It was a shame to let all that run to seed, so to speak, in semidarkness.
Suddenly the lights did go up, and the orchestra began to play a tune which, though I haven’t much of an ear for music, seemed somehow familiar.
The next instant out pranced old Gussie from the wings in a purple frock coat and a brown top hat, grinned feebly at the audience, tripped over his feet, blushed, and began to sing the Tennessee song.
It was rotten. The poor nut had got stage fright so badly that it practically eliminated his voice. He sounded like some far-off echo of the past “yodelling” through a woollen blanket.
For the first time since I had heard that he was about to go into vaudeville I felt a faint hope creeping over me.
I was sorry for the wretched chap, of course, but there was no denying that the thing had its bright side. No management on earth would go on paying thirty-five dollars a week for this sort of performance. This was going to be Gussie’s first and only. He would have to leave the profession.
The old boy would say, “Unhand my daughter.” And, with decent luck, I saw myself leading Gussie on to the next England-bound liner and handing him over intact to Aunt Agatha.
He got through the song somehow and limped off amidst roars of silence from the audience.
There was a brief respite, then out he came again.
He sang this time as if nobody loved him. As a song, it was not a very pathetic song, being all