Mr. May turned in to the Derby Hotel to have a small whiskey. And of course he entered into conversation.
“You seem somewhat quiet at Lumley,” he said, in his odd, refined-showman’s voice. “Have you nothing at all in the way of amusement?”
“They all go up to Woodhouse, else to Hathersedge.”
“But couldn’t you support some place of your own—some rival to Wright’s Variety?”
“Ay—’appen—if somebody started it.”
And so it was that James was inoculated with the idea of starting a cinema on the virgin soil of Lumley. To the women he said not a word. But on the very first morning that Mr. May broached the subject, he became a new man. He fluttered like a boy, he fluttered as if he had just grown wings.
“Let us go down,” said Mr. May, “and look at a site. You pledge yourself to nothing—you don’t compromise yourself. You merely have a site in your mind.”
And so it came to pass that, next morning, this oddly assorted couple went down to Lumley together. James was very shabby, in his black coat and dark grey trousers, and his cheap grey cap. He bent forward as he walked, and still nipped along hurriedly, as if pursued by fate. His face was thin and still handsome. Odd that his cheap cap, by incongruity, made him look more a gentleman. But it did. As he walked he glanced alertly hither and thither, and saluted everybody.
By his side, somewhat tight and tubby, with his chest out and his head back, went the prim figure of Mr. May, reminding one of a consequential bird of the smaller species. His plumbago-grey suit fitted exactly—save that it was perhaps a little tight. The jacket and waistcoat were bound with silk braid of exactly the same shade as the cloth. His soft collar, immaculately fresh, had a dark stripe like his shirt. His boots were black, with grey suede uppers: but a little down at heel. His dark-grey hat was jaunty. Altogether he looked very spruce, though a little behind the fashions: very pink faced, though his blue eyes were bilious beneath: very much on the spot, although the spot was the wrong one.
They discoursed amiably as they went, James bending forward, Mr. May bending back. Mr. May took the refined man-of-the-world tone.
“Of course,” he said—he used the two words very often, and pronounced the second, rather mincingly, to rhyme with “sauce”: “Of course,” said Mr. May, “it’s a disgusting place—disgusting! I never was in a worse, in all the cauce of my travels. But then—that isn’t the point—”
He spread his plump hands from his immaculate shirt-cuffs.
“No, it isn’t. Decidedly it isn’t. That’s beside the point altogether. What we want—” began James.
“Is an audience—of cauce—! And we have it—! Virgin soil—!”
“Yes, decidedly. Untouched! An unspoiled market.”
“An unspoiled market!” reiterated Mr. May, in full confirmation, though with a faint flicker of a smile. “How very fortunate for us.”
“Properly handled,” said James. “Properly handled.”
“Why yes—of cauce! Why shouldn’t we handle it properly!”
“Oh, we shall manage that, we shall manage that,” came the quick, slightly husky voice of James.
“Of cauce we shall! Why bless my life, if we can’t manage an audience in Lumley, what can we do.”
“We have a guide in the matter of their taste,” said James. “We can see what Wright’s are doing—and Jordan’s—and we can go to Hathersedge and Knarborough and Alfreton—beforehand, that is—”
“Why certainly—if you think it’s necessary. I’ll do all that for you. And I’ll interview the managers and the performers themselves—as if I were a journalist, don’t you see. I’ve done a fair amount of journalism, and nothing easier than to get cards from various newspapers.”
“Yes, that’s a good suggestion,” said James. “As if you were going to write an account in the newspapers—excellent.”
“And so simple! You pick up just all the information you require.”
“Decidedly—decidedly!” said James.
And so behold our two heroes sniffing round the sordid backs and wasted meadows and marshy places of Lumley. They found one barren patch where two caravans were standing. A woman was peeling potatoes, sitting on the bottom step of her caravan. A half-caste girl came up with a large pale-blue enamelled jug of water. In the background were two booths covered up with coloured canvas. Hammering was heard inside.
“Good morning!” said Mr. May, stopping before the woman. “ ’Tisn’t fair time, is it?”
“No, it’s no fair,” said the woman.
“I see. You’re just on your own. Getting on all right?”
“Fair,” said the woman.
“Only fair! Sorry. Good morning.”
Mr. May’s quick eye, roving round, had seen a negro stoop from under the canvas that covered one booth. The negro was thin, and looked young but rather frail, and limped. His face was very like that of the young negro in Watteau’s drawing—pathetic, wistful, north-bitten. In an instant Mr. May had taken all in: the man was the woman’s husband—they were acclimatized in these regions: the booth where he had been hammering was a Hoopla. The other would be a coconut-shy. Feeling the instant American dislike for the presence of a negro, Mr. May moved off with James.
They found out that the woman was a Lumley woman, that she had two children, that the negro was a most quiet and respectable chap, but that the family kept to itself, and didn’t mix up with Lumley.
“I should think so,” said Mr. May, a little disgusted even at the suggestion.
Then he proceeded to find out how long they had stood on this ground—three months—how long they would remain—only another week, then they were moving off to Alfreton fair—who was the owner of the pitch—Mr. Bows, the butcher. Ah! And what was the ground used for? Oh, it was building land. But the foundation wasn’t very good.
“The very thing! Aren’t we fortunate!” cried Mr. May,
