Next morning I met Mr. Walter F. Munroe, and he was gude enow to promise to introduce me to several managers.  He took me off wi’ him then and there, and we made a round o’ all the music hall offices, and saw the managers, richt enow.  Yell mind they were all agreeable and pleasant tae me.  They said they were glad tae see me, and wrote me passes for their halls, and did a’ they could tae mak’ me feel at hame.  But they wouldna gie me the turn I was asking for!

I think Munroe hadna been verra hopefu’ frae the first, but he did a’ I wanted o’ him—­gie’d me the opportunity to talk to the managers mysel’.  Still, they made me feel my agent had been richt.  They didna want a Scot on any terms at a’, and that was all to it.

I was feelin’ blue enow when it came time for lunch, but I couldna do less than ask Munroe if he’d ha’ bit and sup wi’ me, after the kindness he’d shown me.  We went into a restaurant in the Strand.  I was no hungry; I was tae sair at heart, for it lookit as if I maun gang hame and tell the wife my first trip to London had been a failure.

“By George—­there’s a man we’ve not seen!” said Munroe, suddenly, as we sat, verra glum and silent.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Tom Tinsley—­the best fellow in London.  You’ll like him, whether he can do anything for you or not.  I’ll hail him——­”

He did, and Mr. Tinsley came over toward our table.  I liked his looks.

“He’s the manager of Gatti’s, in the Westminster Bridge Road,” whispered Munroe.  “Know it?”

I knew it as one of the smaller halls, but one with a decided reputation for originality and interesting bills, owing to the personality of its manager, who was never afraid to do a new thing that was out of the ordinary.  I was glad I was going to meet him.

“Here’s Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom,” said Munroe.  “Shake hands with him.  You’re both good fellows.”

Tinsley was as cordial as he could be.  We sat and chatted for a bit, and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of the conversation in gude enow fashion, bad as I felt.  But when, Munroe put in a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come over Tinsley’s face.  I could guess how many times in a day he had to meet ambitious, struggling artists.

“So you’re here looking for a shop, hey?” he said, turning to me.  His manner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordiality had vanished.  But I was not to be cast down.  “What’s your line?”

“Scotch comedian,” I said.  “I——­”

He raised his hand, and laughed.

“Stop right there—­that’s done the trick!  You’ve said enough.  Now, look here, my dear boy, don’t be angry, but there’s no use.  We’ve had Scotch comedians here in London before, and they’re no good to us.  I wish I could help you, but I really can’t risk it.”

“But you’ve not heard me sing,” I said.  “I’m different frae them ye talk of.  Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye’ll not think sae yersel?”