"George" What I 'ave I'll 'old.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 144, 20 June 1932, Page 15

"George" What I 'ave I'll 'old.

By . . . HOLLOWAY HORN.

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued.) He went out after lunch. There was still at least one car that was waiting on the off chance of being inspected by him, but the driver was sitting at the wheel asleep, so George inspected it in peace. Not even the little Jew could have sold it George decided.

This time he had no difficulty in getting into the Eegal Theatre and took his seat in the very front of the stalls with a pleasant feeling of imminent adventure. George had never, in all his life, known one of the actresses on the stage as he knew Dolly. There was a real thrill in it for him.

"Naughty .... naughty" was not a particularly brilliant production, even of its kind. It was a revue, and the name is a fair indication of what one might expect. The opening chorus was on the deck of a millionaire's yacht and Dolly Daydream was one of the 24 young lady guests, who had, apparently", honoured the millionaire with their company. Slid was dressed in a simple yellow frock—at least it appeared simple to George, she was not merely the focal point of the scene; she was the scene. He was sitting a little forward in his stall, hoping desperately that she would give some sign of recognition, wondering whether it were possible for the people on the stage to see beyond the glare of the footlights.

The revue lost its charm completely when Dolly was not on the stage. George was not in the least interested in the second scene—the millionaire's state-room—but he was very glad that Dolly was not playing the girl's part in it.

The final scene in the first part of the programme was in the ballroom of that most palatial of yachts, and Dolly wore a frock which rather made George gasp. Ho hoped he was broadminded—you can't run a hairdresser's and tobacconist's in Northesk Road, 5.W.18, without becoming broadminded—but she should have had a bit more on. Most of the dresses were like that, he noticed, and some of them worse.

But it was only her job, he assured himself. She had to wear the clothes the management provided. Still, it was a bit unsettling. And she danced beautifully.

Funny, George mused, as he sat in his stall, that ho should have bought eggs for her only a 'few days before. But life was funny. Ole Eth, sitting there sewing away iike billyo with the curit's wife and the other ladies. Damn funny. She did recognise him. At the end, just as the curtain fell for the interval, she gave him a little wave, and George, pleasantly thrilled, and feeling rather important, strolled out to find "the bar.

After the show, George took up his position outside the stage door and within a few minutes she was there. This time she was alone. Her face had the pinkness left by recently removed grease-paint, and she seemed quite pleased to see him.

"This is nice of you, Hector," she said. "I saw you in front. Doing the heavy weren't you, in the stalls?"

"I tried to pet in on the first night." "It's not froing well. What do you think of it?"

"Not too tad, Dolly. You were okay."

She curtseyed and fell in by his side. "Let's 'ave some tea?" ho suggested. "Rather. I'd love a cup. I'm free until -seven-thirty."

"'Ave some more poached eggs? Look 'ere, where shall we go? You know more about this part than I do. Anywhere you like."

"I suppose you had a pass for the show?"

"A pass? What, a free pass? I didn't know I 'ad to pay. Twelve and a kick! Jolly dear. . . ."

"Silly boy! You could have got into the pit." "I don't like the pit. Queueing up and all that. Look here, what about this tea? I want a cup." "I know a good cafe near the Circus." "That'll do." "It's rather expensive." "That's all right." "Come on then, Hector." They found a vacant table near the orchestra; the waiter handed the menu to Dolly. "What do you feel like?" she asked. "Look here. What about plaice and chips? Tha's always good in these places. Make it a sort of 'igh tea." ''I'd rather have curried eggs," Dolly said.

"So'll I then. Curried eggs . . . twice. Tea and what-not," he said to the waiter, which, comprehensive as it appeared, was apparently understood. "This is very nice of you," the girl said again, when the waiter had gone. "You know, Dolly, you look reely prettier off than on."

"That's very nice of you too." "I tried to find out your name from the programme. But you were put in with a lot of other mesdames."

Dolly smiled. "Wasn't Dolly Daydream among them?" "No. But what's a name matter?"

"Very little, Hector. By the way I'm most awfully sorry about Sunday. You know I didn't notice that you were with your wife the first time I saw you." "She was my wife," admitted Hector. "I could see that from the way she looked at me," laughed Dolly.' "Rather pretty." "She is that. She's diff'rent to you, though." "She's married, for one thing. That makes a big difference." "Who was the fellow with you?" "A pal of mine. He's in the show. Pat O'Beirne." "An actor! I thought 'e looked like one, on the river." "He was asleep most of the time." "I'm goiug to buy a car," George said as the waiter arrived with curried eggs, twice. "Are you? I say, you're going it rather, young fellow me lad, aren't you. ; ' "Not particular." "What make? A Rolls?" George grinned. No. Naustin," he said. "A baby? Your wife will be pleased." "Eth's all right," said George stoutly. "Eth? Is her name Ethel?" "Yes." "Then why ever don't you call her Ethel? It's a nice name. I don't like 'Eth' half so much." "What would she say if she saw you now ?" "What the eye don't see. . . ." "I suppose so. Still, if I were Eth, I should keep a sharper eye on you> young fellow!" "There's no 'arm in a man having a girl friend." "I wonder? I sometimes wonder if any mnu ever did li?,ve a girl friend." "What d'you mean?" George demanded, with a forkful of curried egg suspended, between, jjlato 4*iid mouth.

"Just that," said Dolly, wistfully. "I: I wasn't pretty, would you have both ered to come to the theatre?"

"I hadn't thought of it quite like that, I suppose I shouldn't."

"Course you wouldn't. Still I am fairly pretty?"

"Fairly," said George, judicially. "You little humbug, you jolly well know you are." "So prettiness is necessary in a girl friend?" "Natcherally you don't pick out the ugliest one you can find." "These are very good curried eggs, Hector." "You know, Dolly, you're the prettiest; girl in the room. You are rccly!" "That's not saying a great deal," she smiled. "They are a very dull crowd here this afternoon." "Seems ridiculous that an hour or so ago you were dancing on the stage with next to nothing on." "Wo haven't much on in that last scene. Some people wrote to the papers about it. So far it's the most hopeful sign. The show haft! simply a rotten press!" "A rotten press?" "Bad notices. Bad reviews. One said that the chorus was the one tiling that saved the show." "The theatre seemed full this afternoon." "A lot of paper. Tons of it! Can you dance, Hector?" "Rather. Come on."

Dolly as a dancing partner was an experience for George. In the- past, his partners had made up with enthusiasm for any lack of skill—you grabbed them and hoped for the best. But Dolly was

. George wondered what Doily was. Different . . . quite different. You hardly felt her in your arms at all, and yet you wore amazingly conscious ll.at she was there.

"You'd dance quite well, if you knew how to, Hector," she said.

"Thenks! A bit back-handed, bu . . thenks."

"Small contributions gratefully re ceived!" she laughed.

"That was fine," George said, with warmth, as they sought their table at the end of the danco. "Fine!"

"The fellow I dance with in the show is a wonderful dancer—he's bound td be a star soon—but he's a most unpleasant beast." "You must 'ave a lot of energy, Dolly. Matiney, dancing 'ere with me, and the theatre again to-night!" "Usually I rest between two shows. But I feel full of beans to-night. Come on! Let's have another." "I've not been keen on dancing before this," said George. Dolly laughed. "There are lots of things I could teach you, Hector," she said wickedly. "I'm sure. Look 'ere, when I get that car, we'll 'ave a run into the country." "Rather. You know, Hector, you're a queer chap. I can't kind of place you." "I'm deep, I am," smiled George. "Not very. But you're a bit puzzling. Are you really going to get a car?" "Yes." "You're in business?" George smiled. He liked being mysterious. "I didn't know what dancing was until I danced with you," he said, ignoring her question. "Anyway, I'm going to sit quiet /low. I'll be pretty fagged by the end of the show." "What about a spot of supper?" "'Ave a creme de Menthe; It won't 'urt you." "I don't mind a Benedictine." "Good. Hi . . gasson! Benedictine, twice."

"And then I'd better be getting back'" "We'll get a taxi," said George. "You haven't been robbing the till or anything like that?" "It's my till. Don't worry about me, Dolly. I'm okay." In the taxi she nestled comfortably against him and George, disgraceful as the proceeding may be in a respectably married man, put Irs arm round lie.-. One cannot defend his conduct; one merely records it. He parted from his girl friend at_ the theatre, and continued in the taxi to Waterloo, feeling no end 'of a lad. It was only when he alighted at Clapham Junction, at nearer eight than seven o'clock, that he came down to earth and realised that some sort of explanation of the afternoon's happenings must be forthcoming for Eth. (To be continued daily.)