Okewood of the Secret Service | Page 2

Valentine Williams
No, I expect I am getting
past my work. But it's hard on you child...."
Barbara sprang up and placed her hand across her father's mouth.
"I won't have you talk like that, Mac"--that was her pet name for
him--"you've worked hard all your life and now it's my turn. Men have

had it all their own way before this war came along: now women are
going to have a look in. Presently' when I get to be supervisor of my
section and they raise my pay again, you will be able to refuse all offers
of work. You can go down to Harris with a big cigar in your mouth and
patronize him, daddy..."
The telephone standing on the desk in the corner of the cheap little
room tingled out sharply. Barbara rose and went across to the desk. Mr.
Mackwayte thought how singularly graceful she looked as she stood,
very slim, looking at him whimsically across the dinner-table, the
receiver in her hand.
Then a strange thing happened. Barbara quickly put the receiver down
on the desk and clasped her hands together, her eyes opened wide in
amazement.
"Daddy," she cried, "it's the Palaceum... the manager's office... they
want you urgently! Oh, daddy, I believe it is an engagement!"
Mr. Mackwayte rose to his feet in agitation, a touch of color creeping
into his gray cheeks.
"Nonsense, my dear!" he answered, "at this time of night! Why, it's past
eight... their first house is just finishing... they don't go engaging people
at this time of day... they've got other things to think of!"
He went over to the desk and picked up the receiver.
"Mackwayte speaking!" he said, with a touch of stage majesty in his
voice.
Instantly a voice broke in on the other end of the wire, a perfect torrent
of words.
"Mackwayte? Ah! I'm glad I caught you at home. Got your props there?
Good. Hickie of Hickie and Flanagan broke his ankle during their turn
at the first house just now, and I want you to take their place at the
second house. Your turn's at 9.40: it's a quarter past eight now: I'll have

a car for you at your place at ten to nine sharp. Bring your band parts
and lighting directions with you... don't forget! You get twenty minutes,
on! Right! Goodbye!"
"The Palaceum want me to deputize for Hickie and Flanagan, my dear,"
he said a little tremulously' "9.40... the second house... it's... it's very
unexpected!"
Barbara ran up and throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him.
"How splendid!" she exclaimed, "the Palaceum, daddy! You've never
had an engagement like this before... the biggest hall in London...!!
"Only for a night, my dear"' said Mr. Mackwayte modestly.
"But if they like you, daddy, if it goes down... what will you give them,
daddy?"
Mr. Mackwayte scratched his chin.
"It's the biggest theatre in London"' he mused, "It'll have to be broad
effects... and they'll want something slap up modern, my dear, I'm
thinking..."
"No, no, daddy" his daughter broke in vehemently "they want the best.
This is a London audience, remember, not a half-baked provincial
house. This is London, Mac, not Wigan! And Londoners love their
London! You'll give 'em the old London horse bus driver, the sporting
cabby, and I believe you'll have time to squeeze in the hot potato
man..."
"Well, like your poor dear mother, I expect you know what's the best
I've got" replied Mr. Mackwayte, "but it'll be a bit awkward with a
strange dresser... I can't get hold of Potter at this time, of night... and a
stranger is sure to mix up my, wigs and things..."
"Why, daddy, I'm going with you to put out your things..."
"But a lady clerk in the War Office, Barbara... a Government official,

as you might say... go behind at a music-hall... it don't seem proper
right. my dear!"
"Nonsense, Mac. Where Is your theatre? Come along. We'll have to try
and get a taxi!"
"They're sending a car at ten to nine, my dear!"
"Good gracious! what swells we are! And it's half-past eight already!
Who is on the bill with you?"
"My dear, I haven't an idea... I'm not very well up in the London
programmes' I'm afraid... but it is sure to be a good programme. The
Palaceum is the only house that's had the courage to break away from
this rotten revue craze!"
Barbara was in the hall now, her arms plunged to the shoulder in a great
basket trunk that smelt faintly of cocoa-butter. Right and left she flung
coats and hats and trousers and band parts, selecting with a sure eye the
properties which Mr. Mackwayte would require for the sketches he
would play that evening. In the middle of it all the
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