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The dance had just finished, and Cyril and his pals had shuffled off into the wings when a voice spoke from the darkness on my right. "Pop!" Old Blumenfield clapped his hands, and the hero, who had just been about to get the next line off his diaphragm, cheesed it. I peered into the shadows. Who should it be but Jeeves's little playmate with the freckles!

That one?" said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril. "Yep! He's rotten!" "I thought so myself." "He's a pill!" "You're dead right, my boy. I've noticed it for some time." Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the footlights.

"Oh, that's all right. I've explained everything to old Blumenfield, and he quite sees my position. Of course, he's sorry to lose me said he didn't see how he could fill my place and all that sort of thing but, after all, even if it does land him in a bit of a hole, I think I'm right in resigning my part, don't you?" "Oh, absolutely." "I thought you'd agree with me. Well, I ought to be shifting.

"My name's Bassington-Bassington, and the jolly old Bassington-Bassingtons I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons aren't accustomed " Old Blumenfield told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Bassington-Bassingtons and what they weren't accustomed to. The whole strength of the company rallied round to enjoy his remarks.

"Does he always run things like this?" "Always!" "But why does old Blumenfield listen to him?" "Nobody seems to know. It may be pure fatherly love, or he may regard him as a mascot. My own idea is that he thinks the kid has exactly the amount of intelligence of the average member of the audience, and that what makes a hit with him will please the general public.

He was now strolling down the aisle with his hands in his pockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of respectful attention seemed to pervade the building. "Pop," said the stripling, "that number's no good." Old Blumenfield beamed over his shoulder. "Don't you like it, darling?" "It gives me a pain." "You're dead right." "You want something zippy there. Something with a bit of jazz to it!"

"You're fired!" bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more. "Get out of my theatre!" About half-past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the sitting-room. "How does he look, Jeeves?" "Sir?" "What does Mr. Bassington-Bassington look like?"

"What the deuce do you mean?" shouted old Blumenfield. "Don't yell at me across the footlights!" "I've a dashed good mind to come down and spank that little brute!" "What!" "A dashed good mind!" Old Blumenfield swelled like a pumped-up tyre. He got rounder than ever. "See here, mister I don't know your darn name !"

You could see them jutting out from the wings and protruding from behind trees. "You got to work good for my pop!" said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly at Cyril. "I don't want any bally cheek from you!" said Cyril, gurgling a bit. "What's that?" barked old Blumenfield. "Do you understand that this boy is my son?" "Yes, I do," said Cyril. "And you both have my sympathy!"

"It is possible that young Master Blumenfield may have gathered from casual remarks of mine that I did not consider the stage altogether a suitable sphere for Mr. Bassington-Bassington." "I say, Jeeves, you know, you're a bit of a marvel." "I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir." "And I'm frightfully obliged, if you know what I mean.