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were beginning to work off, and I felt a little weak. Through a sort of mist I seemed to have a vision of Aunt Agatha hearing that the head of the Mannering-Phippses was about to appear on the vaudeville stage. Aunt Agatha’s worship of the family name amounts to an obsession. The Mannering-Phippses were an old-established clan when William the Conqueror was a small boy going round with bare legs and a catapult. For centuries they have called kings by their first names and helped dukes with their weekly rent; and there’s practically nothing a Mannering-Phipps can do that doesn’t blot his escutcheon. So what Aunt Agatha would say—beyond saying that it was all my fault—when she learned the horrid news, it was beyond me to imagine.
    â€˜Come back to the hotel, Gussie,’ I said. ‘There’s a sportsman there who mixes things he calls “lightning whizzers.” Something tells me I need one now. And excuse me for one minute, Gussie. I want to send a cable.’
    It was clear to me by now that Aunt Agatha had picked the wrong man for this job of disentangling Gussie from the clutches of the American vaudeville profession. What I needed was reinforcements. For a moment I thought of cabling Aunt Agatha to come over, but reason told me that this would be overdoing it. I wanted assistance, but not so badly as that. I hit what seemed to me the happy mean. I cabled to Gussie’s mother and made it urgent.
    â€˜What were you cabling about?’ asked Gussie, later.
    â€˜Oh just to say I had arrived safely, and all that sort of tosh,’ I answered.
    Gussie opened his vaudeville career on the following Monday at a rummy sort of place uptown where they had moving pictures some of the time and, in between, one or two vaudeville acts. It had taken a lot of careful handling to bring him up to scratch. He seemed to take my sympathy and assistance for granted, and I couldn’t let him down. My only hope, which grew as I listened to him rehearsing, was that he would be such a frightful frost at his first appearance that he would never dare to perform again; and, as that would automatically squash the marriage, it seemed best to me to let the thing go on.
    He wasn’t taking any chances. On the Saturday and Sunday we practically lived in a beastly little music room at the offices of the publishers whose songs he proposed to use. A little chappie with a hooked nose sucked a cigarette and played the piano all day. Nothing could tire that lad. He seemed to take a personal interest in the thing.
    Gussie would cleat his throat and begin:
    â€˜There’s a great big choo-choo waiting at the deepo.’
    THE CHAPPIE (playing chords): ‘Is that so? What’s it waiting for?’
    GUSSIE (rather rattled at the interruption): ‘Waiting for me.’
    THE CHAPPIE (surprised): ‘For you?’
    GUSSIE (sticking to it): ‘Waiting for me-e-ee!’
    THE CHAPPIE (skeptically): ‘You don’t say!’
    GUSSIE: ‘For I’m off to Tennessee.’
    THE CHAPPIE (conceding a point): ‘Now, I live at Yonkers.’
    He did this all through the song. At first poor old Gussie asked him to stop, but the chappie said, No, it was always done. It helped to get pep into the thing. He appealed to me whether the thing didn’t want a bit of pep, and I said it wanted all the pep it could get. And the chappie said to Gussie, ‘There you are!’ So Gussie had to stand it.
    The other song that he intended to sing was one of those moon songs. He told me in a hushed voice that he was using it because it was one of the songs that the girl Ray sang when lifting them out of their seats at Mosenstein’s and elsewhere. The fact seemed to give it sacred associations for him.
    You will scarcely believe me, but the management expected Gussie to show up and start performing at one o’clock in the afternoon. I told him they couldn’t be serious, as they must know that he