Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ old favourite, anent the German Emperor and his naval ambitions:

      His friends assert he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

      But he’s building ships of war

      What does he want ’em for?

      They’ll all be ours by and by!

      It was by two young writers unknown to Mr Franklin, an American named Kern and an Englishman called Wodehouse; hearing the chorus taken up by the audience with patriotic abandon, he recalled the dire prophecies of his companion of the railway train.

      When the show had thundered to its brassy finale, Mr Franklin made his way to the theatre steps and paused among the dispersing, high-spirited audience, wondering, for the first time since he had come to England, what he should do next. He had spent a busy day; he had, thanks to Samson, experienced a London theatre, and been slightly surfeited by brilliant lights, heady, swinging music, and half-understood jokes and choruses; now he had time on his hands. As he hesitated on the steps, he felt perhaps just a touch of what every stranger to London, in any age, must feel: that consciousness of being alone in the multitude. It did not trouble him; he was only a little tired, but content, and presently he would feel hungry. Until then, he would walk and take in the sights, and at that he set off along the pavement, hat and cane in one hand, stepping briskly – to the chagrin of several bright-eyed and exotically-dressed ladies skirmishing in the foyer, who had simultaneously noted his diamond and silver studs, his hesitation, and his solitary condition, and had been sauntering purposefully towards him from various directions. Disappointed, they wheeled away gracefully like high-heeled, feathered galleons, while Mr Franklin, unaware of his escape, walked on where his feet led him, taking in the sights and sounds and wondering vaguely where he was, exactly.

      It seemed to him, as he walked, that this section of London was one vast theatre – everywhere there were canopies with their myriad electric bulbs, names in lights, huge posters, and audiences escaping into the open air, laughing and surging out in quest of cabs and taxis. To escape the crowds, he turned into a less-congested side street, and found himself confronting a stout little old woman, surrounded by flower baskets, soliciting his custom.

      “Posy fer the lady, sir. Boo-kays an’ posies. W’ite ’eather fer luck, sir. Buy a posy.”

      Instinctively he reached for a coin, smiling; he did not want flowers, but he was in that relaxed, easy state which is easily imposed on. As it happened, the coin he held out was a florin, and before he knew it he was grasping a massive bunch of blooms, and the grateful vendor was calling down luck, blessings, and good health on his head. He was on the point of suggesting an exchange for something smaller, but another customer had arrived, so Mr Franklin shrugged ruefully and walked on, examining his trophy, vaguely aware that just ahead of him, in that unpromising side-street, with its dust-bins and littered gutters, some activity was taking place round a lighted doorway.

      His glance took in several couples, men dressed like himself, each with a girl on his arm, laughing and chattering as they moved away towards the main street; he was abreast of the doorway when a young woman came tripping out and almost collided with him. Mr Franklin stepped back, starting to apologize; the young woman looked right and left and straight at him; her glance went to the flowers in his hand, she smiled radiantly, then looked more closely at the bouquet, and regarded him with astonishment.

      “Where did you get those, then?” she demanded.

      “I beg your pardon?” Mr Franklin, nonplussed, looked from her to the flowers. “Why – from the old woman – along there.”

      “You never!” She found it incredible. “Well, you’re a fine one, I must say!”

      For a moment Mr Franklin, recalling his encounter with the suffragette the previous night, wondered if all Englishwomen were mad, or at least eccentric. This one looked sane enough – not only sane, in fact, but beautiful. Or if not beautiful, perhaps, then quite strikingly pretty. She was small, with bright blonde hair piled on top of her neat little head to give her added height; the face beneath was a perfect oval with pert nose, dimpled chin, and vivid blue eyes – one of them unfortunately had a slight squint, and Mr Franklin instinctively dropped his glance, taking in instead the hour-glass figure in the glittering white evening dress beneath the fur cape. Altogether, she was something of a vision in that grimy back street – a slightly professional vision, though, with her carefully made-up complexion and bosom rather over-exposed even by the generous Edwardian standard.

      “You buy flowers from a florist, dear,” she said, regarding him with something between laughter and indignation, “not from street-hawkers. Not for me, anyway.”

      Mr Franklin stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t buy flowers for –”

      “Here!” exclaimed the young woman. “Aren’t you from Box 2A?”

      “No,” said Mr Franklin firmly. “I’m not. Not lately.”

      “This isn’t your card?” And she held up a rectangle of pasteboard on which some message, indecipherable in that faint light, was scrawled. He shook his head.

      “Well!” she exclaimed in some vexation. “I was sure you were him. Where the hell is he, then?”

      Mr Franklin automatically looked round; certain there was no one else waiting. Behind her two other girls, in the same theatrical finery, were emerging from the doorway. For the first time he realized that the light overhead shone from within an iron frame reading “Stage Door”, and understanding dawned.

      “Oh, damn!” said the blonde. “Another one with cold feet! Honestly, it makes you sick. They get all feverish, watching you on stage, and then at the last minute they remember mama, all worried about her wandering boy, and leave you flat.” She pouted, tore up the card, shrugged, and regarded Mr Franklin ruefully. “Who were you waiting for, then – Elsie, is it? She’ll be out in a minute. I say, Glad,” she said over her shoulder, “he isn’t from 2A after all.”

      “Shame.” Glad, a dark, languorous beauty, looked Mr Franklin up and down regretfully. “Elsie has all the luck. “Night, Pip.” She and her companion sauntered off, and Mr Franklin, conscious that he was at a rather ridiculous disadvantage, was about to withdraw with what dignity he could, when the small blonde snorted indignantly.

      “Of all the rotten tricks! D’you know, I haven’t been stood up since I was in the chorus? Brewster’s Millions, that was – and just as well, really; I think he was married –”

      “I’m afraid –”

      “’Course, in the chorus, you learn to expect it – now and then. But when you get out in front – well, when you have a solo, and if you’ve got any kind of figure at all – and I have, no mistake about it – well, you don’t get billings as ‘The Pocket Venus’ if you haven’t, do you? Huh! Of all the disky beasts! Blow him – whoever he was. I could have done with dinner at the Troc., too,” she added wistfully. “Hold on, I’ll see what’s keeping Elsie. Won’t be a sec.”

      “Just a minute!” Mr Franklin spoke sharply, and the blonde checked, startled. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not waiting for Elsie. In fact, I’m not waiting for anyone. I bought these flowers by chance –”

      “You’re an American,” said the blonde, smiling brilliantly. “Well, I never!”

      “I’m sorry if you were disappointed,” Franklin went on. “But you see—”

      “Hold СКАЧАТЬ