could have seen me last. Then it occurred to me to frighten him-not that any idea of blackmail had ever crossed my mind-no.
“Well, well what did he do?” Gladys again.
He fucked Nelly first-to be blunt; not, I trust, because he didn't think me the nicest, but because it appeared that he had had Nelly before, and was less nervous. There wasn't much art about it at all. I just sat on the edge of the couch and smoked a cigarette while he stripped her naked, kissed her in many places and generally messed her about, till he finally produced a giant weapon, and shoved it up her. The consummation was short. Nelly, seemed frantically randy, wriggled her arse like a tortured soul, and soon had him spending into her for all he was worth.
By that time I, naturally, was naughty too, but I had to wait a bit; that greedy Nelly had got too much, and we had to aid our friend with much manipulation of his person, tickling his balls, stroking of his little stomach, etc., before he had me on the sofa with his lance in me-the rest was easy, and I kept in till the moment I could feel him swelling with rapidity arriving semen, when I said, very quietly, “Whatever would Michael Hunt say if he saw you doing this?”
The man gave one convulsive wriggle, shot about a gallon of fluid into me, then rolled off, pale to the hair roots-“What do you know of Michael Hunt?” he asked.
“Only that you're his senior master at Roc-ton. I know you very well by sight, even if you have a false beard and mustache on. I do hope you've enjoyed this better than to teach at the boys school.”
Now anyone but a fool would have seen the fun of the thing and laughed with us. Nelly told me afterwards he must have known that Mrs. Cowper was a safe enough place, and felt no fear of blackmail-but that silly old thing whacked up fifty pounds for us two to divide, so that we should be mum. I don't say that he didn't have a bit more fun for his money-but fifty is a lot, and I daresay he had paid Mrs. Cowper quite a tidy little sum already.
Still, this is a little by the way, and I must get back to that first day of mine at Madame Karl's.
She took me out to dinner on the first evening of my stay, we went to a small but extremely smart restaurant in the very heart of inermost St. James. Madame knew most of them-the men and women-by sight, and told me their names. She might have been reciting Debrett by the page. When I noted the price of the food, and especially the wine, I was astounded. Madame must assuredly be very rich to afford this.
We did ourselves well, and drank only the oldest vintages, but when the bill was brought she simply signed it on the back and gave the waiter half a crown. A light began to dawn upon me.
“It's like reverting to the old system of barter, isn't it?” said madame with a laugh. “I dress the manager's wife at a reduction, and the manager feeds me. I don't suppose his directors know anything about it.”
As soon as we had appeared to have settled our bill several men whom madame knew crossed the room to speak to us; but she got rid of them all, suggesting to me that we should go to a music hall.
We had a box at the music hall without paying for it. “More barter,” said madame, “that silly little man's wife would never have reached her present position on the stage without the aid of my frocks.”
I began to think that Madame Karl was an exceeding power in the land, and also to doubt whether there wasn't something in the dressmaking business after all. I determined to make myself useful to her. I think I must have created somewhat of a sensation in that hall, for upon the door of our box beat an endless tattoo, and from the stalls necks were craned upwards, and a variety of male humanity studied me through opera glasses. It must have been me, for Madame Karl sat back in the shadow.
I did not enjoy the performance; few women figured among the turns; it was a carnival of comedians and a hymn of praise to vulgarity. The audience roared at the antics of the various little red nosed men who occupied the stage, but the humors of the enterprising lodger, the confiding landlady, and their illicit amours, and the ever recurring Bacchanal drink chant palled most terribly, and I was intensely relieved when madame recognized a friend and signalled to him to come and see us.
Mr. Runthaler was a gentleman of a comfortable person, and expensive fur coat, a deal of jewelry, and Semitic taint. Madame had forewarned me that he had a great deal of interest in matters theatrical, and I was very nice to him; he was in return very nice to me, in fact, rather too nice, for the semi-publicity of a box at a music hall. I found an early opportunity of broaching the subject of the stage. “Well, little girl,” he answered, “if you want to be an actress, take my advice and don't go to the agents; they'll never get you a London engagement, and I presume you don't want to spend your life tramping the provinces in a second-rate musical comedy company. If you want to play at a West End Theatre, you must get at the managers personally, and for a girl like you I don't think it'll be very hard. If you like, I'll give you an introduction to my friend Lewis, of the Duke's Theatre, he'll see any girl I send. I should advise you to try and catch him to-night; besides, that frock suits you.”
He left us directly, after pencilling a few words of introduction on his card, and soon afterwards I persuaded Madame to come with me to the Duke's Theatre.
The hall porter took the card and handed it to a young gentleman in faultless evening dress, who stood in the hall. The latter examined us at some length, enquired which was Miss La Mare, and then said that Mr. Lewis was not at present in the theatre, but that if I went round to his flat in the next street he might possibly see me. He wrote something on the card in a language which I took to be Yiddish, and handed it back to me. Word came down that Mr. Lewis would see me at once, and, closely followed by Madame Karl, I went up. We were shown into a large apartment extravagantly decorated in the Japanese manner, and so draped about the walls and ceilings with curtains that it had the appearance of a tent. The chief furniture of the place was an enormous divan extending nearly the whole length of the room; a few tables, mostly covered with bottles and glass of rare and antique design, were arranged in deliberate disorder; two large pictures represented classical and, incidentally, indelicate events; and there were a couple of capacious easy chairs; an upright grand piano, and that was all. In the middle of the divan, arrayed in a smoking suit and one that rivalled the storied coat of his ancestor Jacob, squatted, pacha fashion, Mr. Lewis.
He was a little round man, with a straight line of curling black hair across his lip, and a head that was entirely bald. As he sat there he looked like a Hebraic Humpty Dumpty. He made no attempt to rise, but welcomed us with a nod and an expression of annoyance, obviously caused by the presence of my companion.
“You are Miss La Mare, I presume,” he said glancing from the card in his hand to me. “Blanche La Mare-it should look well on a bill. And you want to be an actress. Well, what can you do, Miss La Mare?”
I answered that I could sing and he motioned me to the piano.
“Sing something light,” he said.
I selected a song out of Mirelda which I remembered. After the first verse he stopped me.
“Very nice, very nice, indeed,” he said. “And now, Miss La Mare, I cannot talk business before a third person; would your friend mind leaving us for a while?” Madame made a gesture of dissent, but though I was pretty sure what was coming, I had thought I'd better see it out, so I asked her to go.
When we were alone, Mr. Lewis left his divan and came towards me. “Well, you're a very pretty little lady,” he said. “I think you may suit me, just take your coat off, and let's see your shoulders. Ah, very nice too,” and he patted my neck affectionately. “And what pretty lips, may I?” Without waiting for an answer, he kissed me. I made no resistance; I was quite prepared to pay this sort of tribute.
“Very nice,” he said again, smacking his fat lips, “so far most satisfactory, and now let's see what sort of legs you have got.”
Madame had told me that the usual way adopted by a burlesque manager for making sure of his suitability of a girl's legs was for the girl to draw her legs tight round the members in question, and this I did.
“Ah, yes, but I'm afraid I can hardly tell by that, dear little lady,” he chuckled, “you know my patrons are very particular about legs. Don't be shy now, pull your clothes up and let me see what they really are like.”
I blushed, for I felt ashamed, but I did it. I lifted my clothes well above my knees, and as I was wearing rather short drawers, the perfect contour of my lower leg and a good deal of the upper part was plainly visible.
He asked me to stretch them apart, and I obeyed, blushing the more. He came quite close and leered at my limbs through his glasses.
“I think you'll do, my little dear,” he said. “I'll go and get a contract form. You will be undressed when I get back, won't you?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do, my dear, you understand me perfectly. If you had been a modest girl you wouldn't have shown me your legs. I like you and I should like to engage you, but before I sign the contract I'm going to enjoy you; what's there to make a fuss about in that?”
