The Strand, December 1911
WEN BENTLEY was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr. Shepperd, and with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred that, if you have got to have young men to chant “We are merry and gay, tra-la, for this is Bohemia,” in the Artists’ Ball scene, you might just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a googly bowler who had done well in the last ’Varsity match; but he had been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr. Shepperd that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.
From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took the heart out of him. Mr. Shepperd had always reminded him of a heavy father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through the air, urged by Mr. Shepperd’s boot, his transit indicated by a dotted line and a few stars.
Mr. Shepperd’s manner was inclined to bleakness.
“This is most unfortunate,” he said. “Most unfortunate. I have my daughter’s happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.” He paused. “You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that your uncle——? Surely, with his influence——?”
“My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished him, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not his only nephew, you know. There are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds.”
Mr. Shepperd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feeling more than a little aggrieved.
He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr. Shepperd did not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing with the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it was sharp practice on Owen’s part to accept his invitation to call, and, having called, to continue calling long enough to make the present deplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been in better taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved more like a bank-clerk and less like an heir.
“I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr. Bentley,” he said, “but you will understand that I cannot—— It is, of course, out of the question. It would be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see my daughter again——”
“She’s waiting in the passage outside,” said Owen, simply.
“——after to-day. Good-bye.”
Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of the door. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they always did, at the sight of her.
“Well?” she said.
He shook his head.
“No good,” he said.
Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an idea.
“Shall I go in and cry?”
“It wouldn’t be any use.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“He said I mustn’t see you again.”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“He thinks he did.”
“We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the telephone. That isn’t seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?”
“That’s all right, then. I’ll ring you up every day.”
“I wish I could make some money,” said Owen, thoughtfully. “But I seem to be one of those chumps who can’t. Nothing I try comes off. I’ve never drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn’t win a thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing a novel. Nothing came of that, either.”
“A thing called ‘White Roses,’ by a woman named Edith Butler.”
Audrey looked up quickly.
“I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?”
“I didn’t know her at all. I’d never met her. I just happened to buy the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to send it back or even to acknowledge receipt.”
“Perhaps she never got it?”
“I registered it.”
“She was a cat,” said Audrey, decidedly. “I’m glad of it, though. If another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of jealousy.”
Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting with Mr. Shepperd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing schemes, regarding the world as his oyster and burning to get at it, sword in hand. But Routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink and its customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting out rainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glow faded and hopelessness grew.
If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more than fulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang him up at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which was noted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head of his department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing his subordinates’ work for them.
As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing, was discursive and lacked central motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart.
“Owen”—her voice was excited—“have you seen the paper to-day? Then listen. I’ll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: ‘The Piccadilly Theatre will re-open shortly with a dramatized version of Miss Edith Butler’s popular novel, “White Roses,” prepared by the authoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including——’ And then a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?”
“What am I going to do?”
“Don’t you see what’s happened? That awful woman has stolen your play. She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are you laughing at?”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I’ll ring off if you do it again. You don’t believe me. Well, you wait and see if I’m not——”
“Edith Butler’s incapable of such a thing.”
There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.
“I thought you said you didn’t know her,” said Audrey, jealously.
“I don’t—I don’t,” said Owen, hastily. “But I’ve read her books. They’re simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She’s a sort of literary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn’t steal a play if she tried.”
“You can’t judge authors from their books. You must go and see the play when it comes on. Then you’ll see I’m right. I’m absolutely certain that woman is trying to swindle you. Don’t laugh in that horrid way. Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I’m going to.”
At the beginning of the next month Owen’s annual holiday arrived. The authorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. They recognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employés ten days in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelve months’ work.
Owen had spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his father had been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, to the farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire. There is something about the country there, with its green fields and miniature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasant background for sentimental musings.
It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr. Dorman, an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr. Dorman’s mother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wise woman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and it was known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even the botts by means of spells.
Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. It seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room, and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and sing “Asthore,” the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr. Dorman appeared, somewhat agitated.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Owen,” he said. “I forgot to tell you. There’s a lit’ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can’t bear to be disturbed.”
A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.
“Writing a book, he is,” continued Mr. Dorman. “He caught young George a clip over the ear-’ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs. Gave him sixpence afterwards and said he’d skin him if he ever did it again. So, if you don’t mind——”
“Oh, all right,” said Owen. “Who is he?”
“Gentleman of the name of Prosser.”
Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of that name; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was a celebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.
“I never heard of him,” he said, “but that’s no reason why I should disturb him. Let him rip. I’ll cut out the musical effects in future.”
The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible, though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy of composition. Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old Mrs. Dorman.
That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, was indicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipe at the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him to the station, when George, the son of the house, entered.
George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:—
“Eh?” said Owen.
The youth repeated the word.
On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent in the place, added to this ten days’ stay, had made Owen something of a linguist.
“Father says would I like grandma to do what?”
“Tell yer forch’n by ther cards.”
“Where is she?”
Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr. Dorman, the farmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an old woman, whom he remembered well.
“Mother wants to tell your fortune,” said Mr. Dorman, in a hoarse aside. “She always will tell visitors’ fortunes. She told Mr. Prosser’s, and he didn’t half like it because she said he’d be engaged in two months and married inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn’t make him do it.”
“She can tell me that if she likes. I sha’n’t object.”
“Mother, here’s Mr. Owen.”
“I seed him fast enough,” said the old woman, briskly. “Shuffle, an’ cut three times.”
She then performed mysterious manœuvres with the cards.
“I see pots o’ money,” announced the sibyl.
“If she says it, it’s there right enough,” said her son.
“She means my bonus,” said Owen. “But that’s only ten pounds. And I lose it if I’m late twice more before Christmas.”
“It’ll come sure enough.”
“Pots,” said the old woman, and she was still mumbling the encouraging word when Owen left the kitchen and returned to the sitting-room.
He laughed rather ruefully. At that moment he could have found a use for pots o’ money.
He walked to the window and looked out. It was a glorious morning. The heat-mist was dancing over the meadow beyond the brook, and from the farmyard came the liquid charawks of care-free fowls. It seemed wicked to leave these haunts of peace for London on such a day.
An acute melancholy seized him. Absently, he sat down at the piano. The prejudices of literary Mr. Prosser had slipped from his mind. Softly at first, then gathering volume as the spirit of the song gripped him, he began to sing “Asthore.” He became absorbed.
He had just, for the sixth time, won through to “Iyam-ah waiting for-er theeee-yass-thorre,” and was doing some intricate three-chord work preparatory to starting over again, when a loaf of bread whizzed past his ear. It missed him by an inch, and crashed against a plaster statuette of the Infant Samuel on the top of the piano.
It was a standard loaf, containing eighty per cent. of the semolina, and it practically wiped the Infant Samuel out of existence. At the same moment, at his back, there sounded a loud, wrathful snort.
He spun round. The door was open, and at the other side of the table was standing a large, black-bearded, shirt-sleeved man, in an attitude rather reminiscent of Ajax defying the lightning. His hands trembled. His beard bristled. His eyes gleamed ferociously beneath enormous eyebrows. As Owen turned, he gave tongue in a voice like the discharge of a broadside.
Owen’s mind, wrenched too suddenly from the dreamy future to the vivid present, was not yet completely under control. He gaped.
“Stop — that — infernal — noise!” roared the man.
He shot through the door, banging it after him, and pounded up the stairs.
Owen was annoyed. The artistic temperament was all very well, but there were limits. It was absurd that obscure authors should behave in this way. Prosser! Who on earth was Prosser? Had anyone ever heard of him? No! Yet here he was going about the country clipping small boys over the ear-hole and flinging loaves of bread at bank-clerks as if he were Henry James or Marie Corelli. Owen reproached himself bitterly for his momentary loss of presence of mind. If he had only kept his head, he could have taken a flying shot at the man with the marmalade-pot. It had been within easy reach. Instead of which, he had merely stood and gaped. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, “It might have been.”
His manly regret was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Dorman with the information that the dog-cart was at the door.
Audrey was out of town when Owen arrived in London, but she returned a week later. The sound of her voice through the telephone did much to cure the restlessness from which he had been suffering since the conclusion of his holiday. But the thought that she was so near yet so inaccessible produced in him a meditative melancholy which enveloped him like a cloud that would not lift. His manner became distrait. He lost weight.
If customers were not vaguely pained by his sad, pale face, it was only because the fierce rush of modern commercial life leaves your business man little leisure for observing pallor in bank-clerks. What did pain them was the gentle dreaminess with which he performed his duties. He was in the Inward Bills Department, one of the features of which was the sudden inrush, towards the end of each afternoon, of hatless, energetic young men with leather bags strapped to their left arms, clamouring for mysterious crackling documents, much fastened with pins. Owen had never quite understood what it was that these young men did want, and now his detached mind refused even more emphatically to grapple with the problem. He distributed the documents at random with the air of a preoccupied monarch scattering largess to the mob, and the subsequent chaos had to be handled by a wrathful head of the department in person.
Man’s power of endurance is limited. At the end of the second week the overwrought head appealed passionately for relief, and Owen was removed to the Postage Department, where, when he had leisure from answering Audrey’s telephone calls, he entered the addresses of letters in a large book and took them to the post. He was supposed also to stamp them, but a man in love cannot think of everything, and he was apt at times to overlook this formality.
One morning, receiving from one of the bank messengers the usual intimation that a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone, he went to the box and took up the receiver.
“Is that you, Owen? Owen, I went to ‘White Roses’ last night. Have you been yet?”
“Then you must go to-night. Owen, I’m certain you wrote it. It’s perfectly lovely. I cried my eyes out. If you don’t go to-night, I’ll never speak to you again, even on the telephone. Promise.”
“Yes, you must. Why, suppose it is yours! It may mean a fortune. The stalls were simply packed. I’m going to ring up the theatre now and engage a seat for you, and pay for it myself.”
“No—I say——” protested Owen.
“Yes, I shall. I can’t trust you to go if I don’t. And I’ll ring up early to-morrow to hear all about it. Good-bye.”
Owen left the box somewhat depressed. Life was quite gloomy enough as it was, without going out of one’s way to cry one’s eyes out over sentimental plays.
His depression was increased by the receipt, on his return to his department, of a message from the manager, stating that he would like to see Mr. Bentley in his private room for a moment. Owen never enjoyed these little chats with Authority. Out of office hours, in the circle of his friends, he had no doubt the manager was a delightful and entertaining companion; but in his private room his conversation was less enjoyable.
The manager was seated at his table, thoughtfully regarding the ceiling. His resemblance to a stuffed trout, always striking, was subtly accentuated, and Owen, an expert in these matters, felt that his fears had been well founded—there was trouble in the air. Somebody had been complaining of him, and he was now about, as the phrase went, to be “run in.”
A large man, seated with his back to the door, turned as he entered, and Owen recognized the well-remembered features of Mr. Prosser, the literary loaf-slinger.
Owen regarded him without resentment. Since returning to London he had taken the trouble of looking up his name in “Who’s Who,” and had found that he was not so undistinguished as he had supposed. He was, it appeared, a Regius Professor and the author of some half-dozen works on sociology—a record, Owen felt, that almost justified loaf-flinging and earhole-clipping in moments of irritation.
The manager started to speak, but the man of letters anticipated him.
“Is this the fool?” he roared. “Young man, I have no wish to be hard on a congenital idiot who is not responsible for his actions, but I must insist on an explanation. I understand that you are in charge of the correspondence in this office. Well, during the last week you have three times sent unstamped letters to my fiancée, Miss Vera Delane, Woodlands, Southbourne, Hants. What’s the matter with you? Do you think she likes paying twopence a time, or what is it?”
Owen’s mind leaped back at the words. They recalled something to him. Then he remembered.
He was conscious of a not unpleasant thrill. He had not known that he was superstitious, but for some reason he had not been able to get those absurd words of Mr. Dorman’s mother out of his mind. And here was another prediction of hers, equally improbable, fulfilled to the letter.
“Great Scot!” he cried. “Are you going to be married?”
Mr. Prosser and the manager started simultaneously.
“Mrs. Dorman said you would be,” said Owen. “Don’t you remember?”
Mr. Prosser looked keenly at him.
“Why, I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You’re the young turnip-headed scallywag at the farm.”
“That’s right,” said Owen.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you again. I thought the whole thing over, and it struck me,” said Mr. Prosser, handsomely, “that I may have seemed a little abrupt at our last meeting.”
“The fact is, I was in the middle of an infernally difficult passage of my book that morning, and when you began——”
“It was my fault entirely. I quite understand.”
Mr. Prosser produced a card-case.
“We must see more of each other,” he said, “Come and have a bit of dinner some night. Come to-night.”
“I’m very sorry. I have to go to the theatre to-night.”
“Then come and have a bit of supper afterwards. Excellent. Meet me at the Savoy at eleven-fifteen. I’m glad I didn’t hit you with that loaf. Abruptness has been my failing through life. My father was just the same. Eleven-fifteen at the Savoy, then.”
The manager, who had been listening with some restlessness to the conversation, now intervened. He was a man with a sense of the fitness of things, and he objected to having his private room made the scene of what appeared to be a reunion of old college chums. He hinted as much.
“Ha! Prrumph!” he observed, disapprovingly. “Er—Mr. Bentley, that is all. You may return to your work—ah h’mmm! Kindly be more careful another time in stamping the letters.”
“Yes, by Jove,” said Mr. Prosser, suddenly reminded of his wrongs, “that’s right. Exercise a little ordinary care, you ivory-skulled young son of a gun. Do you think Miss Delane is made of twopences? Keep an eye on him,” he urged the manager. “These young fellows nowadays want someone standing over them with a knout all the time. Be more careful another time, young man. Eleven-fifteen, remember. Make a note of it, or you’ll go forgetting that.”
The seat which Audrey had bought for him at the Piccadilly Theatre proved to be in the centre of the sixth row of stalls—practically a death-trap. Whatever his sufferings might be, escape was impossible. He was securely wedged in.
The cheaper parts of the house were sparsely occupied, but the stalls were full. Owen, disapproving of the whole business, refused to buy a programme, and settled himself in his seat, prepared for the worst. He had a vivid recollection of “White Roses,” the novel, and he did not anticipate any keen enjoyment from it in its dramatized form. He had long ceased to be a member of that large public for which Miss Edith Butler catered. The sentimental adventures of governesses in ducal houses—the heroine of “White Roses” was a governess—no longer contented his soul.
There is always a curiously dreamlike atmosphere about a play founded on a book. One seems to have seen it all before. During the whole of the first act Owen attributed to this his feeling of familiarity with what was going on on the stage. At the beginning of the second act he found himself anticipating events. But it was not till the third act that the truth sank in.
The third was the only act in which, in his dramatization, he had taken any real liberties with the text of the novel. But in this act he had introduced a character who did not appear in the novel—a creature of his own imagination. And now, with bulging eyes, he observed this creature emerge from the wings, and heard him utter lines which he now clearly remembered having written.
Audrey had been right! Serpent Edith Butler had stolen his play.
His mind, during the remainder of the play, was active. By the time the final curtain fell and he passed out into the open air he had perceived some of the difficulties of the case. To prove oneself the author of an original play is hard, but not impossible. Friends to whom one had sketched the plot may come forward as witnesses. One may have preserved rough notes. But a dramatization of a novel is another matter. All dramatizations of any given novel must necessarily be very much alike.
He started to walk along Piccadilly, and had reached Hyde Park Corner before he recollected that he had an engagement to take supper with Mr. Prosser at the Savoy Hotel. He hailed a cab.
“You’re late,” boomed the author of sociological treatises, as he appeared. “You’re infernally late. I suppose, in your woollen-headed way, you forgot all about it. Come along. We’ll just have time for an olive and a glass of something before they turn the lights out.”
Owen was still thinking deeply as he began his supper. Surely there was some way by which he could prove his claims. What had he done with the original manuscript? He remembered now. He had burnt it. It had seemed mere useless litter then. Probably, he felt bitterly, the woman Butler had counted on this.
Mr. Prosser concluded an animated conversation with a waiter on the subject of the wines of France, leaned forward, and, having helped himself briskly to anchovies, began to talk. He talked loudly and rapidly. Owen, his thoughts far away, hardly listened.
Presently the waiter returned with the selected brand. He filled Owen’s glass, and Owen drank and felt better. Finding his glass magically full once more, he emptied it again. And then suddenly he found himself looking across the table at his host, and feeling a sense of absolute conviction that this was the one man of all others whom he would have selected as a confidant. How kindly, though somewhat misty, his face was! How soothing, if a little indistinct, his voice!
“Prosser,” he said, “you are a man of the world, and I should like your advice. What would you do in a case like this? I go to a theatre to see a play, and what do I find?”
He paused, and eyed his host impressively.
“What’s that tune they’re playing?” said Mr. Prosser. “You hear it everywhere. One of these Viennese things, I suppose.”
Owen was annoyed. He began to doubt whether, after all, Mr. Prosser’s virtues as a confidant were not more apparent than real.
“I find, by Jove,” he continued, “that I wrote the thing myself.”
“It’s not a patch on ‘The Merry Widow,’ ” said Mr. Prosser.
Owen thumped the table.
“I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself.”
“This play I’m telling you about. This ‘White Roses’ thing.”
He found that he had at last got his host’s ear. Mr. Prosser seemed genuinely interested.
“What do you mean?”
Owen plunged into his story. He started from its dim beginning, from the days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath to Cheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of the package, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched the progress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crisp character-sketch of Mr. Shepperd. He took his hearer right up to the moment when the truth had come home to him.
Towards the end of his narrative the lights went out, and he finished his story in the hotel courtyard. In the cool air he felt revived. The outlines of Mr. Prosser became sharp and distinct again.
The sociologist listened admirably. He appeared absorbed, and did not interrupt once.
“What makes you so certain that this was your version?” he asked, as they passed into the Strand.
Owen told him of the creature of his imagination in Act III.
“But you have lost your manuscript?”
“Yes; I burnt it.”
“Just what one might have expected you to do,” said Mr. Prosser, unkindly. “Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something in this. You haven’t got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in a court of law, of course; but still, I’m inclined to believe you. For one thing, you haven’t the intelligence to invent such a story.”
Owen thanked him.
“In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied.”
It seemed to Owen that Mr. Prosser was tending to get a little above himself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but that appeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort of judge and master of the ceremonies.
“That’s very good of you,” he said; “but will Edith Butler be satisfied? That’s more to the point.”
“I am Edith Butler,” said Mr. Prosser.
Owen stopped. “You?”
“You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn’t have told you if I could have helped it. It isn’t a thing I want known. Great Scot, man, don’t goggle at me like a fish! Haven’t you heard of pseudonyms before?”
“Well, never mind. Take it from me that I am Edith Butler. Now listen to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country. There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the fact that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of thing you would have done, to put no name on the thing.”
“I enclosed a letter, anyhow.”
“There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. There was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as ‘Dear Madam.’ But one thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent me from some hotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?”
“I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham’s. I was stopping there.”
“You pass,” said Mr. Prosser. “It was Wilbraham’s.”
Owen’s heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.
“Then do you mean to say that it’s all right—that you believe——”
“I do,” said Mr. Prosser. “By the way,” he said, “the notice of ‘White Roses’ went up last night.”
Owen’s heart turned to lead.
“But—but——” he stammered. “But to-night the house was packed.”
“It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London were there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,” he cried, with sudden vehemence, “serve ’em right. If I told them once it would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public won’t stand that sort of blithering twaddle.”
Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. He signalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blow could have unmanned him more completely than this hideous disappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be running his way.
“Sooner ride than walk,” said Mr. Prosser, pushing his head through the open window. “Laziness—slackness—that’s the curse of the modern young man. Where shall I tell him to drive to?”
Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked his host for his hospitality.
“It was awfully good of you to give me supper, Mr. Prosser,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed it tremendously.”
“Come again,” said Mr. Prosser. “I’m afraid you’re disappointed about the play?”
Owen forced a smile.
“Oh, no, that’s all right,” he said. “It can’t be helped.”
Mr. Prosser half turned, then thrust his head through the window again.
“I knew there was something I had forgotten to say,” he said. “I ought to have told you that the play was produced in America before it came to London. It ran two seasons in New York and one in Chicago, and there are three companies playing it still on the road. Here’s my card. Come round and see me to-morrow. I can’t tell you the actual figures off-hand, but you’ll be all right. You’ll have pots o’ money.”
This is an interesting case of a Wodehouse story existing in two magazine versions, each of which has substantial original material not present in the other. See the Metropolitan version on this site for the American text and illustrations, and additional footnotes.