Okewood of the Secret Service | Page 3

throbbing of a car
echoed down the quiet road outside. Then there came a ring at the front
door.
* * * * * *
At half-past nine that night, Barbara found herself standing beside her
father in the wings of the vast Palaceum stage. Just at her back was the
little screened-off recess where Mr. Mackwayte was to make the quick
changes that came in the course of his turn. Here, since her arrival in
the theatre, Barbara had been busy laying out coats and hats and rigs
and grease-paints on the little table below the mirror with its two
brilliant electric bulbs, whilst Mr. Mackwayte was in his dressing-room
upstairs changing into his first costume.
Now, old Mackwayte stood at her elbow in his rig-out as an old
London bus-driver in the identical, characteristic clothes which he had
worn for this turn for the past 25 years. He was far too old a hand to

show any nervousness he might feel at the ordeal before him. He was
chatting in undertones in his gentle, confidential way to the stage
manager.
All around them was that curious preoccupied stillness hush of the
power-house which makes the false world of the stage so singularly
unreal by contrast when watched from the back. The house was packed
from floor to ceiling, for the Palaceum's policy of breaking away from
revue and going back to Mr. Mackwayte called "straight vaudeville"
was triumphantly justifying itself.
Standing in the wings, Barbara could almost feel the electric current
running between the audience and the comedian who, with the quiet
deliberation of the finished artist, was going through his business on the
stage. As he made each of his carefully studied points, he paused,
confident of the vast rustle of laughter swelling into a hurricane of
applause which never failed to come from the towering tiers of
humanity before him, stretching away into the roof where the
limelights blazed and spluttered. Save for the low murmur of voices at
her side, the silence behind the scenes was absolute. No one was idle.
Everyone was at his post, his attention concentrated on that diminutive
little figure in the ridiculous clothes which the spot-lights tracked about
the stage.
It was the high-water mark of modern music-hall development. The
perfect smoothness of the organization gave Barbara a great feeling of
contentment for she knew how happy her father must be. Everyone had
been so kind to him. "I shall feel a stranger amongst the top-liners of
today, my dear," he had said to her in the car on their way to the hall.
She had had no answer ready for she had feared he spoke the truth.
Yet everyone they had met had tried to show them that Arthur
Mackwayte was not forgotten. The stage-door keeper had known him
in the days of the old Aquarium and welcomed him by name. The
comedian who preceded Mr. Mackwayte and who was on the stage at
that moment had said, "Hullo, Mac! Come to give us young 'uns some
tips?" And even now the stage manager was talking over old days with
her father.

"You had a rough but good schooling, Mac," he was saying, "but, by
Jove, it gave us finished artists. If you saw the penny reading line that
comes trying to get a job here... and gets it, by Gad!... it'd make you
sick. I tell you I have my work cut out staving them off! It's a pretty
good show this week, though, and I've given you a good place, Mac...
you're in front of Nur-el-Din!"
"Nur-el-Din?" repeated Mr. Mackwayte' "what is it, Fletcher? A
conjurer?"
"Good Lord' man' where have you been living?" replied Fletcher.
"Nur-el-Din is the greatest vaudeville proposition since Lottie Collins.
Conjurer! That's what she is, too, by Jove! She's the newest thing in
Oriental dancers... Spaniard or something... wonderful clothes, what
there is of 'em... and jewelry... wait till you see her!"
"Dear me"' said Mr. Mackwayte' "I'm afraid I'm a bit behind the times.
Has she been appearing here long?"
"First appearance in London, old man' and she's made good from the
word 'Go!' She's been in Paris and all over the Continent, and America,
too, I believe, but she had to come to me to soar to the top of the bill. I
saw at once where she belonged! She's a real artiste, temperament, style
and all that sort of thing and a damn good producer into the bargain!
But the worst devil that ever escaped out of hell never had a wickeder
temper! She and I fight all the time! Not a show, but she doesn't keep
the stage waiting! But I won! I won't have her prima donna tricks in
this theatre and so I've told her! Hullo, Georgie's he's