The Old Card — Inside the Classic

s. It was this same mist, perhaps, that delayed his noticing that the billsticker had applied the last sheet of the poster at least ten inches too high, with the result that the feet were practically attached to the knees. Mr. Cardomay made a note of the fact in a small book he carried for the purpose and continued his walk.

Two factory girls nudged each other as he passed them by.

“See who it was? Mister What-you-call Cardomay.”

“Oh, I like ’im. ’E’s good! When’ll we go?”

The rest of their remarks drifted out of earshot, but Eliphalet Cardomay felt a tinge of pride warming his bosom. He was back again—back home.

The excellent Mrs. Booker, best of landladies, greeted him with every indication of respectful devotion.

“It’s a treat to see you again, sir, it is indeed,” she said, opening the door of the comfortable little parlour, where a jolly fire was burning in the grate and reflecting its rays on many framed and autographed photographs of the celebrated artists the room at one time or another had accommodated.

“When I heard you’d gorn to London, I said to Booker, ‘There! we’ve lorst ’im,’ and ’e says, ‘I believe we ’ave,’ and I says, ‘That’s what we ’ave done; for, depend on it, if London gets hold of ’im, it’ll claim ’im as their own and never let ’im go.’”

Eliphalet’s lips tightened a little. He drew off his gloves and cast them on the embossed green plush sofa, and quoted:

“The clinging magic runs, They will return as strangers, They will remain as sons.”

“I returned as a son—and could not remain as a stranger.” Then, observing that his remarks were entirely lost upon his audience, he concluded:

“Did you get me a small leg of lamb, Mrs. Booker?”

“A beautiful leg,” she replied; “with a black-currant tart to follow. I ’aven’t forgotten your little likes, sir.”

Eliphalet smiled beatifically.

“You are an excellent good woman,” he said. Then, stretching himself luxuriously, “Yes, there is no doubt at all—it is very good to be back again.”

He cast a loving and possessive eye over the homely surroundings, shook out his table napkin, and drew up a chair to the table, as a king might sit at a banquet.

Probably the reader is wondering what this story is all about, and certainly it might have been a distinct advantage to have begun at the beginning rather than the end. Having committed ourselves so far, however, there is no option but to retrace our steps to a period some three months prior to the foregoing incident.

It was at the conclusion of a long tour that Eliphalet Cardomay received a startling proposal from London that he should appear in the title-part in Oscar Raven’s dramatisation of the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini.

For weeks past the production had been boomed in all the dramatic columns, and the advertised cast practically made a corner in the biggest stage stars of the day.

Sir Owen Frazer, Actor-Manager and Knight (with danger of becoming a baronet), was to have appeared as Cellini, and had favoured several reporters with extensive interviews in which he sought to convey to the public mind the depths of his research into Cellini’s character. He had even gone to the length of growing a real beard for the part, rather than relying on the good offices of Mr. Clarkson. Therefore, when at the eleventh hour his voice entirely forsook him, and Harley Street unanimously declared that it would forsake him altogether unless he gave it a rest for a month, consternation in dramatic circles ran very high indeed.

Eight days existed before the much-advertised first night, and the finding of a fitting successor was at once the most baffling and the most urgent affair.

After an all-night sitting, in which the name of every prominent male member of the profession was suggested, and in which Mr. Oscar Raven and his part collaborator, Julian Franks, nearly came to blows with every member of the Syndicate, each other included, the producer, a young man whose youth was only exceeded by his brilliance, rose and standing, flamingo-like, on one leg, addressed the meeting.

“For God’s sake, get to bed,” he said. “You are talking bilge, the whole lot of you. I’ll find someone—in fact, I have already. You will say I am mad,” he continued, in response to a chorus of inquiries which greeted his statement, “but even at so great a risk I will tell you his name. It is Eliphalet Cardomay.”