Between You and Me Part 10

"Aye, thank ye kindly, man Harry," it roared. "I'll tak' a wee drappie o' Glenlivet----"

The house roared wi' laughter again, and learned doon and spoke to the orchestra leader. It happened that I'd the parts for some of my ain songs wi' me, so I could gie them "Tobermory" and then "The La.s.s o'

Killiecrankie."

Weel, the Scots songs were far better received than ever the English ones or the Irish melody had been. I smiled to mysel' and went back to ma dressin' room to see what micht be coming. Sure enough 'twas but twa-three meenits when the manager came in.

"Harry," he said, "you knocked them dead with those Scotch songs. Now do you see I was right from the start when I said you ought to sing them?"

I looked at the man and just smiled. He richt frae the start! It was he had told me not to sing ma Scottish songs--that English audiences were tired o' everything that had to do wi' a kilt or a pair o'

brogues! But I let it pa.s.s.

"Oh, aye," I said, "they liked them fine, didn't they? So ye're thinkin' I'd better sing more Scotch the rest o' the week?"

"Better?" he said, and he laughed. "You'll have no choice, man. What one audience has heard the next one knows about. They'll make you sing those songs again, whether or no."

I've found that that is so--'deed, I knew it before he did. I never appear but that I've requests for practically every song I've ever sung. Some one remembers hearing me before when I was including them, or they've heard someone speak. I've been asked within a year to sing "Torralladdie"--the song I won a medal wi' at Glasga while I was still workin' in the pit at Hamilton! No evening is lang enow to sing all my songs in--all those I've gi'en my friends in my audiences at one time and anither in all these nearly thirty years I've been upon the stage.

Else I'd be tryin' it, for the gude fun it wad be.

Anyway, every nicht after that the audience wanted its wee drappie o'

Scotch, and got it, in good measure, for I love to sing the Scottish songs. And when the week was at an end I was promptly re-engaged for a return visit the next season, at the biggest salary that had yet been offered to me. I was a prood man the day; I felt it was a great thing that had come to me, there on the banks o' the Mersey, sae far frae hame and a', in the England they'd a' tauld me was hae nane o' me and ma sangs!

And that week was a turning point in ma life, tae. It chanced that, what wi' ane thing and anither, I was free for the next twa-three weeks. I'd plenty of engagements I could get, ye'll ken, but I'd not closed ma time yet wi' anyone. Some plans I'd had had been changed. So there I was. I could gang hame, and write a letter or twa, and be off in a day or so, singing again in the same auld way. Or--I could do what a' my friends tauld me was madness and worse to attempt. What did I do? I bocht a ticket for London!

CHAPTER X

There was method in my madness, tho', ye'll ken. Here was I, nearer far to London, in Birkenhead than I was in Glasga. Gi'en I was gae'in there some time, I could save my siller by going then. So off I went-- resolved to go and look for opportunity where opportunity lived.

Ye'll ken I could see London was no comin' after me--didna like the long journey by train, maybe. So I was like Mahomet when the mountain wouldna gang to him. I needed London mair then than London needed me, and 'twas no for me to be prood and sit twiddlin' my thumbs till times changed.

I was nervous, I'll admit, when I reached the great toon. I was wrong to lash mysel', maybe, but it means a great deal to an artist to ha'

the stamp o' London's approval upon him. 'Tis like the hall mark on a bit o' siller plate. Still and a' I could no see hoo they made oot I was sae foolish to be tryin' for London. Mebbe they were richt who said I could get no opening in a London hall. Mebbe the ithers were richt, too, who said that if I did the audience would howl me down and they'd ring doon the curtain on me. I didna believe that last, though, I'm tellin' ye--I was sure that I'd be as well received in London as I had been in Birkenhead, could I but mak' a manager risk giving me a turn.

Still I was nervous. The way it lookit to me, I had a' to gain and nothin' much tae lose. If I succeeded--ah, then there were no bounds to the future I saw before me! Success in London is like no success in the provinces. It means far more. I'd ha' sung for nothin'--'deed, and I'd ha' paid oot ma own good siller to get a turn at one of the big halls.

I had a London agent by that time, a mannie who booked engagements for me in the provinces. That was his specialty; he did little business in London itself. He was a decent body; he'd got me the week in Birkenhead, and I liked him fine. When I went to his office he jumped up and shook hands with me.

"Glad to see you, Lauder," he said. "Wish more of you singers and performers from the provinces would run up to London for a visit from time to time."

"I'm no precisely here on a veesit," I said, rather dryly. "What's chances of finding a shop here?"

"Lord, Lord have you got that bee in your bonnet, too, Harry," he asked, with a sigh. "You all do. You're doing splendidly in the provinces, Harry. You're making more money than some that are doing their turns at the Pay. and the Tiv. Why can't you be content?"

"I'm just not, that's a'," I said. "You think there's nae a chance for me here, then?"

"Not a chance in the world," he said, promptly. "It's no good, Harry, my boy. They don't want Scotch comics here any more. No manager would give you a turn now. If he did he'd be a fool, because his audience wouldn't stand for you. Stay where you belong in Scotland and the north. They can understand you, there, and know what you're singing about."

I could see there was no use arguing wi' him. And I could see something else, too. He was a good agent, and it was to his interest to get me as many engagements, and as good ones, as he could, since he got a commission on all I earned through him. But if he did not believe I could win an audience, what sort of man was he to be persuading a manner to gang against his judgment and gie me a chance in his theatre?

So I determined that I must see the managers mysel'. For, as I've taul ye before, I'm an awfu' persistent wee man when my mind's made up, and no easily to be moved from a resolution I've once ta'en. I was shaken a bit by the agent, I'll not mind tellin' ye, for it seemed to me he must know better than I. Who was Harry Lauder, after a', to set his judgment against that o' a man whose business it was to ken all aboot such things? Still, I was sae sure that I went on.

Next morning I met Mr. Walter F. Munroe, and he was gude enow to promise to introduce me to several managers. He took me off wi' him then and there, and we made a round o' all the music hall offices, and saw the managers, richt enow. Yell mind they were all agreeable and pleasant tae me. They said they were glad tae see me, and wrote me pa.s.ses for their halls, and did a' they could tae mak' me feel at hame. But they wouldna gie me the turn I was asking for!

I think Munroe hadna been verra hopefu' frae the first, but he did a'

I wanted o' him--gie'd me the opportunity to talk to the managers mysel'. Still, they made me feel my agent had been richt. They didna want a Scot on any terms at a', and that was all to it.

I was feelin' blue enow when it came time for lunch, but I couldna do less than ask Munroe if he'd ha' bit and sup wi' me, after the kindness he'd shown me. We went into a restaurant in the Strand. I was no hungry; I was tae sair at heart, for it lookit as if I maun gang hame and tell the wife my first trip to London had been a failure.

"By George--there's a man we've not seen!" said Munroe, suddenly, as we sat, verra glum and silent.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Tom Tinsley--the best fellow in London. You'll like him, whether he can do anything for you or not. I'll hail him----"

He did, and Mr. Tinsley came over toward our table. I liked his looks.

"He's the manager of Gatti's, in the Westminster Bridge Road,"

whispered Munroe. "Know it?"

I knew it as one of the smaller halls, but one with a decided reputation for originality and interesting bills, owing to the personality of its manager, who was never afraid to do a new thing that was out of the ordinary. I was glad I was going to meet him.

"Here's Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom," said Munroe. "Shake hands with him. You're both good fellows."

Tinsley was as cordial as he could be. We sat and chatted for a bit, and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of the conversation in gude enow fas.h.i.+on, bad as I felt. But when, Munroe put in a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come over Tinsley's face. I could guess how many times in a day he had to meet ambitious, struggling artists.

"So you're here looking for a shop, hey?" he said, turning to me. His manner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordiality had vanished. But I was not to be cast down. "What's your line?"

"Scotch comedian," I said. "I----"

He raised his hand, and laughed.

"Stop right there--that's done the trick! You've said enough. Now, look here, my dear boy, don't be angry, but there's no use. We've had Scotch comedians here in London before, and they're no good to us. I wish I could help you, but I really can't risk it."

"But you've not heard me sing," I said. "I'm different frae them ye talk of. Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye'll not think sae yersel?"

"I tell ye it's no use," he said, a little impatiently. "I know What my audiences like and what they don't. That's why I keep my hall going these days."

But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was we were getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o' the ithers! Ye can judge by that hoo they'd handled us.

"Oh, come, Tom," said Munroe. "It won't take much of your time to hear the man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week.

As a favor to me--come, now----"

"Well, if you put it like that," said Tinsley, reluctantly. He turned to me. "All right, Scotty," he said. "Drop around to my office at half past four and I'll see what's to be done for you. You can thank this nuisance of a Munroe for that--though it'll do you no good in the long run, you'll find, and just waste your time as well as mine!"

There was little enough incentive for me to keep that appointment. But I went, naturally. And, when I got there, I didn't sing for Tinsley.

He was too busy to listen to me.

"You're in luck, just the same, Scotty," he said. "I'm a turn short, because someone's got sick. Just for to-night. If you'll bring your traps down about ten o'clock you can have a show. But I don't expect you to catch on. Don't be too disappointed if you don't. London's tired of your line."