Man With Two Left Feet | Page 5

had been running for his life
from wild bulls. He was, and always had been, intensely desirous of
some day penetrating behind the scenes of a theatre.
And there was another thing. At last, if he accepted this invitation, he
would be able to see and speak to Alice Weston, and interfere with the
manoeuvres of the hatchet-faced man, on whom he had brooded with
suspicion and jealousy since that first morning at the station. To see
Alice! Perhaps, with eloquence, to talk her out of that ridiculous
resolve of hers!
'Why, there's something in that,' he said.
'Rather! Well, that's settled. And now, touching that sweep, who is it?'
'I can't tell you that. You see, so far as that goes, I'm just where I was
before. I can still watch--whoever it is I'm watching.'
'Dash it, so you can. I didn't think of that,' said Jelliffe, who possessed a
sensitive conscience. 'Purely between ourselves, it isn't me, is it?'
Henry eyed him inscrutably. He could look inscrutable at times.
'Ah!' he said, and left quickly, with the feeling that, however poorly he
had shown up during the actual interview, his exit had been good. He

might have been a failure in the matter of disguise, but nobody could
have put more quiet sinister-ness into that 'Ah!' It did much to soothe
him and ensure a peaceful night's rest.
On the following night, for the first time in his life, Henry found
himself behind the scenes of a theatre, and instantly began to
experience all the complex emotions which come to the layman in that
situation. That is to say, he felt like a cat which has strayed into a
strange hostile back-yard. He was in a new world, inhabited by weird
creatures, who flitted about in an eerie semi-darkness, like brightly
coloured animals in a cavern.
'The Girl From Brighton' was one of those exotic productions specially
designed for the Tired Business Man. It relied for a large measure of its
success on the size and appearance of its chorus, and on their constant
change of costume. Henry, as a consequence, was the centre of a
kaleidoscopic whirl of feminine loveliness, dressed to represent such
varying flora and fauna as rabbits, Parisian students, colleens, Dutch
peasants, and daffodils. Musical comedy is the Irish stew of the drama.
Anything may be put into it, with the certainty that it will improve the
general effect.
He scanned the throng for a sight of Alice. Often as he had seen the
piece in the course of its six weeks' wandering in the wilderness he had
never succeeded in recognizing her from the front of the house. Quite
possibly, he thought, she might be on the stage already, hidden in a
rose-tree or some other shrub, ready at the signal to burst forth upon the
audience in short skirts; for in 'The Girl From Brighton' almost
anything could turn suddenly into a chorus-girl.
Then he saw her, among the daffodils. She was not a particularly
convincing daffodil, but she looked good to Henry. With wabbling
knees he butted his way through the crowd and seized her hand
enthusiastically.
'Why, Henry! Where did you come from?'
'I am glad to see you!'

'How did you get here?'
'I am glad to see you!'
At this point the stage-manager, bellowing from the prompt-box, urged
Henry to desist. It is one of the mysteries of behind-the-scenes
acoustics that a whisper from any minor member of the company can
be heard all over the house, while the stage-manager can burst himself
without annoying the audience.
Henry, awed by authority, relapsed into silence. From the unseen stage
came the sound of someone singing a song about the moon. June was
also mentioned. He recognized the song as one that had always bored
him. He disliked the woman who was singing it--a Miss Clarice
Weaver, who played the heroine of the piece to Sidney Crane's hero.
In his opinion he was not alone. Miss Weaver was not popular in the
company. She had secured the role rather as a testimony of personal
esteem from the management than because of any innate ability. She
sang badly, acted indifferently, and was uncertain what to do with her
hands. All these things might have been forgiven her, but she
supplemented them by the crime known in stage circles as 'throwing
her weight about'. That is to say, she was hard to please, and, when not
pleased, apt to say so in no uncertain voice. To his personal friends
Walter Jelliffe had frequently confided that, though not a rich man, he
was in the market with a substantial reward for anyone who was man
enough to drop a ton of iron on Miss Weaver.
Tonight the song annoyed Henry more than usual, for he