When he came down he looked about him for some
occupation which should combine in happy proportions a small amount of
work and a large amount of salary, and, finding none, drifted into
journalism, at which calling he had been doing very fairly ever since.
"Dear Bob," the letter began. Fenn's names were Robert Mowbray, the
second of which he had spent much of his time in concealing. "Just a
line."
The elder Fenn always began his letters with these words, whether they
ran to one sheet or eight. In the present case the screed was not
particularly long.
"Do you remember my reading you a bit of an opera I was writing? Well,
I finished it, and, after going the round of most of the managers, who
chucked it with wonderful unanimity, it found an admirer in Higgs, the
man who took the part of the duke in _The Outsider_. Luckily, he
happened to be thinking of starting on his own in opera instead of
farce, and there's a part in mine which fits him like a glove. So he's
going to bring it out at the Imperial in the spring, and by way of
testing the piece--trying it on the dog, as it were--he means to tour
with it. Now, here's the point of this letter. We start at Eckleton
next Wednesday. We shall only be there one night, for we go on to
Southampton on Thursday. I suppose you couldn't come and see it? I
remember Peter Brown, who got the last place in the team the year I
got my cricket colours, cutting out of his house (Kay's, by the way)
and going down town to see a piece at the theatre.
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