou can. I want it to go in at the beginning of the second act. Hullo,what's that you're nursing?"

  "It's a play. I was wondering if you would mind glancing at it if youhave time?"

  "Yours?"

  "Yes. There's a part in it that would just suit you."

  "What is it? Musical comedy?"

  "No. Ordinary comedy."

  "I shouldn't mind putting on a comedy soon. I must have a look at it.Come and have a bit of lunch."

  One of the firemen came up, carrying a card.

  "Hullo, what's this? Oh, confound the feller! He's always coming here.Look here: tell him that I'm just gone out to lunch, but can see him atthree. Come along, old boy."

  He began to read the play over the coffee and cigars.

  He read it straight through, as I had done.

  "What rot!" he said, as he turned the last page.

  "Isn't it!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. "But won't it go?"

  "Go?" he shouted, with such energy that several lunchers spun roundin their chairs, and a Rand magnate, who was eating peas at the nexttable, started and cut his mouth. "Go? It's the limit! This is justthe sort of thing to get right at them. It'll hit them where they live.What made you think of that drivel at the end of Act Two?"

  "Genius, I suppose. What do you think of James as a part for you?"

  "Top hole. Good Lord, I haven't congratulated you! Consider it done."

  "Thanks."

  We drained our liqueur glasses to _The Girl who Waited_ and toourselves.

  Briggs, after a lifetime spent in doing three things at once, is not aman who lets a great deal of grass grow under his feet. Before I lefthim that night the "ideal cast" of the play had been jotted down, andmuch of the actual cast settled. Rehearsals were in full swing within aweek, and the play was produced within ten days of the demise of itspredecessor.

  Meanwhile, the satisfactory sum which I received in advance ofroyalties was sufficient to remove any regrets as to the loss ofthe _Orb_ holiday work. With _The Girl who Waited_ in activerehearsal, "On Your Way" lost in importance.