There may be jealousy and bickering in some theatrical companies, but according to Sam Milhau, the company that is opening tonight at the Royalty in his revival of
The bartender grinned. “The things them press agents think of!”
The street door flew open as if a gust of wind had blown it in. A young man swaggered up to the bar. He was about Basil’s own height, just under six feet, and he was dressed as Basil was dressed—patent leather shoes, dark overcoat, white gloves and muffler, and what Parisians used to call a “hat with eight reflections.” But there was a difference. Perhaps nothing tells more about a man’s temperament than the angle at which he wears a top hat. Timidity carries it as straight as a book balanced on top of the head to improve posture. Toughness pushes it far back to expose a tousled forelock. Gaiety tips it to one side. But arrogance tilts it as far forward as possible, carrying the head high and the chin thrust out to keep the brim from sliding down over the eyes. This young man was arrogant. Hat balanced precariously just above the bridge of his nose, he peered through the shadow the brim cast across his eyes like a half-mask and gave his order curtly: “Rum, gum and lime.”
The bartender was polishing a tumbler. He paused to rest two hands on the counter and responded deliberately: “That’s a new one on me.”
“Two jiggers of rum, one of lime juice, and one of sugar-cane syrup,” retorted the young man impatiently. “If you haven’t any syrup, grenadine will have to do. And fill it up with ice and soda.”
The bartender measured the ingredients gravely. The young man took a sip from his tall, pinkish drink and made a face. “Sugar-cane syrup is better!”
The bartender cast an eloquent glance at Basil. Sugar-cane syrup indeed! What next?
Basil remembered that Adler, the psychologist, claimed he could always tell whether a man had been the eldest, youngest or middle child of his family the moment he entered a room. Surely Adler would have classified this young man as a youngest child or an only son. Once he must have been the “baby” of a doting family, and he had never got over it. There was perennial immaturity in every word and gesture, though physically he looked about thirty. His face was fair and smooth. He might have been handsome in a sulky way if his lower lip had not been so full and protruding it was almost pendulous.
He had finished his drink. He took out a billfold of black pinseal. It contained a thick wad of greenbacks and some sort of official card in a cellophane pocket. He peeled off a five-dollar bill and slapped it down on the mahogany counter. “Where’s the stage door of the Royalty Theatre? I’ve been walking all around the square looking for it!”
The bartender returned the four dollars’ change. “It’s right next door. You have to go down the alley to get to it.”
The young man took a cigarette from a crumpled packet and stuck it in his mouth so it dangled damply from his lower lip. Somehow that was as insolent as the exaggerated angle of his hat. A match flared in the dusk and spotlighted his face. As the mirror behind the bar caught the image in the window, there seemed to be dozens of fair young men in shiny black hats lighting cigarettes in a long vista of reflections like a visual echo. He tossed his burnt match on the floor and the picture vanished. He strode through the doorway, his unbuttoned overcoat swinging from his shoulders as loosely as a cloak.
“Some young fool with too much money for his own good!” surmised the bartender. Basil paid for his own drink and went outside.
Night had fallen. In the pallid glare of the street-lamps the pavement was a dusty gray blushing here and there under neon signs. Down a narrow alley that ran between theater and taxpayer a dingy light shone on a sign painted
MARCUS LAZARUS
If it has an edge, we sharpen it!
