Free Twopence Coloured by Patrick Hamilton Page B

Dudgeon’s overcoat, Dick Dudgeon’s top-boots, Dick Dudgeon’s hat, and other Dick Dudgeon parts, all lying anywhere, rather as though Dick Dudgeon had been the victim of spontaneous combustion (after all his trials) — as indeed, in some sense, he had — no trace of his character remaining in his earthly medium, who was an actor rubbing away with a keen eye upon his supper.
    “Enjoy yourself?” asked Mr. Gissing, peering keenly forward to simulate his model in the mirror, who was at that moment engaged in placing delicate slabs of grease along his eye-brows.
    “Terribly,” said Jackie, and there was a silence of contentment .
    “Saw you ,”said Mr. Gissing.
    “Oh, did you? Can one see people from there, then?”
    “Well. I knew where you were.”
    Here’s fame, if you like, thought Jackie. Here am I, with Dick Dudgeon — the chosen one out of all those four hundred odd who are now going benightedly home — sitting behind the scenes in easy colloquy with the figure whom they rapturously applauded, and from whom the whole evening has emanated. Here’s fame, if only a vicarious fame, if you like, thought Jackie. Or at least this is what Jackie, who always liked to get the best out of every moment, tried to think. Actually, and for some obscure reason, it did n’t seem to work. She found herself obtaining little or no pleasure from the fact.
    They talked for about five minutes, during which the dresser returned, and having silently collected all outstanding parts of Dick Dudgeon, with a view to his resurrection tomorrow night, quietly received his dismissal. And then there came a knock at the door.
    The new-comer, whose knock was a formality, was a gentleman of about the same age as Mr. Gissing, and swiftly identifiable as the gentleman who had played the parson. He wore a thick overcoat which was loose about the collar and rather too large for him, and kid-gloves upon his hands, the left palm of which he punched methodically and genially with his right fist, on and off during the greater part of his discourse. He assumed a bantering tone from the commencement.
    “Here he is, here he is, here he is!” he said. “The last as usual! The last as usual!” (Punch. Punch.)
    “Ah, Mr. Grayson,” said Mr. Gissing. “This is Miss Mortimer. Miss Mortimer, this is Mr. Grayson.”
    “How d’ you do,” said Jackie, smiling from her chair, and “Good evening, Miss Mortimer,” said Mr. Grayson, bowing mockingly, as much as to imply that you could n’t fool him that she was the genuine Miss Mortimer. A rather rude man, Jackie thought.
    There followed a slightly difficult silence, relieved in no manner by the dull smack of Mr. Grayson’s gloves.
    “Well, and how are we to-night, Mr. Gissing?”
    “I’m very well, thank you,” said Mr. Gissing, fixing his tie.
    Punch…. Punch.
    “The Great British Public in a curious mood this evening, I think?” hazarded Mr. Grayson.
    “Really?”
    “Or do I malign the Great British Public?”
    “I thought they were rather sweet.”
    “Yes. You would. Poor old Dobell, though. He nearly passed out about his round. It’s the first time the dear old thing’s missed it since we opened.”
    This was evidently a round of applause, thought Jackie.
    “I got mine all right,” said Mr. Gissing.
    “Oh yes, you would,” said Mr. Grayson, with great mean ing , and there was a silence in which Mr. Grayson, punching mildly, watched Mr. Gissing buttoning his waistcoat.
    “Of course, how they get the jobs I don’t know,” said Mr. Grayson, manifestly poking fun at Mr. Gissing for Jackie’s benefit. “It’s beyond me. I mean to say, look at the fellow. Look at him. I ask you.”
    Here some voice softly whispered into Jackie’s ear, “Actor’s Jokes,” and she answered that prompting with a genial smile until such time as the pleasantry might exhaust itself. If Jackie had known how many weary times, in the career ahead of her, she would be called upon to assume that dread,