Show Business: THE ROAD

Hie facet Arthurus Rex quondam Rex que futurus.

So read the inscription on King Arthur’s tombstone, according to Sir Thomas Malory. The King would, at some indeterminate date, return to life and reign again; meanwhile, Here lies King Arthur the once and future King. It is doubtful that Malory or even Merlin himself could possibly have guessed just where Arthur would make his comeback: that he would appear on Dec. 3, 1960 on the stage of Broadway’s Majestic Theater.

He is bringing something more than a Round Table with him. In the royal train are eight baggage cars full of scenery, more than 200 people, including 46 stagehands, 41 musicians and 56 actors. Above all, he comes with a pair of gifted squires, Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, now the best writer-composer team in the American musical theater. Lerner, the librettist, and Loewe, the composer, have already proved themselves worthy of the King. Their last try was My Fair Lady. They also did Brigadoon, Paint Your Wagon, and the much-Oscared film Gigi. They have now written and are still rewriting on the road Camelot, probably the biggest, most beautifully set, and most complex musical play yet attempted a spectacular effort to compress into one lyrical evening the essence of Arthurian legend.

Tryout Shades. On precarious Broadway, where months of work can end in one morning’s disastrous reviews, some shows are too big to be destroyed by the critics and Camelot is bound to be one. Last year Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music had so much pre-Broadway momentum (a then unprecedented advance sale of about $2,000,000) that it crashed through a barricade of unenthusiastic reviews, and will probably run for another two years. Camelot, with more than $3,000,000 worth of tickets already sold, may find reviews ranging from rave to grave, but in any event, the show will go on, and on.

By no coincidence, there is a My Fair Ladylike tone to Camelot’s credits. Not only did Lerner and Loewe create the play, but Fair Lady’s Director Moss Hart signed on again, along with Julie Andrews as Guinevere, Choreographer Hanya Holm, Set Designer Oliver Smith, Conductor Franz Allers. Beyond that, Lerner’s libretto is drawn from one of the best novels of the loth and 20th centuries, T. H. White’s The Once and Future King. And Arthur himself is arriving in the shape and voice of Wales’s and the Old Vic’s Richard Burton, who at 34 is numbered among the half-dozen great actors in the English-speaking world.

Moving the multicolored pavilions of Camelot toward Broadway, Lerner and Loewe last week were in Boston, bumping into the great shades of past tryout seasons, from Babes in Arms to South Pacific. (Richard Rodgers once swore he would never open so much as a can of sardines without going to Boston first.) A uniquely American practice, the road tryout is as formalized as the judicium Dei the ordeal of the Middle Ages. The road ordeal is by rewriting and cutting, by sleepless nights and interminable waiting, by cold coffee and warm highball, by panicky rumor and wild hope. Severely tested along with everyone else is the audience, which has to sit through long scenes already marked for destruction. As a production is laboriously dragged from town to town (before Camelot reaches New York, its railway fares and freight charges alone will reach $35,000), a playwright sometimes tosses everything but his last will and testament into the first draft to see what will go. A merchandising mentality (“Give them what they want”) can sacrifice a song, a scene or a whole play to the whim of a weary tryout audience. But in experienced, honest hands, the road ordeal can also lead to the kind of relentless self-criticism in which Lerner, Loewe & Co. were caught up last week.

Unreal City. Boston, in the view of its Broadway visitors, is a city as unreal as Morgan le Fay’s forest, consisting of just a few buildings and a couple of dozen cabs. As Camelot principals were shuttling back and forth between the gilt Shubert Theater and the plush Ritz-Carlton Hotel, everyone was rewriting Camelot. Bit players were suggesting changes to chorus girls. Even floor waiters appeared to have a new second act under their silver dish covers recalling Moss Hart’s adage that when a show is in trouble, room service invariably seems awful.

Still on everyone’s mind was the trouble that had very nearly turned Camelot from a musical into a medical. In Toronto, where the show opened six weeks ago, Lerner led off with a bleeding ulcer, was in hospital for ten days. Director Moss Hart followed with a coronary thrombosis (his second), went off to the same hospital, same room, and indefinitely out of Camelot.

No one had forgotten that Costume Designer Adrian had died soon after beginning work on the show last year. A wardrobe mistress’ husband was found dead in their New York apartment. The chief electrician was hospitalized with bladder trouble. Actor Burton took on a virus that almost choked off his singing voice, and the traditional “company cold” spread to Sir Lancelot (Robert Goulet), was even worse in Boston than Toronto. A chorus girl ran a needle through her foot onstage. Frederick Loewe, who himself suffered a severe heart attack two years ago, was temporarily felled by influenza. “We are all quitting,” said one stage manager. “We will be replaced tomorrow by hospital orderlies.”

Sir Aggravate & Friend. With Author Lerner, ulcer and all, doubling for sorely missed Director Hart but too busy re-writing to spend much time in the theater Camelot moved forward of its own weight, only slightly trimmed from its original 3 hr. 40 min., while the mood of the cast settled into general uncertainty. Knights were complaining that their chain mail was wearing out and tempers were wearing out too. When a dancer tripped over a piece of scenery last week, Set Designer Smith was heard to snap: “I hope you broke your leg.” Novice squires were learning from cynical old-timers that this was the time to pursue chorus girls, since they were away from home, lonesome and worried. One reason spirits did not fall farther was that some were being consumed by the imperial quart, backstage and elsewhere, before, during and after each performance. More than one knight of the Round Table was caught breaking his vows. In semi-idleness, it hardly seemed like the idyled kingdom of Camelot.

Amid the confusion walked the two men who had started it, and who must end it in the next three weeks. Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, said Julie Andrews, “are the loneliest men in town.” Acting as their own producers, with $3,000,000 of other people’s money and their own reputations to safeguard, they have to worry about everything from the color of Julie Andrews’ hair (too light) to King Pellinore’s visor (will not fall shut on cue) to the inner mists of the Arthurian theme.

Shut away in the Ritz-Carlton, Lerner fills Apartment 1004 with cigarette smoke and new lines for Camelot. Across the hall in another suite, his two-year-old son Michael listens to a phonograph not Lerner and Loewe, but Au Clair de la Lune. Up in 1204, Loewe (“Sir Aggravate,” as Lerner nicknames him) broods under the fond eye of his current, 24-year-old girl friend; he calls her “baby boy,” she calls him “baby bear.” For hours each day, Lerner joins Loewe at the piano as they work together on four new songs, including one called The Seven Deadly Virtues, plus the problems of telescoping four Act I scenes into two, straightening out Act II, deepening Mordred’s villainy all of which requires new lines, new musical bridges, and scenes long enough to allow complicated scene shifts. When he is not pounding the piano, Loewe fingers a piece of jade it once belonged to an Oriental potentate who said his beloved had always kept it as close as possible to her which serves Fritz as a sort of mineral Miltown.

And so the ordeal goes on. The outcome depends entirely on the strength and experience of two partners as dissimilar as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

The Two Knights. Frederick (“Fritz”) Loewe is Viennese, emotional, a flamboyant gambler who thinks the second biggest thrill on earth is to drop $30,000 in a single night at the casino tables, then tell about it for weeks. Alan Jay Lerner is cool, self-controlled and self-censored, a planner who will not even put money in his own shows because, as he firmly explains, “I don’t bet.” Loewe likes to recall that he “starved” for 20 years; Lerner has always been wealthy. Short, lean, with the sallow skin of the heart patient, Loewe is 59 and looks it; about the same height (5 ft. 6 in.), with small bones and an unweathered complexion, Lerner is 42 and could pass for a graduate student. Both men are intensely ambitious for the critical success of their work, but Lerner clothes his self-esteem in mannered diffidence while Loewe shrugs: “I’m too old to be modest. I’m a genius and I know it.”

Lerner is a fastidious dresser whose clothes are always neat and perfectly cut, with a rococo touch here and there. Loewe is a bit rumpled, his predilections turning more to wine, women, and when the need arises song. Lerner smokes, and has a habit of twirling the ignited cigarette in his fingers like the active end of a turboprop. Loewe has given up smoking, but when the jade palls he constantly keeps an unlit cigarette in his hand, gradually flattening and shredding it as he talks. He pinches away a pack a day, recently changed brands.

Psychologists might note that neither had any fondness for his mother, and that both have wildly unstable relationships with women. But Loewe is mockingly uninterested in psychoanalysis, while Lerner believes in it strongly, has had a pride of analysts. Loewe professes not to worry about his health, while Lerner is a bit of a hypochondriac, makes a fetish of weighing himself daily; he buys a new scale wherever he goes, probably owns the largest collection this side of the Office of Weights and Measures. Loewe has hated the telephone ever since he answered it once when he was six, was told that his favorite uncle had committed suicide. “Bad news I don’t want to hear on the phone,” he says, “and good news I don’t need any more.” Lerner, on the other hand, loves and needs the horn; according to his partner, the first thing he does in the morning is to reach yawningly for the phone and pick it up. “Half the time, he doesn’t even know who he’s going to call.”

Both men seem to have yearnings for aristocracy. Loewe murmurs now and again that his mother was a baroness, and Lerner is proud that his present wife is an indirect descendant of Napoleon. Lerner would be unlikely to cross a street unless the trip made reasonable sense, but Loewe once flew with a friend from Los Angeles to Vienna just to taste again those wonderful Little Wiener Wrsteln, (Vienna frankfurters) that “spit in your mouth.” Then he got on another plane and flew back to California. It was an epically impractical journey, but it did, however briefly, take him home.

From Liszt to Lehar. Frederick Loewe grew up in a musical-comedy world. His father, Edmund Loewe, a Vienna-born operetta tenor, was the first Prince Danilo in the Berlin production of Franz Lehar’s The Merry Widow, the Fair Lady of its day, was also Berlin’s first Chocolate Soldier. Fritz’s mother Rosa was the daughter of a Viennese Baumeister (builder) and a sometime actress who used lipstick and cigarettes in a never-never age when young ladies only pinched their cheeks for color, also added color to her life with a swift and exotic imagination. At 16 she had some people convinced that she was mistress to Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir presumptive to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, who at Sarajevo was to stop the bullet that started World War I.

Some of Fritz’s first steps were mazurkas and waltzes, as he listened to an aunt in Vienna play on the family’s baby grand. At five he wrote his first tune, and at nine he contributed melodies to a show of his father’s. He also spent so much vagabond time in backstage dressing rooms that his parents decided to put him in a Berlin military school. He still resentfully recalls the wrought-iron gates closing on his smiling, light-footed mother, a blown kiss and her casual “Goodbye, my love, be happy.” Later he studied piano at Stern’s Conservatory in Berlin, preparing for a concert career. But at 15 he tossed off the first hint of Broadway a popular song called Kathrin (“the girl with the best legs in Berlin”) that sold about 2.000.000 copies of sheet music.

Aging into his late teens, Fritz burned out his evening hours moving from party to party, playing everything from Liszt to Lehar. Slender, handsome, with dark blond curly hair, he was cocky, arrogant, and popular with girls, all sorts of girls. He declares that he had his first sexual experience at 2 and his first affair at nine with his governess (“I thought I was abnormally precocious until I read Kinsey”). By 17, in the words of a conservatory friend, he was a “sexual democrat.” Once, having outrun his credit at a brothel, he paid off his debt by entertaining at the madam’s piano.

Into the Ring. In 1924, accompanying his father on a tour of what Loewe Sr. called “the only country left on this globe,” Fritz landed in the U.S. He apparently failed to persuade the critics or himself that the piano was the only career for Fritz Loewe. But a concert life, he told himself, was just so much acrobatics anyway, while a steady job with an orchestra was “like being in a union”; he pawned his career for seven years of wildly miscellaneous jobs.

At Rockaway Beach a fight promoter admired his compact little build, put him in the ring, and he won eight bouts before the ninth opponent according to Fritz, it was Tony Canzoneri, later featherweight champion of the world knocked him out after three seconds of the first round. He taught riding at a resort in New Hampshire, worked as a mail rider packing the post into a gold mine near Cooke City, Mont. He played tinkly-tonk piano in little bins in Greenwich Village, Third Avenue bars, beer halls in Manhattan’s German quarter. He took three weeks to learn the organ, played at Keith’s Albee in Brooklyn. He also played the piano on a cruise ship that commuted between Miami and Havana. “I was a bad sailor,” he says, “and had to throw up after every chorus.”

The Meeting. During the Depression, Fritz recalls, he was so broke that he could not pay $12 due on his rented piano. When three moving men appeared at his furnished room to take the piano away, Fritz sat down to play for the last time Herbert, then Liszt. Beethoven. “Finally I was covered with sweat and I looked around. It was dark out. The three men were sitting on the floor. One called the others aside, and they talked for a few minutes. Then each man took out $2 and gave it to me. This could only happen in America.”

About then, Fritz swore off wild oats, in 1931 married Ernestine Zwerleine, later a John Frederics millinery model, daughter of a Viennese architect. He also teamed up with Lyricist Earle Crooker, wrote Salute to Spring (1937), which did moderately well in St. Louis but never moved East, and Great Lady (1938), which opened as will Camelot in Broadway’s Majestic Theater, and closed after 17 performances. For four years, Fritz wrote almost nothing but sketches and songs for the Lambs Club Gambols, the intramural games of Broadway. Then a friend in Detroit asked him to do a show for a new theater there. With awe, Fritz Loewe, who has enormous respect for the power of coincidence, recalls how at the Lambs one day he took an unaccustomed route to the men’s room: “I always went through the main hall, but just that time, for no reason, I turned left in the grill room.” On his way he passed the table of a thin young man who, he knew, had written some good sketches for the Gambols. “You write good lyrics,” said Loewe. “Would you like to do a musical with me?” “Yes,” replied Alan Jay Lerner, ‘T happen to have two weeks off.”

Radio Row & Park. Lerner could have had, say, two years off if he had wished. He was as rich as Loewe was poor. But he was working as a radio scriptwriter on “a schedule so tight,” he remembers, “that it would only work if I didn’t sleep on Monday nights.” He wrote daily sketches for Celeste Holm and Alfred Drake, material for Victor Borge and Hildegarde, turned out great hunks of audiopageantry for Philco Hall of Fame and Cavalcade of America, all the while keeping dark the personal secret that he was an heir to the loverly fortune that his father (once an Atlantic City dentist) and uncles had built up by converting a small blouse-making firm into the national chain called Lerner Shops.

Alan Lerner was raised in a 17-room Park Avenue apartment with a paneled library and wall-to-wall antiques. He adored his father and resented his forceful mother. There was considerable tension between the parents (later divorced). Alan’s mother once slapped his face, saying: “You look too much like your father.” Muses Alan now: “My mother really didn’t start loving me until Brigadoon.”

His long-ailing father believed that “there are only two reasons for having money to get the best room in the hospital and to educate one’s children.” From the start, Alan had a first-rate education Manhattan’s Columbia Grammar School; Bedales School in Hampshire, England; Choate School. As a prep-school boy, Alan was fastidious but full of enthusiasm. Says his brother Richard: “He was the only one I’ve ever known who could play 60 minutes of gutsy football on a muddy field and not get his uniform dirty.”

Hasty Puddings. Young Alan wrote a football marching song that is still sung at Choate, was one of the editors of the school yearbook, along with 19-year-old John Fitzgerald Kennedy. (A registered Republican, Lerner organized a Stevenson Club in 1956, likes Kennedy well enough and still sees him occasionally, but has said of the 1960 election that he really does not “give a damn,” is for Jack only because he is against Nixon.)

Like Kennedy, Lerner went on to Harvard, class of 1940, where he majored in French and Italian literature. He knew all the current show tunes by heart, and walking down Mount Auburn Street one night, he burst out: “I want to write songs!” He worked on the Hasty Pudding Club musicals of 1938 and ’39, filled them with promising, pun-filled lyrics, put in two summers at Manhattan’s Juilliard School to learn more about music.

Boxing attracted Alan Jay Lerner as well as Frederick Loewe, and fighting in the Harvard gymnasium one day, he suffered an accident that cost him the sight of his left eye. After graduation, it also cost him his chance to serve in the Army in World War II. Embarrassed and depressed by his 4-F rating, he made a personal appeal to the Surgeon General of the U.S., got nowhere, complained: “They won’t take me unless the Nazis get to Rockefeller Plaza.” He worked on his radio scripts, made himself familiar at the Lambs, waited for someone to say: “You write good lyrics. Would you like to do musical with me?”

Patterns. Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe wrote that musical, The Life of the Party, in twelve days, and it ran nine weeks in Detroit. What’s Up (1943) was their first on Broadway. The Day Before Spring (1945) won lower-middling reviews and closed after five months. Then 1947’s Brigadoon spread the L. & L. tartan down Shubert Alley. In 1951 they achieved a sluggish eight months’ run with Paint Your Wagon, a mining-camp western with an awkward book and a rousing score. Lerner, meanwhile, had been moonlighting on his partnership with Loewe, won an Oscar for the movie, An American in Paris. The partners came together again in 1954 to see if a musical could be made from George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. The answer, 19 months later, was My Fair Lady the best and most successful American musical ever written. It has grossed $40 million so far, is now in its fifth year on Broadway, its third in London, and shows no signs of slowing down.

To collect capital for Brigadoon, they had to go through the show more than 50 times at auditions for prospective backers; Fair Lady was sold without a single audition; now they just pick up the phone. CBS has put up the entire $480,000 cost of Camelot, and money now follows L. & L. wherever they go. They have yachts in the Mediterranean and villas on the Riviera. Lerner has a town house in Manhattan, and Loewe an airy glass pleasure-dome in Palm Springs, Calif. Each owns an $18,000 Rolls-Royce convertible; Loewe’s is “black pearl” grey and Lerner’s, according to a Rolls salesman, “not-quite-royal” blue.

Meanwhile, their private lives have not been as boffo as their shows. Lerner’s list of wives reads almost like a history of plays on the road, and one of them points out that he plays a new part with each. Ruth Boyd (1940-47) was Social Register. Marion Bell (1947-49) was his Leading Lady, as she was in Brigadoon, and she came to the wedding with her music teacher. Actress Nancy Olson (1950-57) was the Upper-Middle-Class-All-Amer-ican-Girl (Lerner referred to her once as “the perfect wife”). Micheline Muselli Pozzo di Borgo (1957 ), a slim, blonde, Corsican beauty equipped with a law degree and a fine record at the French bar, is Sophisticated European Woman.

One of the more intriguing patterns in L. & L.’s lives: when Lerner married Marion Bell, Loewe simultaneously started an affair with her understudy; the affair (eleven years) lasted longer than the marriage (two years). Explains an old friend of Lerner’s: “Alan thinks he has to marry and have children with any woman he gets involved with.” As for Fritz, he has been separated from his wife for eleven years, has made a sizable settlement: $135,000 down and $10,000 a year for life “her life,” he explains wryly, “not mine.” He has no children, says he does not want any because he hates noise (he keeps earplugs with him at all times) and thinks he could not stand “that waaa-waaa noise kids make.” Nevertheless he plans to leave most of his money to the children of friends. As he grows older, he treasures both silence and privacy more: “What’s the point of seeing people those poor, sad, beautiful faces with all their heartbreaking troubles?”

The Collaborators. No excess of wives, girl friends, possessions or noise has ever seriously interfered with L. & L.’s work. The composer-librettist relationship can produce some extraordinary cases of love-hate, as in the case of Gilbert and Sullivan. Professionally, Lerner and Loewe are marvelously meshed, and Fritz even goes so far as to say of Alan, “I love him.” But friendship is not really necessary for artistic partnership or for marriage.

Their methods have not varied over the years. Lerner starts off by thinking up a title for a song, usually the first line; Loewe then writes the music, almost always in Lerner’s presence, and announces to anyone within earshot: “I’ve got Alan pregnant.” Lerner delivers the balance of the lyrics, working with obsessive intensity ; when he is really going strong, he feels ice-cold, has been known to light a fire in the middle of a heat wave while writing. Over the years he has set up a number of semi-fast rules for himself: avoid s sounds, avoid eer sounds above A above middle C, etc. As a lyricist, Lerner lacks the ultrasophistication of a Cole Porter, on the other hand would never commit the more cloying sentimentalities of Oscar Hammerstein. At their best, his lyrics are like expertly cut glass, as in these lines from My Fair Lady:

A pensive man am I

Of philosophic joys;

Who likes to meditate,

Contemplate,

Free from humanity’s mad, inhuman noise.

More sentimentally, he can wave banners as well as the men of Harlech:

Ask ev’ry person if he’s heard the story;

And tell it strong and clear if he has not:

That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory

Called Camelot.

Proudly, Lerner points out that he avoided rhyming “Camelot” with “swam a lot” or “Lancelot” with “dance a lot” but he did bring off such a rhyme in My Fair Lady when he lined up “Budapest” and “ruder pest” (it had to be changed after Soviet tanks in 1956 made the line less amusing). At his worst, his pudding is awfully hasty:

Let them damn! Let them jeer!

But why burn Guinevere?

As for Loewe’s music, his emotional temperament has yielded some of the best popular tunes of his day (7 Could Have Danced All Night; On the Street Where You Live). They spill over the battlements of Camelot. His present score is as melodious as any he has done, from brightly lighted marches (Then You May Take Me to the Fair) to pastels of love (If Ever I Would Leave You) and the gules-and-argent portrait of Camelot itself.

Loewe thinks of music in terms of color, once turned out compositions that reflected what he saw on an artist’s canvases. For visitors he will still improvise “colors” on the piano, turning out a peacock-blue sonata or red march from three notes offered him at random. Without lapsing into triteness or parody, he has an extraordinary ability to suggest geographical locale, whether it is Scotland, Spain, or the American West, which has never been more eloquently described in melody than in I Talk to the Trees from Paint Your Wagon. He is sometimes accused of being derivative, but this is rarely the case. Preparing for Wagon, as Singer David Brooks recalls it, Lerner played a record of Ghost Riders in the Sky for Fritz over and over again, then Loewe sent one more ghost into the air and a far better one by writing his superb They Call the Wind Maria. “I never try to write a hit song.” he says. “If you do, it is always silly, or Irving Berlin.”

Lerner’s Parsifal. In adapting T. H. White’s The Once and Future King the whole glorious frieze of Arthurian legend and the Middle Ages spread by a writer with the rarely combined gifts of levity, scholarship and poetry Lerner and Loewe have unquestionably taken on the greatest and heaviest theme that has ever been attempted in the field of musical comedy (Loewe tried to read the book, did not finish it). Treated seriously, the story could only be a musical tragedy, about a king who loses his wife to his best friend, loses his life under the sword of a bastard son born as the result of a union between the king and his own sister, and loses his state a political ideal called Gamelot to the besetting sin of its principal inhabitants.

So it was not exactly a pajama game. As Mark Twain and Rodgers & Hart had done with Connecticut Yankee, one method would have been to mock the legend with pure comedy. Others have played it straight an impressive list that includes Geoffrey of Monmouth, Wace. Layamon, Chretien de Troyes, Sir Thomas Malory, Sir Walter Scott, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and now Alan Jay Lerner. In Camelot, he necessarily left out some of the legend’s great characters: Sir Kay the Seneschal, Tristram and Isolde, Elaine the lily-maid of Astolat, even Sir Galahad, the squarest knight at the Round Table.

On the road last week, critics, actors and audiences were wondering if he had left out even more. Did the major themes politics and adultery really come together in the end? In handling the triangle subtly and tastefully, had he lost too much emotional conviction? Some felt that Camelot begins on Broadway and ends in Bayreuth; phrasemakers are already calling the show “Lerner’s Parsifal.”

In The Once and Future King, T. H. White managed to darken the theme as gently as the coming of evening. White had 677 pages and Lerner has but three hours. In Camelot, Lerner moves from comedy to tragedy as if he were blowing out a candle. Another problem is that Lerner seems to stop shy of the most tragic moments not only Arthur’s death but Guinevere’s trial and rescue, which, in the script as it stood last week, was only related in an awkward “standup oratorio.” Perhaps L. & L.’s biggest problem is to find a way of telling this climactic scene visually or dramatically.

But much material worthy of the legend is already there, and L. & L. can tell themselves that their show is in no more trouble than many shows in tryout. One prospective first-nighter who declared himself unworried was T. H. White, who will get 1% of the gross, or about $3,000 a month for the life of the show. From his home on the remote Channel island of Alderney, he wrote to Lerner: “For God’s sake, forget about me. I want Camelot to succeed as a musical. Put in bubble dancers if you want.” To his pen pal Richard Burton he wrote: “I hope it will be borozonic. I will be there on opening night, the old gentleman in the sixth row.” Meanwhile, since White is a once and future tippler who plans to go off the wagon soon, the pubkeepers of Alderney were pulling out every bung in the Out Islands, awaiting the draught of gold from Broadway.