At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:
“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:
He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:
The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by:
He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes, when he is again interrupted by the question:
He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A.
“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?”
A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.”
All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage.
“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front.
“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.
“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost gasps.
“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod.
“Have we your address?” asks one of them.
“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer.
Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.”