The Little Warrior Read online

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1.

  Spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smokedupon the roof, floated graciously upon New York two mornings later.The city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard timesover and good times to come. In a million homes, a million young menthought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million youngwomen of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. Inhis apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle airfrom the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his_Morning Telegraph_ with a resolve to walk to the theatre forrehearsal: a resolve which had also come to Jill and Nelly Bryant,eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the Forties. On thesummit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swedish exercisesto the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upperwindows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous andoptimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And itwas of Jill, too, that young Mr Pilkington thought, as he propped hislong form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea.He had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself,but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, hadspoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling onthe carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside.For the first time in several days a certain moodiness which hadaffected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.

  The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily dueto the improvement in the weather. It had its source in aconversation which had taken place between himself and Jill's UncleChris on the previous night. Exactly how it had come about, MrPilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fullyaware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby'ssympathetic ears the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other'skindly receptiveness, he had told him all--his love for Jill, hishopes that some day it might be returned, the difficultiescomplicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of MrsWaddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel ofmusical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby hadlistened with keen attention, and finally had made one of thoseluminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate onlyfrom your man of the world. It was Jill's girlish ambition, it seemedfrom Major Selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-pictureworld. The movies were her objective. When she had told him of this,said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests,to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company ofsome good musical play, where she could learn from the best mastersso much of the technique of the business. That done, she could goabout her life-work, fortified and competent.

  What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?

  Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charmand looks, would be wonderful in the movies.

  There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.

  Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.

  "Look at Mary Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"

  Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. Heinstanced other stars--lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with herthousands a week. There was no doubt about it--a girl's best friendwas the movies.

  "Observe," proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding hischest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplifythe whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist andwin fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonabledoubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance andher charm . . . Which of these women whose names you see all alongBroadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started,with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. Andthen. . . . Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as Iknow nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferentto you . . . what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announcethat you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is amomentary pause. 'Not _the_ Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs Peagrim. 'Yes,the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can yousee her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I cansee no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, as he hadpictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course, therewould be the preliminaries."

  "The preliminaries?"

  Uncle Chris' voice became a melodious coo. He beamed upon MrPilkington.

  "Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be donewithout money. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her timeand her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting yearsfor a chance that might never come. There is plenty of room at thetop, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place tostart. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a specialcompany must be formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, astar, from the beginning. That is why I have advised her to accepther present position temporarily, in order that she may gainexperience. She must learn to walk before she runs. She must studybefore she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take thestep, she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether," said UncleChris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to takeshares in the company yourself . . ."

  "Oo . . . !"

  ". . . is a matter," proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring theinterruption, "for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have otherclaims on your purse. Possibly this musical play of yours has takenall the cash you are prepared to lock up. Possibly you may considerthe venture too speculative. Possibly . . . there are a hundredreasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men--Ican go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men--who will beglad to advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that Ipersonally shall not hesitate to risk--if one can call itrisking--any loose cash which I may have lying idle at my banker's."

  He rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in histrouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--and stopped to flick a piece offluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was thus enabled to insert aword.

  "How much would you want?" he enquired.

  "That," said Uncle Chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. Ishould have to look into the matter more closely in order to give youthe exact figures. But let us say for the sake of argument that youput up--what shall we say?--a hundred thousand? fifty thousand? . . .no, we will be conservative. Perhaps you had better not begin withmore than ten thousand. You can always buy more shares later. I don'tsuppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand myself."

  "I could manage ten thousand all right."

  "Excellent. We make progress, we make progress. Very well, then. I goto my Wall Street friends--I would give you their names, only for thepresent, till something definite has been done, that would hardly bepolitic--I go to my Wall Street friends, and tell them about thescheme, and say 'Here is ten thousand dollars! What is yourcontribution?' It puts the affair on a business-like basis, youunderstand. Then we really get to work. But use your own judgment myboy, you know. Use your own judgment. I would not think of persuadingyou to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. Think it over.Sleep on it. And, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a wordabout it to Jill. It would be cruel to raise her hopes until we arecertain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. And,of course, not a word to Mrs Peagrim."

  "Of course."

  "Very well, then, my boy." said Uncle Chris affably. "I will leaveyou to turn the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as youthink best. How is your insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino?Capital! There's nothing like it. It did wonders for _me!_Good-night, good-night!"

  Otis Pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with aninterval for sleep, ever since. And the more he thought of it, thebetter the scheme appeared to him. He winced a little at the thoughtof the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and hadbeen brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he
reflected,the money would be merely a loan. Once the company found its feet, itwould be returned to him a hundred-fold. And there was no doubt thatthis would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of Jill,as far as his Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his--youngBrewster Philmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, andnobody had made the slightest objection. Brewster was to be seen withhis bride frequently beneath Mrs Peagrim's roof. Against the higherstrata of Bohemia Mrs Peagrim had no prejudice at all. Quite thereverse, in fact. She liked the society of those whose names wereoften in the papers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to OtisPilkington, in short, that Love had found a way. He sipped his teawith relish, and when the Japanese valet brought in the toast allburned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one mayhope, touched the latter's Oriental heart and inspired him with adesire to serve this best of employers more efficiently.

  At half-past ten, Otis Pilkington removed his dressing-gown and beganto put on his clothes to visit the theatre. There was arehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. As he dressed, hismood was as sunny as the day itself.

  And the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever Spring day hadbeen in a country where Spring comes early and does its best from thevery start. The blue sky beamed down on a happy city. To and fro thecitizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather.Everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of theGotham Theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the mainevent, had been called by Johnson Miller in order to iron some of thekinks out of the "My Heart and I" number, which, with the assistanceof the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one.

  On the stage of the Gotham gloom reigned--literally, because thestage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electriclight: and figuratively, because things were going even worse thanusual with the "My Heart and I" number, and Johnson Miller, always ofan emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by theincompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. At about themoment when Otis Pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown andreached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill),Johnson Miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit andthe first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutchinghis white locks with the other, his voice raised the while inagonized protest.

  "Gentlemen, you silly idiots," complained Mr Miller loudly, "you'vehad three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and youhaven't done a damn thing right! You're all over the place! You don'tseem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot ofKeystone Kops! What's the matter with you? You're not doing themovements I showed you; you're doing some you have inventedyourselves, and they are rotten! I've no doubt you think you canarrange a number better than I can, but Mr Goble engaged me to be thedirector, so kindly do exactly as I tell you. Don't try to use yourown intelligence, because you haven't any. I'm not blaming you forit. It wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your headswhen you were babies. But it handicaps you when you try to think."

  Of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, sixlooked wounded by this tirade. They had the air of good menwrongfully accused. They appeared to be silently calling on Heaven tosee justice done between Mr. Miller and themselves. The seventh, along-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of English cut,seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It wasthis youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spokein a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner.

  "I say!"

  Mr Miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat.He had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwroughtway up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his indiarubber form moving in convulsive jerks. Only when he had turned andretraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to takehis share in the conversation.

  "What?" he shouted. "Can't hear you!"

  "I say, you know, it's my fault, really."

  "What?"

  "I mean to say, you know . . ."

  "What? Speak up, can't you?"

  Mr Saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing amelody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that theservices of an interpreter were needed. He obligingly left themusic-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box. Heplaced his arm about Mr Miller's shoulders and his lips to MrMiller's left ear, and drew a deep breath.

  "He says it is his fault!"

  Mr Miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment.

  "I know they're not worth their salt!" he replied.

  Mr Saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath.

  "This young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!"

  "Tell him I only signed on this morning, laddie," urged thetweed-clad young man.

  "He only joined the company this morning!"

  This puzzled Mr Miller.

  "How do you mean, warning?" he asked.

  Mr Saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort.

  "This young man is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words ofone syllable. "He does not yet know the steps. He says this is hisfirst day here, so he does not yet know the steps. When he has beenhere some more time he will know the steps. But now he does not knowthe steps."

  "What he means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "isthat I don't know the steps."

  "He does not know the steps!" roared Mr Saltzburg.

  "I know he doesn't know the steps," said Mr Miller. "Why doesn't heknow the steps? He's had long enough to learn them."

  "He is new!"

  "Hugh?"

  "New!"

  "Oh, new?"

  "Yes, new!"

  "Why the devil is he new?" cried Mr Miller, awaking suddenly to thetruth and filled with a sense of outrage. "Why didn't he join withthe rest of the company? How can I put on chorus numbers if I amsaddled every day with new people to teach? Who engaged him?"

  "Who engaged you?" enquired Mr Saltzburg of the culprit.

  "Mr Pilkington."

  "Mr Pilkington," shouted Mr Saltzburg.

  "When?"

  "When?"

  "Last night."

  "Last night."

  Mr Miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round,darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. "What can I do?" hewailed. "My hands are tied! I am hampered! I am handicapped! We openin two weeks, and every day I find somebody new in the company toupset everything I have done. I shall go to Mr Goble and ask to bereleased from my contract. I shall . . . Come along, come along, comealong now!" he broke off suddenly. "Why are we wasting time? Thewhole number once more. The whole number once more from thebeginning!"

  The young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running afinger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. He wasnot used to this sort of thing. In a large experience of amateurtheatricals he had never encountered anything like it. In thebreathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse andrefrain by the lady who played the heroine of "The Rose of America,"he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.

  "I say! Is he always like this?"

  "Who? Johnny?"

  "The sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. Thebarker on the skyline. Does he often get the wind up like this?"

  His colleague smiled tolerantly.

  "Why, that's nothing!" he replied. "Wait till you see him really cutloose! That was just a gentle whisper!"

  "My God!" said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leadinglady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of theensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimblydown towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on hisnearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. Aclapping of hands from the dark auditoriumindicated--inappropriately--that he had failed to do so. Mr Millercould be perceived--dimly--with all his fingers entwined in his
hair.

  "Clear the stage!" yelled Mr Miller. "Not you!" he shouted, as thelatest addition to the company began to drift off with the others."You stay!"

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. I shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or weshall get nowhere. Go on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg.Now, when the refrain begins, come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!"

  The young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully.And it was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant,entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o'clockapproached, saw him.

  "Whoever is that?" said Nelly.

  "New man," replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "Came this morning."

  Nelly turned to Jill.

  "He looks just like Mr Rooke!" she exclaimed.

  "He _is_ Mr Rooke!" said Jill.

  "He can't be!"

  "He _is_!"

  "But what is he doing here?"

  Jill bit her lip.

  "That's just what I'm going to ask him myself," she said.

  2.

  The opportunity for a private conversation with Freddie did not occurimmediately. For ten minutes he remained alone on the stage,absorbing abusive tuition from Mr Miller: and at the end of thatperiod a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of thenumber with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When,finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrivalof Mr Goble and at the same time indicated Mr Goble's desire that thestage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smileof recognition and a faint "What ho!" was all that Freddie was ableto bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the _ensemble_, theyhad to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It wasonly when this had been run through four times and the stage leftvacant for two of the principals to play a scene that Jill was ableto draw the Last of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him tothe question.

  "Freddie, what are you doing here?"

  Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller's idea of anopening chorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, theensemble were supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, andMr Miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposedhouse-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victimsof St Vitus' dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, andexhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.

  "Eh?" he said feebly.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, ah, yes! I see what you mean! I suppose you're surprised to findme in New York, what?"

  "I'm not surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over.But I am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by MrMiller."

  "I say," said Freddie in an awed voice. "He's a bit of a nut, thatlad, what! He reminds me of the troops of Midian in the hymn. Thechappies who prowled and prowled around. I'll bet he's worn a groovein the carpet. Like a jolly old tiger at the Zoo at feeding time.Wouldn't be surprised at any moment to look down and find him bitinga piece out of my leg!"

  Jill seized his arm and shook it.

  "Don't _ramble_, Freddie! Tell me how you got here."

  "Oh, that was pretty simple. I had a letter of introduction to thischappie Pilkington who's running this show, and, we having gottolerably pally in the last few days, I went to him and asked him tolet me join the merry throng. I said I didn't want any money and thelittle bit of work I would do wouldn't make any difference, so hesaid 'Right ho!' or words to that effect, and here I am."

  "But why? You can't be doing this for fun, surely?"

  "Fun!" A pained expression came into Freddie's face. "My idea of funisn't anything in which jolly old Miller, the bird with the snowyhair, is permitted to mix. Something tells me that that lad is goingto make it his life-work picking on me. No, I didn't do this for fun.I had a talk with Wally Mason the night before last, and he seemed tothink that being in the chorus wasn't the sort of thing you ought tobe doing, so I thought it over and decided that I ought to join thetroupe too. Then I could always be on the spot, don't you know, ifthere was any trouble. I mean to say, I'm not much of a chap and allthat sort of thing, but still I might come in handy one of thesetimes. Keep a fatherly eye on you, don't you know, and what not!"

  Jill was touched.

  "You're a dear, Freddie!"

  "I thought, don't you know, it would make poor old Derek a bit easierin his mind."

  Jill froze.

  "I don't want to talk about Derek, Freddie, please."

  "Oh, I know what you must be feeling. Pretty sick, I'll bet, what?But if you could see him now . . ."

  "I don't want to talk about him!"

  "He's pretty cut up, you know. Regrets bitterly and all that sort ofthing. He wants you to come back again."

  "I see! He sent you to fetch me?"

  "That was more or less the idea."

  "It's a shame that you had all the trouble. You can getmessenger-boys to go anywhere and do anything nowadays. Derek oughtto have thought of that."

  Freddie looked at her doubtfully.

  "You're spoofing, aren't you? I mean to say, you wouldn't have likedthat!"

  "I shouldn't have disliked it any more than his sending you."

  "Oh, but I wanted to pop over. Keen to see America and so forth."

  Jill looked past him at the gloomy stage. Her face was set, and hereyes sombre.

  "Can't you understand, Freddie? You've known me a long time. I shouldhave thought that you would have found out by now that I have acertain amount of pride. If Derek wanted me back, there was only onething for him to do--come over and find me himself."

  "Rummy! That's what Mason said, when I told him. You two don'trealize how dashed busy Derek is these days."

  "Busy!"

  Something in her face seemed to tell Freddie that he was not sayingthe right thing, but he stumbled on.

  "You've no notion how busy he is. I mean to say, elections coming onand so forth. He daren't stir from the metrop."

  "Of course I couldn't expect him to do anything that might interferewith his career, could I?"

  "Absolutely not. I knew you would see it!" said Freddie, charmed ather reasonableness. All rot, what you read about women beingunreasonable. "Then I take it it's all right, eh?"

  "All right?"

  "I mean you will toddle home with me at the earliest opp. and makepoor old Derek happy?"

  Jill laughed discordantly.

  "Poor old Derek!" she echoed. "He has been badly treated, hasn't he?"

  "Well, I wouldn't say that," said Freddie doubtfully. "You see,coming down to it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?"

  "More or less!"

  "I mean to say . . ."

  "More or less!"

  Freddie glanced at her anxiously. He was not at all sure now that heliked the way she was looking or the tone in which she spoke. He wasnot a keenly observant young man, but there did begin at this pointto seep through to his brain-centers a suspicion that all was notwell.

  "Let me pull myself together!" said Freddie warily to his immortalsoul. "I believe I'm getting the raspberry!" And there was silencefor a space.

  The complexity of life began to weigh upon Freddie. Life was like oneof those shots at squash which seem so simple till you go to knockthe cover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you andyou miss it. Life, Freddie began to perceive, was apt to have a nastyback-spin on it. He had never had any doubt when he had started, thatthe only difficult part of his expedition to America would be thefinding of Jill. Once found, he had presumed that she would bedelighted to hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him homeon the next boat. It appeared now, however, that he had been toosanguine. Optimist as he was, he had to admit that, as far as couldbe ascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be saidto have sprung a leak.

  He proceeded to approach the matter from another angle.

  "I say!"

  "Yes?"

  "You do love old Derek, don't y
ou? I mean to say, you know what Imean, _love_ him and all that sort of rot?"

  "I don't know!"

  "You don't know! Oh, I say, come now! You must _know!_ Pull up yoursocks, old thing . . . I mean, pull yourself together! You eitherlove a chappie or you don't."

  Jill smiled painfully.

  "How nice it would be if everything were as simple andstraightforward as that. Haven't you ever heard that the dividingline between love and hate is just a thread? Poets have said so agreat number of times."

  "Oh, poets!" said Freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of thehand. He had been compelled to read Shakespeare and all that sort ofthing at school, but it had left him cold, and since growing to man'sestate he had rather handed the race of bards the mitten. He likedDoss Chiderdoss' stuff in the _Sporting Times_, but beyond that hewas not much of a lad for poets.

  "Can't you understand a girl in my position not being able to make upher mind whether she loves a man or despises him?"

  Freddie shook his head.

  "No," he said. "It sounds dashed silly to me!"

  "Then what's the good of talking?" cried Jill. "It only hurts."

  "But--won't you come back to England?"

  "No."

  "Oh, I say! Be a sport! Take a stab at it!"

  Jill laughed again--another of those grating laughs which afflictedFreddie with a sense of foreboding and failure. Something hadundoubtedly gone wrong with the works. He began to fear that at somepoint in the conversation--just where he could not say--he had beenless diplomatic than he might have been.

  "You speak as if you were inviting me to a garden-party! No, I won'ttake a stab at it. You've a lot to learn about women, Freddie!"

  "Women _are_ rum!" conceded that perplexed ambassador.

  Jill began to move away.

  "Don't go!" urged Freddie.

  "Why not? What's the use of talking any more? Have you ever broken anarm or a leg, Freddie?"

  "Yes," said Freddie, mystified. "As a matter of fact, my last year atOxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, someblighter barged into me and I came down on my wrist. But . . ."

  "It hurt?"

  "Like the deuce!"

  "And then it began to get better, I suppose. Well, used you to hit itand twist it and prod it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal?I won't talk any more about Derek! I simply won't! I'm all smashed upinside, and I don't know if I'm ever going to get well again, but atleast I'm going to give myself a chance. I'm working as hard as everI can, and I'm forcing myself not to think of him. I'm in a sling,Freddie, like your wrist, and I don't want to be prodded. I hope weshall see a lot of each other while you're over here--you always werethe greatest dear in the world--but you mustn't mention Derek again,and you mustn't ask me to go home. If you avoid those subjects, we'llbe as happy as possible. And now I'm going to leave you to talk topoor Nelly. She has been hovering round for the last ten minutes,waiting for a chance to speak to you. She worships you, you know!"

  Freddie started violently.

  "Oh, I say! What rot!"

  Jill had gone, and he was still gaping after her, when Nelly Bryantmoved towards him--shyly, like a worshiper approaching a shrine.

  "Hello, Mr Rooke!" said Nelly.

  "Hullo-ullo-ullo!" said Freddie.

  Nelly fixed her large eyes on his face. A fleeting impression passedthrough Freddie's mind that she was looking unusually pretty thismorning: nor was the impression unjustified. Nelly was wearing forthe first time a Spring suit which was the outcome of hours ofpainful selection among the wares of a dozen different stores, andthe knowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from herlike an inner light. She felt happy: and her happiness had lent anunwonted color to her face and a soft brightness to her eyes.

  "How nice it is, your being here!"

  Freddie waited for the inevitable question, the question with whichJill had opened their conversation but it did not come. He wassurprised, but relieved. He hated long explanations, and he was verydoubtful whether loyalty to Jill could allow him to give them toNelly. His reason for being where he was had to do so intimately withJill's most private affairs. A wave of gratitude to Nelly sweptthrough him when he realised that she was either incurious or elsetoo delicate-minded to show inquisitiveness.

  As a matter of fact, it was delicacy that kept Nelly silent. SeeingFreddie here at the theatre, she had, as is not uncommon withfallible mortals, put two and two together and made the answer fourwhen it was not four at all. She had been deceived by circumstantialevidence. Jill, whom she had left in England wealthy and secure, shehad met again in New York penniless as the result of some StockExchange cataclysm in which, she remembered with the vagueness withwhich one recalls once-heard pieces of information, Freddie Rooke hadbeen involved. True, she seemed to recollect hearing that Freddie'slosses had been comparatively slight, but his presence in the chorusof "The Rose of America" seemed to her proof that after all they musthave been devastating. She could think of no other reason except lossof money which could have placed Freddie in the position in which shenow found him, so she accepted it; and, with the delicacy which wasinnate in her and which a hard life had never blunted, decided,directly she saw him, to make no allusion to the disaster.

  Such was Nelly's view of the matter, and sympathy gave to her mannera kind of maternal gentleness which acted on Freddie, raw from hislate encounter with Mr Johnson Miller and disturbed by Jill'sattitude in the matter of poor old Derek, like a healing balm. Hisemotions were too chaotic for analysis, but one thing stood out clearfrom the welter--the fact that he was glad to be with Nelly as he hadnever been glad to be with a girl before, and found her soothing ashe had never supposed a girl could be soothing.

  They talked desultorily of unimportant things, and every minute foundFreddie more convinced that Nelly was not as other girls. He feltthat he must see more of her.

  "I say," he said. "When this binge is over . . . when the rehearsalfinishes, you know, how about a bite to eat?"

  "I should love it. I generally go to the Automat."

  "The how-much? Never heard of it."

  "In Times Square. It's cheap, you know."

  "I was thinking of the Cosmopolis."

  "But that's so expensive."

  "Oh, I don't know. Much the same as any of the other places, isn'tit?"

  Nelly's manner became more motherly than ever. She bent forward andtouched his arm affectionately.

  "You haven't to keep up any front with me," she said gently. "I don'tcare whether you're rich or poor or what. I mean, of course I'mawfully sorry you've lost your money, but it makes it all the easierfor us to be real pals, don't you think so?"

  "Lost my money!"

  "Well, I know you wouldn't be here if you hadn't. I wasn't going tosay anything about it, but, when you talked of the Cosmopolis, I justhad to. You lost your money in the same thing Jill Mariner lost hers,didn't you? I was sure you had, the moment I saw you here. Who cares?Money isn't everything!"

  Astonishment kept Freddie silent for an instant: after that herefrained from explanations of his own free will. He accepted thesituation and rejoiced in it. Like many other wealthy and modestyoung men, he had always had a sneaking suspicion at the back of hismind that any girl who was decently civil to him was so from mixedmotives--or more likely, motives that were not even mixed. Well,dash it, here was a girl who seemed to like him although under theimpression that he was broke to the wide. It was an intoxicatingexperience. It made him feel a better chap. It fortified hisself-respect.

  "You know," he said, stammering a little, for he found a suddendifficulty in controlling his voice. "You're a dashed good sort!"

  "I'm awfully glad you think so."

  There was a silence--as far, at least, as he and she were concerned.In the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelterthey stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to behappening. Some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. Therasping voice of Mr Goble was making itself he
ard from the unseenauditorium. These things they sensed vaguely, but they were toooccupied with each other to ascertain details.

  "What was the name of that place again?" asked Freddie. "Thewhat-ho-something?"

  "The Automat?"

  "That's the little chap! We'll go there, shall we?"

  "The food's quite good. You go and help yourself out ofslot-machines, you know."

  "My favorite indoor sport!" said Freddie with enthusiasm. "Hullo!What's up? It sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!"

  The voice of the assistant stage-manager was calling--sharplyexcited, agitation in every syllable.

  "All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! Mr Goble wantsall the chorus--gentlemen on the stage!"

  "Well, cheerio for the present," said Freddie. "I suppose I'd betterlook into this." He made his way onto the stage.

  3.

  There is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsalof a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connectedwith it. Softened by the gentle beauty of the Spring weather, MrGoble had come to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an excellenttemper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day.Five minutes of "The Rose of America" had sent him back to thenormal: and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar andglowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul.When Wally Mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped intothe seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and evenomitted to offer him a cigar. And when a New York theatrical managerdoes that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst.

  One may find excuses for Mr Goble. "The Rose of America" would havetested the equanimity of a far more amiable man: and on Mr Goble whatOtis Pilkington had called its delicate whimsicality jarredprofoundly. He had been brought up in the lower-browed school ofmusical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the opening numberand filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the girls in avariety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists toget the laughs. Mr Goble's idea of a musical piece was somethingembracing trained seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilledbuck-and-wing dancers, with nothing on the stage, from a tree to alamp-shade, which could not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. Theaustere legitimateness of "The Rose of America" gave him a pain inthe neck. He loathed plot, and "The Rose of America" was all plot.

  Why, then, had the earthy Mr. Goble consented to associate himselfwith the production of this intellectual play? Because he wassubject, like all other New York managers, to intermittent spasms ofthe idea that the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera.Sometimes, lunching in his favorite corner in the Cosmopolisgrill-room, he would lean across the table and beg some other managerto take it from him that the time was ripe for a revival of comicopera--or more cautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to beripe for a revival of comic opera. And the other manager would nodhis head and thoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sureas God made little apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripefor a revival of comic opera. And then they would stuff themselveswith rich food and light big cigars and brood meditatively.

  With most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges ofconscience, pass as quickly as they come, and they go back to coiningmoney with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. But OtisPilkington, happening along with the script of "The Rose of America"and the cash to back it, had caught Mr Goble in the full grip of anattack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latteremerged from the influence. He now regretted his rash act.

  "Say, listen," he said to Wally, his gaze on the stage, his wordsproceeding from the corner of his mouth, "you've got to stick aroundwith this show after it opens on the road. We'll talk terms later.But we've got to get it right, don't care what it costs. See?"

  "You think it will need fixing?"

  Mr Goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now goingthrough a particularly arid stretch of dialogue.

  "Fixing! It's all wrong! It don't add up right! You'll have torewrite it from end to end."

  "Well, I've got some ideas about it. I saw it played by amateurs lastsummer, you know. I could make a quick job of it, if you want me to.But will the author stand for it?"

  Mr Goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, andtwisted it round in Wally's direction.

  "Say, listen! He'll stand for anything I say. I'm the little guy thatgives orders round here. I'm the big noise!"

  As if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrificbellow. The effect was magical. The refined and painstaking artistson the stage stopped as if they had been shot. The assistantstage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had nowbeen turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script.

  "Take that over again!" shouted Mr Goble. "Yes, that speech aboutlife being like a water-melon. It don't sound to me as though itmeant anything." He cocked his cigar at an angle, and listenedfiercely. He clapped his hands. The action stopped again. "Cut it!"said Mr Goble tersely.

  "Cut the speech, Mr Goble?" queried the obsequious assistantstage-director.

  "Yes. Cut it. It don't mean nothing!"

  Down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, shimmered MrPilkington, wounded to the quick.

  "Mr Goble! Mr Goble!"

  "Well?"

  "That is the best epigram in the play."

  "The best what?"

  "Epigram. The best epigram in the play."

  Mr. Goble knocked the ash off his cigar. "The public don't wantepigrams. The public don't like epigrams. I've been in the showbusiness fifteen years, and I'm telling you! Epigrams give them apain under the vest. All right, get on."

  Mr Pilkington fluttered agitatedly. This was his first experience ofMr Goble in the capacity of stage-director. It was the latter'scustom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he wasconnected to a subordinate producer, who did what Mr Goble called thebreaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in person, undo mostof the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read theirlines, and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr Goble'shobby. He imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and itwas useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which hemight have come. He regarded those who did not agree with him withthe lofty contempt of an Eastern despot.

  Of this Mr Pilkington was not yet aware.

  "But, Mr Goble . . . !"

  The potentate swung irritably round on him.

  "What is it? What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?"

  "That epigram . . ."

  "It's out!"

  "But . . . !"

  "It's out!"

  "Surely," protested Mr Pilkington almost tearfully, "I have a voice. . ."

  "Sure you have a voice," retorted Mr Goble, "and you can use it anyold place you want, except in my theatre. Have all the voice youlike! Go round the corner and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath!But don't come using it here, because I'm the little guy that doesall the talking in this theatre! That fellow gets my goat," he addedcomplainingly to Wally, as Mr Pilkington withdrew like a foiledpython. "He don't know nothing about the show business, and he keepsbutting in and making fool suggestions. He ought to be darned gladhe's getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me howto direct it." He clapped his hands imperiously. The assistantstage-manager bent over the footlights. "What was that that guy said?Lord Finchley's last speech. Take it again."

  The gentleman who was playing the part of Lord Finchley, an Englishcharacter actor who specialized in London "nuts," raised hiseyebrows, annoyed. Like Mr Pilkington, he had never before come intocontact with Mr Goble as stage-director, and, accustomed to thesuaver methods of his native land, he was finding the experiencetrying. He had not yet recovered from the agony of having thatwater-melon line cut out of his part. It was the only good line, heconsidered, that he had. Any line that is cut out of an actor's partis always the only good line he has.

  "The speech about O
mar Khayyam?" he enquired with suppressedirritation.

  "I thought that was the way you said it. All wrong! It's Omar _of_Khayyam."

  "I think you will find that Omar Khayyam is the--ah--generallyaccepted version of the poet's name," said the portrayer of LordFinchley, adding beneath his breath. "You silly ass!"

  "You say Omar _of_ Khayyam," bellowed Mr Goble. "Who's running thisshow, anyway?"

  "Just as you please."

  Mr Goble turned to Wally.

  "These actors . . ." he began, when Mr Pilkington appeared again athis elbow.

  "Mr Goble! Mr Goble!"

  "What is it _now?_"

  "Omar Khayyam was a Persian poet. His name was Khayyam."

  "That wasn't the way _I_ heard it," said Mr Goble doggedly. "Did_you?_" he enquired of Wally. "I thought he was born at Khayyam."

  "You're probably quite right," said Wally, "but, if so, everybodyelse has been wrong for a good many years. It's usually supposed thatthe gentleman's name was Omar Khayyam. Khayyam, Omar J. Born 1050A.D., educated privately and at Bagdad University. Represented Persiain the Olympic Games of 1072, winning the sitting high-jump and theegg-and-spoon race. The Khayyams were quite a well-known family inBagdad, and there was a lot of talk when Omar, who was Mrs Khayyam'spet son, took to drink and writing poetry. They had had it all fixed forhim to go into his father's date business."

  Mr Goble was impressed. He had a respect for Wally's opinion, forWally had written "Follow the Girl" and look what a knock-out thathad been. He stopped the rehearsal again.

  "Go back to that Khayyam speech!" he said, interrupting Lord Finchleyin mid-sentence.

  The actor whispered a hearty English oath beneath his breath. He hadbeen up late last night, and, in spite of the fair weather, he wasfeeling a trifle on edge.

  "'In the words of Omar of Khayyam' . . ."

  Mr Goble clapped his hands.

  "Cut that 'of,'" he said. "The show's too long, anyway."

  And, having handled a delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leanedback in his chair and chewed the end off another cigar.

  For some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. If MrGoble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms exceptto Wally. To him he enlarged from time to time on the pain which "TheRose of America" caused him.

  "How I ever came to put on junk like this beats me," confessed MrGoble frankly.

  "You probably saw that there was a good idea at the back of it,"suggested Wally. "There is, you know. Properly handled, it's an ideathat could be made into a success."

  "What would you do with it?"

  "Oh, a lot of things," said Wally warily. In his younger and callowerdays he had sometimes been rash enough to scatter views on thereconstruction of plays broadcast, to find them gratefully absorbedand acted upon and treated as a friendly gift. His affection for MrGoble was not so overpowering as to cause him to give him ideas fornothing now. "Any time you want me to fix it for you, I'll comealong. About one and a half per cent of the gross would meet thecase, I think."

  Mr Goble faced him, registering the utmost astonishment and horror.

  "One and a half per cent for fixing a show like this? Why, darn it,there's hardly anything to do to it! It's--it's--in!"

  "You called it junk just now."

  "Well, all I meant was that it wasn't the sort of thing I cared formyself. The public will eat it! Take it from me, the time is justabout ripe for a revival of comic opera."

  "This one will want all the reviving you can give it. Better use apulmotor."

  "But that long boob, that Pilkington . . . he would never stand formy handing you one and a half per cent."

  "I thought _you_ were the little guy who arranged things round here."

  "But he's got money in the show."

  "Well, if he wants to get any out, he'd better call in somebody torewrite it. You don't have to engage me if you don't want to. But Iknow I could make a good job of it. There's just one little twist thething needs and you would have quite a different piece."

  "What's that?" enquired Mr Goble casually.

  "Oh, just a little . . . what shall I say? . . . a little touch ofwhat-d'you-call-it and a bit of thingummy. You know the sort ofthing! That's all it wants."

  Mr Goble gnawed his cigar, baffled.

  "You think so, eh?" he said at length.

  "And perhaps a suspicion of je-ne-sais-quoi," added Wally.

  Mr Goble worried his cigar, and essayed a new form of attack.

  "You've done a lot of work for me," he said. "Good work!"

  "Glad you liked it," said Wally.

  "You're a good kid! I like having you around. I was half thinking ofgiving you a show to do this Fall. Corking book. French farce. Rantwo years in Paris. But what's the good, if you want the earth?"

  "Always useful, the earth. Good thing to have."

  "See here, if you'll fix up this show for half of one per cent, I'llgive you the other to do."

  "You shouldn't slur your words so. For a moment I thought you said'half of one per cent.' One and a half of course you really said."

  "If you won't take half, you don't get the other."

  "All right," said Wally. "There are lots of other managers in NewYork. Haven't you seen them popping about? Rich, enterprising men,and all of them love me like a son."

  "Make it one per cent," said Mr Goble, "and I'll see if I can fix itwith Pilkington."

  "One and a half."

  "Oh, damn it, one and a half, then," said Mr Goble morosely. "What'sthe good of splitting straws?"

  "Forgotten Sports of the Past--Splitting the Straw. All right. If youdrop me a line to that effect, legibly signed with your name, I'llwear it next my heart. I shall have to go now. I have a date.Good-bye. Glad everything's settled and everybody's happy."

  For some moments after Wally had left, Mr Goble sat hunched up in hisorchestra-chair, smoking sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever.Living in a little world of sycophants, he was galled by the off-handway in which Wally always treated him. There was something in thelatter's manner which seemed to him sometimes almost contemptuous. Heregretted the necessity of having to employ him. There was, ofcourse, no real necessity why he should have employed Wally. New Yorkwas full of librettists who would have done the work equally well forhalf the money, but, like most managers, Mr Goble had the mentalprocesses of a sheep. "Follow the Girl" was the last outstandingmusical success in New York theatrical history: Wally had written it:therefore nobody but Wally was capable of rewriting "The Rose ofAmerica." The thing had for Mr Goble the inevitability of Fate.Except for deciding mentally that Wally had swelled head, there wasnothing to be done.

  Having decided that Wally had swelled head and not feeling muchbetter, Mr Goble concentrated his attention on the stage. A good dealof action had taken place there during recently concluded businesstalk, and the unfortunate Finchley was back again, playing another ofhis scenes. Mr Goble glared at Lord Finchley. He did not like him, andhe did not like the way he was speaking his lines.

  The part of Lord Finchley was a non-singing role. It was a type part.Otis Pilkington had gone to the straight stage to find an artist, andhad secured the not uncelebrated Wentworth Hill, who had come overfrom London to play in an English comedy which had just closed. Thenewspapers had called the play thin, but had thought that WentworthHill was an excellent comedian. Mr Hill thought so too, and it wasconsequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellowfrom the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speechesand a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong.

  "I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Hill, quietly but dangerously, steppingto the footlights.

  "All wrong!" repeated Mr Goble.

  "Really?" Wentworth Hill, who a few years earlier had spent severalterms at Oxford University before being sent down for aggravateddisorderliness, had brought little away with him from that seat oflearning except the Oxford manner. This he now employed upon Mr Goblewith an icy severity which put the last to
uch to the manager'sfermenting state of mind. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to tellme just how you think that part should be played?"

  Mr Goble marched down the aisle.

  "Speak out to the audience," he said, stationing himself by theorchestra pit. "You're turning your head away all the darned time."

  "I may be wrong," said Mr Hill, "but I have played a certain amount,don't you know, in pretty good companies, and I was always under theimpression that one should address one's remarks to the person onewas speaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. I wastaught that that was the legitimate method."

  The word touched off all the dynamite in Mr Goble. Of all things inthe theatre he detested most the "legitimate method." His idea ofproducing was to instruct the cast to come down to the footlights andhand it to 'em. These people who looked up stage and talked to theaudience through the backs of their necks revolted him.

  "Legitimate! That's a hell of a thing to be! Where do you get thatlegitimate stuff? You aren't playing Ibsen!"

  "Nor am I playing a knockabout vaudeville sketch."

  "Don't talk back at me!"

  "Kindly don't shout at _me!_ Your voice is unpleasant enough withoutyour raising it."

  Open defiance was a thing which Mr Goble had never encounteredbefore, and for a moment it deprived him of breath. He recovered it,however, almost immediately.

  "You're fired!"

  "On the contrary," said Mr Hill, "I'm resigning." He drew agreen-covered script from his pocket and handed it with an air to thepallid assistant stage-director. Then, more gracefully than everFreddie Rooke had managed to move downstage under the tuition ofJohnson Miller, he moved upstage to the exit. "I trust that you willbe able to find someone who will play the part according to yourideas!"

  "I'll find," bellowed Mr Goble at his vanishing back, "a chorus-manwho'll play it a damned sight better than you!" He waved to theassistant stage-director. "Send the chorus-men on the stage!"

  "All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!" shrilled theassistant stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever.

  "Mr Goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!"

  There was a moment, when the seven male members of "The Rose ofAmerica" ensemble lined up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes,when Mr Goble repented of his brave words. An uncomfortable feelingpassed across his mind that Fate had called his bluff and that hewould not be able to make good. All chorus-men are exactly alike, andthey are like nothing else on earth. Even Mr Goble, anxious as he wasto overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that intheir ranks stood even an adequate Lord Finchley. And then, just as acold reaction from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceivedthat Providence had been good to him. There, at the extreme end ofthe line, stood a young man who, as far as appearance went, was theideal Lord Finchley,--as far as appearance went, a far better LordFinchley than the late Mr Hill. He beckoned imperiously.

  "You at the end!"

  "Me?" said the young man.

  "Yes, you. What's your name?"

  "Rooke. Frederick Rooke, don't you know."

  "You're English, aren't you?"

  "Eh? Oh, yes, absolutely!"

  "Ever played a part before?"

  "Part? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, in amateur theatricals, youknow, and all that sort of rot."

  His words were music to Mr Goble's ears. He felt that his Napoleonicaction had justified itself by success. His fury left him. If he hadbeen capable of beaming, one would have said that he beamed atFreddie.

  "Well, you play the part of Lord Finchley from now on. Come to myoffice this afternoon for your contract. Clear the stage. We'vewasted enough time."

  Five minutes later, in the wings, Freddie, receiving congratulationsfrom Nelly Bryant, asserted himself.

  "_Not_ the Automat today, I think, what! Now that I'm a jolly oldstar and all that sort of thing, it can't be done. Directly this isover we'll roll round to the Cosmopolis. A slight celebration isindicated, what? Right ho! Rally round, dear heart, rally round!"