position, and he might have remained
so rooted indefinitely had not the door to which the man who disliked having
porridge thrown at him had alluded suddenly flown open, the motive power behind
it a large stout middle-aged individual with a bald head and a glare like a
searchlight.
‘Get
out,’ said this formidable apparition. ‘I don’t want any.’
Joe,
though far from feeling at his ease, was able to say ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Whatever
it is you’re selling. If it’s magazine subscriptions to help you through
college, I don’t give a damn if you never see the inside of a blasted college.
Bosher had no business to let you in. Wait there a moment and I’ll ring for him
to come and throw you out. Where the devil is Bosher?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘With
the wind.’
‘You
mean he’s quit?’
‘He
said that was his intention. He had a suitcase with him.’
The
news did not seem to depress the stout man.
‘Well,
easy come, easy go,’ he said.
‘He let
me in,’ said Joe, ‘and didn’t even start to announce me, so anxious was he to
be off and away. I gathered that there had been a little friction.’
‘He
burned my breakfast cereal, and I threw it at him.’
‘Ah,
that would account for his peevishness. Many people dislike having breakfast
cereal thrown at them. I for one.’
‘And
who are you?’
‘My
name is Joseph Pickering. You, I take it, are Mr Llewellyn. I was sent here by
Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols. They said you wanted to see me. Which,’
said Joe, ‘you are now doing.’ A complete change had come over the stout householder.
No longer glaring, he reached for Joe’s hand and shook it.
‘Oh,
that’s who you are, is it? Glad to meet you, Pickering.’
‘Nice
of you to say so.’
‘I like
the look of you. You give me the impression of being just the steady
level-headed man I require.’
‘That’s
good.’
‘Couldn’t
be better. Sit down and I’ll fill you in.’ It was almost with jauntiness that
Joe accepted the invitation. The tremors which had oppressed him at the
beginning of this interview had vanished as completely as had the recent
Bosher, and he saw now that Mr Llewellyn was simply one of those lovable
characters who readily explode but whose explosions, owing to their hearts
being in the right place, are sound and fury signifying nothing. He had met
them before, and he knew the type. They huffed and they puffed, but you just
sat tight and waited till they blew over. As for throwing porridge at the
breakfast table, that was a mere mannerism, easily overlooked by anyone
broad-minded. He anticipated a happy association with his future employer.
At this
point he noticed that his future employer was looking at him with an odd
closeness.
‘Hey!’ said
Mr Llewellyn.
‘Yes?’
said Joe.
‘I’ve
seen you before.’
‘Really?’
‘Where
were you on the night of October the fifteenth?’
Joe
winced. It was a night of which he did not care to be reminded, the night on
which the comedy Cousin Angela had breathed its last.
‘I was
at the Regal Theatre.’
‘In
front?’
‘Talking
to the stage-doorkeeper—’
‘I
thought so. You’re the fellow who gave me the bum’s rush when I wanted to knock
the stage-door guy’s block off. You attached yourself to the seat of my pants
and slung me out.’
It was
a severe shock to Joe, and had he not been sitting he would probably have
reeled. His opalescent dreams of nestling into the position of Mr Llewellyn’s
right-hand man, no move made on the other’s part without consulting him and a
princely salary coming in every Friday, expired with a low gurgle. He was not
unintelligent, and he knew that in this world a young man has the choice
between two forms of self-expression when dealing with an elder whose patronage
he is seeking. He can so ingratiate himself with him as to become his trusted
confidant, or he can take him by the seat of the trousers and throw him out of
stage doors. He cannot
so rooted indefinitely had not the door to which the man who disliked having
porridge thrown at him had alluded suddenly flown open, the motive power behind
it a large stout middle-aged individual with a bald head and a glare like a
searchlight.
‘Get
out,’ said this formidable apparition. ‘I don’t want any.’
Joe,
though far from feeling at his ease, was able to say ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Whatever
it is you’re selling. If it’s magazine subscriptions to help you through
college, I don’t give a damn if you never see the inside of a blasted college.
Bosher had no business to let you in. Wait there a moment and I’ll ring for him
to come and throw you out. Where the devil is Bosher?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘With
the wind.’
‘You
mean he’s quit?’
‘He
said that was his intention. He had a suitcase with him.’
The
news did not seem to depress the stout man.
‘Well,
easy come, easy go,’ he said.
‘He let
me in,’ said Joe, ‘and didn’t even start to announce me, so anxious was he to
be off and away. I gathered that there had been a little friction.’
‘He
burned my breakfast cereal, and I threw it at him.’
‘Ah,
that would account for his peevishness. Many people dislike having breakfast
cereal thrown at them. I for one.’
‘And
who are you?’
‘My
name is Joseph Pickering. You, I take it, are Mr Llewellyn. I was sent here by
Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols. They said you wanted to see me. Which,’
said Joe, ‘you are now doing.’ A complete change had come over the stout householder.
No longer glaring, he reached for Joe’s hand and shook it.
‘Oh,
that’s who you are, is it? Glad to meet you, Pickering.’
‘Nice
of you to say so.’
‘I like
the look of you. You give me the impression of being just the steady
level-headed man I require.’
‘That’s
good.’
‘Couldn’t
be better. Sit down and I’ll fill you in.’ It was almost with jauntiness that
Joe accepted the invitation. The tremors which had oppressed him at the
beginning of this interview had vanished as completely as had the recent
Bosher, and he saw now that Mr Llewellyn was simply one of those lovable
characters who readily explode but whose explosions, owing to their hearts
being in the right place, are sound and fury signifying nothing. He had met
them before, and he knew the type. They huffed and they puffed, but you just
sat tight and waited till they blew over. As for throwing porridge at the
breakfast table, that was a mere mannerism, easily overlooked by anyone
broad-minded. He anticipated a happy association with his future employer.
At this
point he noticed that his future employer was looking at him with an odd
closeness.
‘Hey!’ said
Mr Llewellyn.
‘Yes?’
said Joe.
‘I’ve
seen you before.’
‘Really?’
‘Where
were you on the night of October the fifteenth?’
Joe
winced. It was a night of which he did not care to be reminded, the night on
which the comedy Cousin Angela had breathed its last.
‘I was
at the Regal Theatre.’
‘In
front?’
‘Talking
to the stage-doorkeeper—’
‘I
thought so. You’re the fellow who gave me the bum’s rush when I wanted to knock
the stage-door guy’s block off. You attached yourself to the seat of my pants
and slung me out.’
It was
a severe shock to Joe, and had he not been sitting he would probably have
reeled. His opalescent dreams of nestling into the position of Mr Llewellyn’s
right-hand man, no move made on the other’s part without consulting him and a
princely salary coming in every Friday, expired with a low gurgle. He was not
unintelligent, and he knew that in this world a young man has the choice
between two forms of self-expression when dealing with an elder whose patronage
he is seeking. He can so ingratiate himself with him as to become his trusted
confidant, or he can take him by the seat of the trousers and throw him out of
stage doors. He cannot
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