you, my boy!" held it poised for a moment, set it down, and strode
away, followed by rapt gazes from the barmaids.

A stout fellow. He took the conductor's chair with all the pomposity of
a provincial borough official. He tapped for the coda with the touch of
a king knighting an illustrious subject. And when he led the boys
through the National Anthem, standing up in his place and facing the
house, all lights up--well, there are literally no words for it....

At twelve years old I grew up, and sought out my own entertainment,
prowling, always alone, into strange places. I discovered halls that
nobody else seemed to know, such as the Star at Bermondsey, the Queen's
at Poplar, and the Cambridge in Commercial Street. I crawled around
queer bars, wonderfully lighted, into dusky refreshment-houses in the
Asiatic quarter, surely devised by Haroun al Raschid, and into softly
lit theatres and concert-halls. At eighteen I took my pleasures less
naively, and dined solemnly in town, and toured, solemn and critical,
the western halls, enjoying everything but regarding it with pale
detachment. Now, however, I am quite frank in my delight in this
institution, which has so crept into the life of the highest and the
lowest, the vulgar and the intellectual; and scarcely a week passes
without a couple of shows.

The mechanism of the modern hall is a marvellous thing. From the small
offices about Leicester Square, where the big circuits are registered,
men and women and children are sent thousands and thousands of miles to
sing, dance, act, or play the fool. The circuits often control thirty or
forty halls in London and the provinces, each of which is under the care
of a manager, who is responsible for its success. The turns are booked
by the central booking manager and allocated either to this or that
London hall, or to work the entire syndicate tour; and the bill of each
hall, near or far, is printed and stage-times fixed weeks in advance.
The local manager every Saturday night has to pay his entire staff, both
stage and house; that is, he not only pays programme girls,
chuckers-out, electricians, and so forth, but each artist, even the L200
a week man, is paid in cash at each hall he is working. When a new turn
is booked for any given hall, the manager of that hall must be "in
front" and watch that turn and its success or non-success with the
house; and, at the end of the week, a confidential report has to be
sent to headquarters in