In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking together familiarly.

The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to the confidences of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinary nature, judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked:

"But what is your profession, then?"

"But I have already told you," replied the fat man. "I am a clown--a musical clown.... I interpret comic romances.... I dress up as a negro, I play the banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an air which was the rage of the moment.

The dark young man interrupted with another question:

"What is your native country, Tommy?"

"Oh, I am a Belgian.... And you, Butler?"

The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what had to pa.s.s for an account of himself.

"I ... I'm Canadian--just come from Canada--hardly three months ago."

"As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy.

Butler seemed upset by this question.

"Yes, yes!... And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my way about, and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, try as I will ... it seems no use."...

"What can you do?"

"A little of everything."

"That is to say--nothing!"

Butler said slowly:

"I can do book-keeping."

The clown burst out laughing.

"That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds of stick-in-the-muds at that job!"

"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler.

His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.

"There is only one career in the world--the theatre!... There is only one profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have succeeded! And without having received the least instruction, for my parents never cared a hang for my future--I soon earned plenty money; now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the point of making a fortune!"

The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age--no chicken.

His companion gazed at him admiringly.

Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold, English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a bulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts.

"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler with a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"

The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the gla.s.ses of whisky were having their effect.

Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:

"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and already I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the same on your side?"

Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his gla.s.s and declared:

"I swear it!"

"Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselves marvellously well.... Just fancy! When walking on the Thames Embankment to-day, I met a theatrical manager whom I have known this long while ... a very good fellow, called Paul.... Naturally we had a gla.s.s together.... Then I asked him what he was doing. His answer was 'I am looking for an artiste!' Of course, I suggested myself! Paul explained that he did not need a clown, but a professor.... I promised to find him one if I could.... Would you like to be this professor?"

"Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growing intoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughed at the question.

"You would never guess who would be your pupils!... You would have to teach j.a.panese canaries to sing!"

Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clown declared there was nothing ridiculous about teaching j.a.panese canaries to sing.... The important point was that the professor of singing j.a.panese canary birds would receive immediate payment.

Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind--for he had persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one--the clown fidgeted on his high stool, and hummed an air from _Faust_ in a falsetto voice. The clown stopped.

"Come, Butler, is it settled?"

Butler hesitated.

"I am not sure that I had better."

"But yes, certainly you had better," insisted the clown. "And, as it happens, I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in the room downstairs.... I will go and look for him!... We three could meet and talk the thing over."

"Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?"

"To Belgium, of course," replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian, like myself--we are compatriots."

The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer, left him, saying:

"I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will be his professor of j.a.panese singing canaries."

Butler sighed, then swallowed another gla.s.s of whisky.

Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room, the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shaven man seated before a full gla.s.s: it was untouched.

"Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice.

Juve nodded.

"Captain Loreuil?"

"That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you are Monsieur Paul, theatrical manager.... That is according to our arrangement, is it not?"