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Updated: June 13, 2025
"I may be wrong," said Mr Hill, "but I have played a certain amount, don't you know, in pretty good companies, and I was always under the impression that one should address one's remarks to the person one was speaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. I was taught that that was the legitimate method." The word touched off all the dynamite in Mr Goble.
"Get back to your place," said the manager to Mr Saltzburg, "and play the overture again." "Again!" "Perhaps they didn't hear it the first two times," said Wally. Mr Goble watched Mr Saltzburg out of sight. Then he turned to Wally. "That damned Mariner girl was at the bottom of this! She started the whole thing! She told me so. Well, I'll settle her! She goes tomorrow!"
Long association with fussy directors has taught them that the only policy to pursue on opening nights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap themselves up in it, and not emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone off to worry somebody else. "It don't look right!" said Mr Goble, cocking his head on one side. "I see what you mean, Mr Goble," assented the stage-director obsequiously.
And it's no good telling me he's busy. If he was busy, he wouldn't have time to sing. If you're as deceitful as this at your age, what do you expect to be when you grow up? You're an ugly little boy, you've got red ears, and your collar doesn't fit! I shall speak to Mr Goble about you." With which words Jill opened the door and walked in. "Good afternoon," she said brightly.
"Well, I've just been talking to Alexander of the Times, and he said it was the best musical piece he had ever seen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same." Mr Goble turned a distorted face to Mr Pilkington. He wished that Wally would go. But Wally, he reflected bitterly, was one of those men who never go. He faced Mr Pilkington and did the best he could.
It's a long story, and it's not worth talking about, but that's how things stand, and I've got to find work of some sort, and it looks to me as if I should have a better chance of finding it on the stage than anywhere else." "I'm terribly sorry." "Oh, it's all right. How much would these people Goble and Cohn give me if I got an engagement?" "Only forty a week." "Forty dollars a week! It's wealth!
"I'll make you a better offer than that," said Wally. "Give me your share of the show for three dollars in cash and I'll throw in a pair of sock-suspenders and an Ingersoll. Is it a go?" Mr Goble regarded him balefully. "Who told you to butt in?" he enquired sourly. "Conscience!" replied Wally. "Old Henry W. Conscience! I refuse to stand by and see the slaughter of the innocents.
Mr Goble!" "What is it now?" "Omar Khayyam was a Persian poet. His name was Khayyam." "That wasn't the way I heard it," said Mr Goble doggedly. "Did you?" he enquired of Wally. "I thought he was born at Khayyam." "You're probably quite right," said Wally, "but, if so, everybody else has been wrong for a good many years. It's usually supposed that the gentleman's name was Omar Khayyam.
Mr Goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and twisted it round in Wally's direction. "Say, listen! He'll stand for anything I say. I'm the little guy that gives orders round here. I'm the big noise!" As if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. The effect was magical. The refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been shot.
"Surely that gives me authority to say what I want done and what I don't want done." There was a silence. Mr Goble, who was having difficulty with his vocal chords, swallowed once or twice. Wally and Mr Pilkington stared dumbly. At the back of the stage, a belated scene-shifter, homeward bound, was whistling as much as he could remember of the refrain of a popular song.
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