The Lost Girl Part 17

They discoursed amiably as they went, James bending forward, Mr. May bending back. Mr. May took the refined man-of-the-world tone.

"Of course," he said--he used the two words very often, and p.r.o.nounced the second, rather mincingly, to rhyme with _sauce_: "Of course," said Mr. May, "it's a disgusting place--_disgusting_! I never was in a worse, in all the _cauce_ of my travels. But _then_--that isn't the point--"

He spread his plump hands from his immaculate shirt-cuffs.

"No, it isn't. Decidedly it isn't. That's beside the point altogether. What we want--" began James.

"Is an audience--of _cauce_--! And we have it--! Virgin soil--!

"Yes, decidedly. Untouched! An unspoiled market."

"An unspoiled market!" reiterated Mr. May, in full confirmation, though with a faint flicker of a smile. "How very _fortunate_ for us."

"Properly handled," said James. "Properly handled."

"Why yes--of _cauce_! Why _shouldn't_ we handle it properly!"

"Oh, we shall manage that, we shall manage that," came the quick, slightly husky voice of James.

"Of _cauce_ we shall! Why bless my life, if we can't manage an audience in Lumley, what _can_ we do."

"We have a guide in the matter of their taste," said James. "We can see what Wright's are doing--and Jordan's--and we can go to Hathersedge and Knarborough and Alfreton--beforehand, that is--"

"Why certainly--if you think it's _necessary_. I'll do all that for you. _And_ I'll interview the managers and the performers themselves--as if I were a journalist, don't you see. I've done a fair amount of journalism, and nothing easier than to get cards from various newspapers."

"Yes, that's a good suggestion," said James. "As if you were going to write an account in the newspapers--excellent."

"And so simple! You pick up just _all_ the information you require."

"Decidedly--decidedly!" said James.

And so behold our two heroes sniffing round the sordid backs and wasted meadows and marshy places of Lumley. They found one barren patch where two caravans were standing. A woman was peeling potatoes, sitting on the bottom step of her caravan. A half-caste girl came up with a large pale-blue enamelled jug of water. In the background were two booths covered up with coloured canvas.

Hammering was heard inside.

"Good-morning!" said Mr. May, stopping before the woman. "'Tisn't fair time, is it?"

"No, it's no fair," said the woman.

"I see. You're just on your own. Getting on all right?"

"Fair," said the woman.

"Only fair! Sorry. Good-morning."

Mr. May's quick eye, roving round, had seen a negro stoop from under the canvas that covered one booth. The negro was thin, and looked young but rather frail, and limped. His face was very like that of the young negro in Watteau's drawing--pathetic, wistful, north-bitten. In an instant Mr. May had taken all in: the man was the woman's husband--they were acclimatized in these regions: the booth where he had been hammering was a Hoop-La. The other would be a cocoanut-shy. Feeling the instant American dislike for the presence of a negro, Mr. May moved off with James.

They found out that the woman was a Lumley woman, that she had two children, that the negro was a most quiet and respectable chap, but that the family kept to itself, and didn't mix up with Lumley.

"I should think so," said Mr. May, a little disgusted even at the suggestion.

Then he proceeded to find out how long they had stood on this ground--three months--how long they would remain--only another week, then they were moving off to Alfreton fair--who was the owner of the pitch--Mr. Bows, the butcher. Ah! And what was the ground used for?

Oh, it was building land. But the foundation wasn't very good.

"The very thing! Aren't we _fortunate_!" cried Mr. May, perking up the moment they were in the street. But this cheerfulness and brisk perkiness was a great strain on him. He missed his eleven o'clock whiskey terribly--terribly--his pick-me-up! And he daren't confess it to James, who, he knew, was T-T. So he dragged his weary and hollow way up to Woodhouse, and sank with a long "Oh!" of nervous exhaustion in the private bar of the Moon and Stars. He wrinkled his short nose. The smell of the place was distasteful to him. The _disgusting_ beer that the colliers drank. Oh!--he _was_ so tired.

He sank back with his whiskey and stared blankly, dismally in front of him. Beneath his eyes he looked more bilious still. He felt thoroughly out of luck, and petulant.

None the less he sallied out with all his old bright perkiness, the next time he had to meet James. He hadn't yet broached the question of costs. When would he be able to get an advance from James? He _must_ hurry the matter forward. He brushed his crisp, curly brown hair carefully before the mirror. How grey he was at the temples! No wonder, dear me, with such a life! He was in his shirt-sleeves. His waistcoat, with its grey satin back, fitted him tightly. He had filled out--but he hadn't developed a corporation. Not at all. He looked at himself sideways, and feared dismally he was thinner. He was one of those men who carry themselves in a birdie fashion, so that their tail sticks out a little behind, jauntily. How wonderfully the satin of his waistcoat had worn! He looked at his shirt-cuffs. They were going. Luckily, when he had had the shirts made he had secured enough material for the renewing of cuffs and neckbands. He put on his coat, from which he had flicked the faintest suspicion of dust, and again settled himself to go out and meet James on the question of an advance. He simply must have an advance.

He didn't get it that day, none the less. The next morning he was ringing for his tea at six o'clock. And before ten he had already flitted to Lumley and back, he had already had a word with Mr. Bows, about that pitch, and, overcoming all his repugnance, a word with the quiet, frail, sad negro, about Alfreton fair, and the chance of buying some sort of collapsible building, for his cinematograph.

With all this news he met James--not at the shabby club, but in the deserted reading-room of the so-called Artizans Hall--where never an artizan entered, but only men of James's cla.s.s. Here they took the chessboard and pretended to start a game. But their conversation was rapid and secretive.

Mr. May disclosed all his discoveries. And then he said, tentatively:

"Hadn't we better think about the financial part now? If we're going to look round for an erection"--curious that he always called it an erection--"we shall have to know what we are going to spend."

"Yes--yes. Well--" said James vaguely, nervously, giving a glance at Mr. May. Whilst Mr. May abstractedly fingered his black knight.

"You see at the moment," said Mr. May, "I have no funds that I can represent in cash. I have no doubt a little _later_--if we need it--I can find a few hundreds. Many things are _due_--numbers of things. But it is so difficult to _collect_ one's dues, particularly from America." He lifted his blue eyes to James Houghton. "Of course we can _delay_ for some time, until I get my supplies. Or I can act just as your manager--you can _employ_ me--"

He watched James's face. James looked down at the chessboard. He was fluttering with excitement. He did not want a partner. He wanted to be in this all by himself. He hated partners.

"You will agree to be manager, at a fixed salary?" said James hurriedly and huskily, his fine fingers slowly rubbing each other, along the sides.

"Why yes, willingly, if you'll give me the option of becoming your partner upon terms of mutual agreement, later on."

James did not quite like this.

"What terms are you thinking of?" he asked.

"Well, it doesn't matter for the moment. Suppose for the moment I enter an engagement as your manager, at a salary, let us say, of--of what, do you think?"

"So much a week?" said James pointedly.

"Hadn't we better make it monthly?"

The two men looked at one another.

"With a month's notice on either hand?" continued Mr. May.

"How much?" said James, avaricious.

Mr. May studied his own nicely kept hands.

"Well, I don't see how I can do it under twenty pounds a month. Of course it's ridiculously low. In America I _never_ accepted less than three hundred dollars a month, and that was my poorest and lowest. But of _cauce_, England's not America--more's the pity."

But James was shaking his head in a vibrating movement.

"Impossible!" he replied shrewdly. "Impossible! Twenty pounds a month? Impossible. I couldn't do it. I couldn't think of it."