The Grand Duke reflected. The invasion has proved more expensive than
he had foreseen. The English are proverbially a nation of shopkeepers,
and they had put up their prices in all the shops for his special
benefit. And he was expected to do such a lot of tipping. Four hundred
and fifty a week would come in uncommonly useful.
"Where do I sign?" he asked, extending his hand for the agreement.
Five minutes later Mr. Quhayne was urging his taxidriver to exceed the
speed-limit in the direction of Tottenham.
Clarence read the news of the two engagements on the tape at the office
of his paper, but the first intimation the general public had of it was
through the medium of headlines:—
MUSIC-HALL SENSATION
INVADING GENERALS' GIGANTIC SALARIES
RUMOURED RESENTMENT OF V.A.F.
WHAT WILL WATER-RATS DO?
INTERVIEW WITH MR. HARRY LAUDER
Clarence chuckled grimly as the tape clicked out the news. The end had
begun. To sow jealousy between the rival generals would have been easy.
To sow it between two rival music-hall artistes would be among the
world's softest jobs.
Among the general public, of course, the announcement created a
profound sensation. Nothing else was talked about in train and omnibus.
The papers had leaders on the subject. At first the popular impression
was that the generals were going to do a comedy duo act of the
Who-Was-It-I-Seen-You-Coming-Down-the-Street-With? type, and there was
disappointment when it was found that the engagements were for
different halls. Rumours sprang up. It was said that the Grand Duke had
for years been an enthusiastic amateur sword-swallower, and had,
indeed, come to England mainly for the purpose of getting bookings;
that the Prince had a secure reputation in Potsdam as a singer of songs
in the George Robey style; that both were expert trick-cyclists.
Then the truth came out. Neither had any specialities; they would
simply appear and deliver lectures.
The feeling in the music-hall world was strong. The Variety Artists'
Federation debated the advisability of another strike. The Water Rats,
meeting in mystic secrecy in a Maiden Lane public-house, passed fifteen
resolutions in an hour and a quarter. Sir Harry Lauder, interviewed by
the
Era
, gave it as his opinion that both the Grand Duke and the
Prince were gowks, who would do well to haud their blether. He himself
proposed to go straight to America, where genuine artists were cheered
in the streets and entertained at haggis dinners, and not forced to
compete with amateur sumphs and gonuphs from other countries.
Clarence, brooding over the situation like a Providence, was glad to
see that already the new move had weakened the invaders' power. The day
after the announcement in the press of the approaching
debut
of
the other generals, the leader of the army of Monaco had hurried to the
agents to secure an engagement for himself. He held out the special
inducement of card-tricks, at which he was highly skilled. The agents
had received him coldly. Brown and Day had asked him to call again.
Foster had sent out a message regretting that he was too busy to see
him. At de Freece's he had been kept waiting in the ante-room for two
hours in the midst of a bevy of Sparkling Comediennes of pronounced
peroxidity and blue-chinned men in dusty bowler-hats, who told each
other how they had gone with a bang at Oakham and John o'Groats, and
had then gone away in despair.
On the following day, deeply offended, he had withdrawn his troops from
the country.
The strength of the invaders was melting away little by little.
"How long?" murmured Clarence Chugwater, as he worked at the
tape-machine. "How long?"
It was Clarence's custom to leave the office of his newspaper at one
o'clock each day, and lunch at a neighbouring Aerated Bread shop. He
did this on the day following the first appearance of the two generals
at their respective halls. He had brought an early edition of the paper
with him, and in the intervals of dealing with his glass of milk and
scone and butter, he read the report of the performances.
Both, it seemed, had met with flattering receptions, though they had
appeared nervous. The Russian general especially, whose style, said the
critic, was somewhat reminiscent of Mr. T. E. Dunville, had made
himself a great favourite with the gallery. The report concluded by
calling attention once more to the fact that the salaries paid to the
two—eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week each—established a
record in music-hall history on this side of the Atlantic.
Clarence had just finished this when there came to his ear the faint
note of a tarantula singing to its young.
He looked up. Opposite him, at the next table, was seated a youth of
fifteen, of a slightly grubby aspect. He was eyeing Clarence closely.
Clarence took off his spectacles, polished them, and replaced them on
his nose. As he did so, the thin gruffle of the tarantula sounded once
more. Without changing his expression, Clarence cautiously uttered the
deep snarl of a sand-eel surprised while bathing.
It was sufficient. The other rose to his feet, holding his right hand
on a line with his shoulder, palm to the front, thumb resting on the
nail of the little finger, and the other three fingers upright.
Clarence seized his hat by the brim at the back, and moved it swiftly
twice up and down.
The other, hesitating no longer, came over to his table.
"Pip-pip!" he said, in an undertone.
"Toodleoo and God save the King!" whispered Clarence.
The mystic ceremony which always takes place when two Boy Scouts meet
in public was complete.
"Private Biggs of the Eighteenth Tarantulas, sir," said the boy
respectfully, for he had recognised Clarence.
Clarence inclined his head.
"You may sit, Private Biggs," he said graciously. "You have news to
impart?"
"News, sir, that may be of vital importance."
"Say on."
Private Biggs, who had brought his sparkling limado and a bath-bun with
him from the other table, took a sip of the former, and embarked upon
his narrative.
"I am employed, sir," he said, "as a sort of junior clerk and
office-boy by Mr. Solly Quhayne, the music-hall agent."
Clarence tapped his brow thoughtfully; then his face cleared.
"I remember. It was he who secured the engagements of the generals."
"The same, sir."
"Proceed."
The other resumed his story.
"It is my duty to sit in a sort of rabbit-hutch in the outer office,
take the callers' names, and especially to see that they don't get
through to Mr. Quhayne till he wishes to receive them. That is the most
exacting part of my day's work. You wouldn't believe how full of the
purest swank some of these pros. are. Tell you they've got an
appointment as soon as look at you. Artful beggars!"
Clarence nodded sympathetically.
"This morning an Acrobat and Society Contortionist made such a fuss
that in the end I had to take his card in to the private office. Mr.
Quhayne was there talking to a gentleman whom I recognised as his
brother, Mr. Colquhoun. They were engrossed in their conversation, and
did not notice me for a moment. With no wish to play the eavesdropper,
I could not help but overhear. They were talking about the generals.
'Yes, I know they're press-agented at eight seventy-five, dear boy,' I
heard Mr. Quhayne say, 'but between you and me and the door-knob that
isn't what they're getting. The German feller's drawing five hundred of
the best, but I could only get four-fifty for the Russian. Can't say
why. I should have thought, if anything, he'd be the bigger draw. Bit
of a comic in his way!' And then he saw me. There was some slight
unpleasantness. In fact, I've got the sack. After it was over I came
away to try and find you. It seemed to me that the information might be
of importance."
Clarence's eyes gleamed.
"You have done splendidly, Private—no,
Corporal
Biggs. Do not
regret your lost position. The society shall find you work. This news
you have brought is of the utmost—the most vital importance. Dash it!"
he cried, unbending in his enthusiasm, "we've got 'em on the hop. If
they aren't biting pieces out of each other in the next day or two, I'm
jolly well mistaken."
He rose; then sat down again.
"Corporal—no, dash it, Sergeant Biggs—you must have something with
me. This is an occasion. The news you have brought me may mean the
salvation of England. What would you like?"
The other saluted joyfully.
"I think I'll have another sparkling limado, thanks, awfully," he said.
The beverage arrived. They raised their glasses.
"To England," said Clarence simply.
"To England," echoed his subordinate.
Clarence left the shop with swift strides, and hurried, deep in
thought, to the offices of the
Encore
in Wellington Street.
"Yus?" said the office-boy interrogatively.
Clarence gave the Scout's Siquand, the pass-word. The boy's demeanour
changed instantly. He saluted with the utmost respect.
"I wish to see the Editor," said Clarence.
A short speech, but one that meant salvation for the motherland.
The days following Clarence's visit to the offices of the
Encore
were marked by a growing feeling of unrest, alike among invaded and
invaders. The first novelty and excitement of the foreign occupation of
the country was beginning to wear off, and in its place the sturdy
independence so typical of the British character was reasserting
itself. Deep down in his heart the genuine Englishman has a rugged
distaste for seeing his country invaded by a foreign army. People were
asking themselves by what right these aliens had overrun British soil.
An ever-growing feeling of annoyance had begun to lay hold of the
nation.
It is probable that the departure of Sir Harry Lauder first brought
home to England what this invasion might mean. The great comedian, in
his manifesto in the
Times
, had not minced his words. Plainly
and crisply he had stated that he was leaving the country because the
music-hall stage was given over to alien gowks. He was sorry for
England. He liked England. But now, all he could say was, "God bless
you." England shuddered, remembering that last time he had said, "God
bless you till I come back."
Ominous mutterings began to make themselves heard.
Other causes contributed to swell the discontent. A regiment of
Russians, out route-marching, had walked across the bowling-screen at
Kennington Oval during the Surrey
v.
Lancashire match, causing
Hayward to be bowled for a duck's-egg. A band of German sappers had dug
a trench right across the turf at Queen's Club.
The mutterings increased.
Nor were the invaders satisfied and happy. The late English summer had
set in with all its usual severity, and the Cossacks, reared in the
kindlier climate of Siberia, were feeling it terribly. Colds were the
rule rather than the exception in the Russian lines. The coughing of
the Germans at Tottenham could be heard in Oxford Street.
The attitude of the British public, too, was getting on their nerves.
They had been prepared for fierce resistance. They had pictured the
invasion as a series of brisk battles—painful perhaps, but exciting.
They had anticipated that when they had conquered the country they
might meet with the Glare of Hatred as they patrolled the streets. The
Supercilious Stare unnerved them. There is nothing so terrible to the
highly-strung foreigner as the cold, contemptuous, patronising gaze of
the Englishman. It gave the invaders a perpetual feeling of doing the
wrong thing. They felt like men who had been found travelling in a
first-class carriage with a third-class ticket. They became conscious
of the size of their hands and feet. As they marched through the
Metropolis they felt their ears growing hot and red. Beneath the chilly
stare of the populace they experienced all the sensations of a man who
has come to a strange dinner-party in a tweed suit when everybody else
has dressed. They felt warm and prickly.
It was dull for them, too. London is never at its best in early
September, even for the
habitue
. There was nothing to do. Most
of the theatres were shut. The streets were damp and dirty. It was all
very well for the generals, appearing every night in the glare and
glitter of the footlights; but for the rank and file the occupation of
London spelt pure boredom.
London was, in fact, a human powder-magazine. And it was Clarence
Chugwater who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it in
a blaze.
Clarence had called at the offices of the
Encore
on a Friday.
The paper's publishing day is Thursday. The
Encore
is the Times
of the music-hall world. It casts its curses here, bestows its
benedictions (sparely) there. The
Encore
criticising the latest
action of the Variety Artists' Federation is the nearest modern
approach to Jove hurling the thunderbolt. Its motto is, "Cry havoc, and
let loose the performing dogs of war."
It so happened that on the Thursday following his momentous visit to
Wellington Street, there was need of someone on the staff of Clarence's
evening paper to go and obtain an interview from the Russian general.
Mr. Hubert Wales had just published a novel so fruity in theme and
treatment that it had been publicly denounced from the pulpit by no
less a person than the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Dean
of His Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet and
Sub-Almoner to the King. A morning paper had started the question,
"Should there be a Censor of Fiction?" and, in accordance with custom,
editors were collecting the views of celebrities, preferably of those
whose opinion on the subject was absolutely valueless.