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ROAMIN' IN THE GLOAMIN' 123
to was the direct thoroughfare leading south from Westminster Bridge. Tinsley was the first actual manager I met in London. We adjourned to a public-house and again I "flashed" a sovereign for publicity purposes. Once more it had a good effect, Tinsley opening his eyes in palpable amazement at a Scots "comic" being in such affluence. But whenever I mentioned that I was looking for a job his geniality dried up on the spot.
"It's no good, me lad," he assured me. "My patrons at the "road" would eat me alive if I put you on. I tried a Scot last year and he had to fly for his life. You're in a foreign country and the sooner you realize it the better !" Tom had another drink at my expense and left us but before taking his departure he noted my "town address" (I had fixed up a third-floor room in the Lambeth Road at fifteen shillings a week) and said he would let me know if anything fell out of his bill at any time within the next week or two. Walter Munroe took me to several more agencies but we met with the same reception at them all. "Luv-a-duck, 'Arry," said Walter Munroe in his most lugubrious tones, "it ain't no bleedin' good. You ain't wanted up 'ere and that seems the finish!" And then Walter went his way.
I spent a very cheerless night in my back-third at the Lambeth Road but was up bright and early tackling more agents and more managers. I must have walked ten or twelve miles in that weary search for work. But everywhere the result was nil — :a blank wall of discouragement. When I got home I asked the landlady — "Any letters, messages or telegrams?" Had I stopped for a minute to consider I would never have put so stupid a question for it was a million to one against any communications awaiting me. My wife did not know of my address in London yet and Tom Tinsley was the only person who had taken a note of it. To my amazement the landlady replied, "Yes, there's a telegram up in your room !" I dashed upstairs two steps