The Little Warrior

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1.

  The violins soared to one last high note: the bassoon uttered a finalmoan: the pensive person at the end of the orchestra-pit, just underMrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's box, whose duty it was to slam the drum atstated intervals, gave that much-enduring instrument a concludingwallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to strayin the direction of cooling drinks. Mr Saltzburg lowered the batonwhich he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down andmopped his forehead. The curtain fell on the first act of "The Roseof America," and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out fromall over the Gotham Theatre, which was crammed from floor to roofwith that heterogeneous collection of humanity which makes up theaudience of a New York opening performance. The applause continuedlike the breaking of waves on a stony beach. The curtain rose andfell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. An usher, stealing down thecentral aisle, gave to Mr Saltzburg an enormous bouquet of AmericanBeauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with abrilliant smile and a bow nicely combining humility with joyfulsurprise. The applause, which had begun to slacken, gathered strengthagain. It was a superb bouquet, nearly as big as Mr Saltzburghimself. It had cost the prima donna close on a hundred dollars thatmorning at Thorley's, but it was worth every cent of the money.

  The house-lights went up. The audience began to move up the aisles tostretch its legs and discuss the piece during the intermission. Therewas a general babble of conversation. Here, a composer who had notgot an interpolated number in the show was explaining to anothercomposer who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exactsource from which a third composer who had got an interpolated numberin the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated.There, two musical comedy artistes who were temporarily resting wereagreeing that the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary asit was to their life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say thatshe was beginning to show the passage of the years a trifle and oughtto be warned by some friend that her career as an ingenue was a thingof the past. Dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into darkcorners, were telling each other that "The Rose of America" was justanother of those things but it had apparently got over. The generalpublic was of the opinion that it was a knock-out.

  "Otie darling," said Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, leaning her ampleshoulder on Uncle Chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking acrosshim to young Mr Pilkington, "I do congratulate you, dear. It'sperfectly delightful! I don't know when I have enjoyed a musicalpiece so much. Don't you think it's perfectly darling, Major Selby?"

  "Capital!" agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored asnear extinction as makes no matter. "Congratulate you, my boy!"

  "You clever, clever thing!" said Mrs Peagrim, skittishly striking hernephew on the knee with her fan. "I'm proud to be your aunt! Aren'tyou proud to know him, Mr Rooke?"

  The fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species ofstupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of theMcWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had been other dark momentsin Freddie's life. Once, back in London, Parker had sent him out intothe heart of the West End without his spats and he had not discoveredtheir absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On anotheroccasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, hehad discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-schoolchampion. He had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-offof the engagement between Jill Mariner and Derek Underhill, and sadwhen it had been brought to his notice that London was giving Derekthe cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career hadhe experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him thatevening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder thepart that should have been his. And the audience, confound them, hadroared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said!

  "Eh?" he replied. "Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!"

  "We're _all_ proud of you, Otie darling," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "Thepiece is a wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it. Andjust think, Major Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear boyout of putting it on! I thought it was so rash to risk his money in atheatrical venture. But then," said Mrs Peagrim in extenuation, "Ihad only seen the piece when it was done at my house at Newport, andof course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! I might haveknown that you would change it a great deal before you put it on inNew York. As I always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten!Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, Otie! Iwouldn't know it was the same play!"

  She slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of thegashes she was inflicting. Poor Mr Pilkington was suffering twintorments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of theunsuccessful artist. It would have been bad enough to have to sit andwatch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedywhich Wally Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire:but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself withthe sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going tomake a lot of money out of it. Now, even this material balm wasdenied him. He had sold out, and he was feeling like the man whoparts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine,only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has beenlocated. Into each life some rain must fall. Quite a shower wasfalling now into young Mr. Pilkington's.

  "Of course," went on Mrs Peagrim, "when the play was done at myhouse, it was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! Thecast tonight is perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is themost killing creature! Don't you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?"

  We may say what we will against the upper strata of Society, but itcannot be denied that breeding tells. Only by falling back forsupport on the traditions of his class and the solid support of agentle upbringing was the Last of the Rookes able to crush down thewords that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politelyconventional agreement. If Mr Pilkington was feeling like a tooimpulsive seller of gold-mines, Freddie's emotions were akin to thoseof the Spartan boy with the fox under his vest. Nothing butWinchester and Magdalen could have produced the smile which, thoughtwisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto his face andoff again at his hostess' question.

  "Oh, rather! Priceless!"

  "Wasn't that part an Englishman before?" asked Mrs Peagrim. "Ithought so. Well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. ThisScotchman is too funny for words. And such an artist!"

  Freddie rose shakily. One can stand just so much.

  "Think," he mumbled, "I'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette."

  He groped his way to the door.

  "I'll come with you, Freddie my boy," said Uncle Chris, who felt animperative need of five minutes' respite from Mrs Peagrim. "Let's getout into the air for a moment. Uncommonly warm it is here."

  Freddie assented. Air was what he felt he wanted most.

  Left alone in the box with her nephew, Mrs Peagrim continued for somemoments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the openwound. It struck her from time to time that darling Otie was perhapsa shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous straininseparable from a first night of a young author's first play.

  "Why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands ofdollars out of this piece. I am sure it is going to be another 'MerryWidow.'"

  "You can't tell from a first night audience," said Mr Pilkingtonsombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up atrehearsals.

  "Oh, but you can. It's so easy to distinguish polite applause fromthe real thing. No doubt many of the people down here have friends inthe company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but lookhow the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! You can't tell methat that was not genuine. They love it. How hard," she proceededcommiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour onthe road to improve the piece so much! I never liked to say sobefore, but even you must agree with me now that that originalversion of yours,
which was done down at Newport, was the mostterrible nonsense! And how hard the company must have worked, too!Otie," cried Mrs Peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea,"I will tell you what you must really do. You must give a supper anddance to the whole company on the stage tomorrow night after theperformance."

  "What!" cried Otis Pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by thisappalling suggestion. Was he, the man who, after planking downthirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eightcents for "props" and "frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltryten thousand, to be still further victimized?

  "They do deserve it, don't they, after working so hard?"

  "It's impossible," said Otis Pilkington vehemently. "Out of thequestion."

  "But, Otie darling, I was talking to Mr Mason, when he came down toNewport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that themanagement nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially ifthey have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do."

  "Well, let Goble give them a supper if he wants to."

  "But you know that Mr Goble, though he has his name on the programmeas the manager, has really nothing to do with it. You own the piece,don't you?"

  For a moment Mr Pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, butrefrained. He knew his Aunt Olive too well. If she found out that hehad parted at a heavy loss with this valuable property, her wholeattitude towards him would change,--or, rather, it would revert toher normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe nurse to aweak-minded child. Even in his agony there had been a certain faintconsolation, due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in thevoice with which she had addressed him since the fall of the curtain.He shrank from forfeiting this respect, unentitled though he was toit.

  "Yes," he said in his precise voice. "That, of course, is so."

  "Well, then!" said Mrs Peagrim.

  "But it seems so unnecessary! And think what it would cost."

  This was a false step. Some of the reverence left Mrs Peagrim'svoice, and she spoke a little coldly. A gay and gallant spenderherself, she had often had occasion to rebuke a tendency toover-parsimony in her nephew.

  "We must not be mean, Otie!" she said.

  Mr Pilkington keenly resented her choice of pronouns. "We" indeed!Who was going to foot the bill? Both of them, hand in hand, or healone, the chump, the boob, the easy mark who got this sort of thingwished on him!

  "I don't think it would be possible to get the stage for asupper-party," he pleaded, shifting his ground. "Goble wouldn't giveit to us."

  "As if Mr Goble would refuse you anything after you have written awonderful success for his theatre! And isn't he getting his share ofthe profits? Directly after the performance, you must go round andask him. Of course he will be delighted to give you the stage. I willbe hostess," said Mrs. Peagrim radiantly. "And now, let me see, whomshall we invite?"

  Mr Pilkington stared gloomily at the floor, too bowed down now by hisweight of cares to resent the "we," which had plainly come to stay.He was trying to estimate the size of the gash which thispreposterous entertainment would cleave in the Pilkington bank-roll.He doubted if it was possible to go through with it under fivehundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, Mrs Peagrimtook the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get intofour figures.

  "Major Selby, of course," said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooingnote in her voice. Long since had that polished man of affairs made adeep impression upon her. "Of course Major Selby, for one. And MrRooke. Then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt ifthey were left out. How about Mr Mason? Isn't he a friend of yours?"

  Mr Pilkington snorted. He had endured much and was prepared to enduremore, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man whohad sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped itsprecious person into little bits.

  "He is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and I do not wishhim to be invited!"

  Having attained her main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yieldminor points.

  "Very well, if you do not like him," she said. "But I thought he wasquite an intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him toNewport last summer."

  "Much," said Mr Pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer."

  "Oh, very well," said Mrs Peagrim again. "Then we will not include MrMason. Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop rightround and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want."

  2.

  It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other.Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet,at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which MrGoble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis. Since theend of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mentalupheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble was inthe position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mineand now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feelingthe truth of the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or penthe saddest are these--"It might have been." The electric success of"The Rose of America" had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as hedid, that he might have bought Otis Pilkington's share dirt cheap atalmost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad halfhour with himself. The only ray in the darkness which brooded on hisindomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, bygetting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices appeared and shakinghis head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which youngauthors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception andimpressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive yourexpert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioninggloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show tobeat the band . . . by doing all these things, it might still bepossible to depress Mr Pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce himto sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend whodidn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as asporting speculation, because he thought Mr Pilkington a good kid andafter all these shows that flop in New York sometimes have a chanceon the road.

  Such were the meditations of Mr Goble, and, on the final fall of thecurtain amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, hehad despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to findMr Pilkington and conduct him to the presence. Meanwhile, he waitedimpatiently on the empty stage.

  The sudden advent of Wally Mason, who appeared at this moment, upsetMr Goble terribly. Wally was a factor in the situation which he hadnot considered. An infernal, tactless fellow, always trying to makemischief and upset honest merchants, Wally, if present at theinterview with Otis Pilkington, would probably try to act inrestraint of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about theprospects of the piece. Not for the first time, Mr Goble wished Wallya sudden stroke of apoplexy.

  "Went well, eh?" said Wally amiably. He did not like Mr Goble, but onthe first night of a successful piece personal antipathies may besunk. Such was his effervescent good-humor at the moment that he wasprepared to treat Mr Goble as a man and a brother.

  "H'm!" replied Mr Goble doubtfully, paving the way.

  "What are you h'ming about?" demanded Wally, astonished. "The thing'sa riot."

  "You never know," responded Mr Goble in the minor key.

  "Well!" Wally stared. "I don't know what more you want. The audiencesat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn't they?"

  "I've an idea," said Mr Goble, raising his voice as the long form ofMr Pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics willroast it. If you ask _me_," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort ofshow the critics will pan the life out of. I've been fifteen years inthe . . ."

  "Critics!" cried Wally. "Well, I've just been talking to Alexander ofthe _Times_, and he said it was the best musical piece he had everseen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same."

  Mr Goble turned a distorted face to Mr Pilkington. He wished thatWally would go. But Wally, he reflected
bitterly, was one of thosemen who never go. He faced Mr Pilkington and did the best he could.

  "Of course it's got a _chance_," he said gloomily. "Any show has gota _chance!_ But I don't know . . . I don't know . . ."

  Mr Pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of "The Roseof America." He had a favor to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have itrefused if possible, and get away. It occurred to him that, bysubstituting for the asking of a favor a peremptory demand, he mightsave himself a thousand dollars.

  "I want the stage after the performance tomorrow night, for a supperto the company," he said brusquely.

  He was shocked to find Mr Goble immediately complaisant.

  "Why, sure," said Mr Goble readily. "Go as far as you like!" He tookMr Pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voiceto a confidential undertone. "And now, listen," he said, "I'vesomething I want to talk to you about. Between you and I and thelamp-post, I don't think this show will last a month in New York. Itdon't add up right! There's something all wrong about it."

  Mr Pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "Iquite agree with you! If you had kept it the way it was originally . . ."

  "Too late for that!" sighed Mr Goble, realizing that his star was inthe ascendant. He had forgotten for the moment that Mr Pilkington wasan author. "We must make the best of a bad job! Now, you're a goodkid and I wouldn't like you to go around town saying that I had letyou in. It isn't business, maybe, but, just because I don't want youto have any kick coming, I'm ready to buy your share of the thing andcall it a deal. After all, it may get money on the road. It ain'tlikely, but there's a chance, and I'm willing to take it. Well,listen, I'm probably robbing myself, but I'll give you fifteenthousand, if you want to sell."

  A hated voice spoke at his elbow.

  "I'll make you a better offer than that," said Wally. "Give me yourshare of the show for three dollars in cash and I'll throw in a pairof sock-suspenders and an Ingersoll. Is it a go?"

  Mr Goble regarded him balefully.

  "Who told you to butt in?" he enquired sourly.

  "Conscience!" replied Wally. "Old Henry W. Conscience! I refuse tostand by and see the slaughter of the innocents. Why don't you waittill he's dead before you skin him!" He turned to Mr Pilkington."Don't you be a fool!" he said earnestly. "Can't you see the thing isthe biggest hit in years? Do you think Jesse James here would beoffering you a cent for your share if he didn't know there was afortune in it? Do you imagine . . . ?"

  "It is immaterial to me," interrupted Otis Pilkington loftily, "whatMr Goble offers. I have already sold my interest!"

  "What!" cried Mr Goble.

  "When?" cried Wally.

  "I sold it half way through the road-tour," said Mr Pilkington, "to alawyer, acting on behalf of a client whose name I did not learn."

  In the silence which followed this revelation, another voice spoke.

  "I should like to speak to you for a moment, Mr Goble, if I may." Itwas Jill, who had joined the group unperceived.

  Mr Goble glowered at Jill, who met his gaze composedly.

  "I'm busy!" snapped Mr Goble. "See me tomorrow!"

  "I would prefer to see you now."

  "You would prefer!" Mr Goble waved his hands despairingly, as ifcalling on heaven to witness the persecution of a good man.

  Jill exhibited a piece of paper stamped with the letter-heading ofthe management.

  "It's about this," she said. "I found it in the box as I was goingout."

  "What's that?"

  "It seems to be a fortnight's notice."

  "And that," said Mr Goble, "is what it _is!_"

  Wally uttered an exclamation.

  "Do you mean to say . . . ?"

  "Yes, I do!" said the manager, turning on him. He felt that he hadout-maneuvred Wally. "I agreed to let her open in New York, and she'sdone it, hasn't she? Now she can get out. I don't want her. Iwouldn't have her if you paid me. She's a nuisance in the company,always making trouble, and she can go."

  "But I would prefer not to go," said Jill.

  "You would prefer!" The phrase infuriated Mr Goble. "And what haswhat you would prefer got to do with it?"

  "Well, you see," said Jill, "I forgot to tell you before, but I ownthe piece!"

  3.

  Mr Goble's jaw fell. He had been waving his hands in another spaciousgesture, and he remained frozen with out-stretched arms, like asemaphore. This evening had been a series of shocks for him, but thiswas the worst shock of all.

  "You--what!" he stammered.

  "I own the piece," repeated Jill. "Surely that gives me authority tosay what I want done and what I don't want done."

  There was a silence. Mr Goble, who was having difficulty with hisvocal chords, swallowed once or twice. Wally and Mr Pilkington stareddumbly. At the back of the stage, a belated scene-shifter, homewardbound, was whistling as much as he could remember of the refrain of apopular song.

  "What do you mean you own the piece?" Mr Goble at length gurgled.

  "I bought it."

  "You bought it!"

  "I bought Mr Pilkington's share through a lawyer for ten thousanddollars."

  "Ten thousand dollars! Where did you get ten thousand dollars?" Lightbroke upon Mr Goble. The thing became clear to him. "Damn it!" hecried. "I might have known you had some man behind you! You'd neverhave been so darned fresh if you hadn't had some John in thebackground, paying the bills! Well, of all the . . ."

  He broke off abruptly, not because he had said all that he wished tosay, for he had only touched the fringe of his subject, but becauseat this point Wally's elbow smote him in the parts about the thirdbutton of his waistcoat and jarred all the breath out of him.

  "Be quiet!" said Wally dangerously. He turned to Jill. "Jill, youdon't mind telling me how you got ten thousand dollars, do you?"

  "Of course not, Wally. Uncle Chris sent it to me. Do you remembergiving me a letter from him at Rochester? The check was in that."

  Wally stared.

  "Your uncle! But he hasn't any money!"

  "He must have made it somehow."

  "But he couldn't! How could he?"

  Otis Pilkington suddenly gave tongue. He broke in on them with a loudnoise that was half a snort and half a yell. Stunned by theinformation that it was Jill who had bought his share in the piece,Mr Pilkington's mind had recovered slowly and then had begun to workwith a quite unusual rapidity. During the preceding conversation hehad been doing some tense thinking, and now he saw all.

  "It's a swindle! It's a deliberate swindle!" shrilled Mr Pilkington.The tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles flashed sparks. "I've been made afool of! I've been swindled! I've been robbed!"

  Jill regarded him with wide eyes.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I mean!"

  "I certainly do not! You were perfectly willing to sell the piece."

  "I'm not talking about that! You know what I mean! I've been robbed!"

  Wally snatched at his arm as it gyrated past him in a gesture ofanguish which rivalled the late efforts in that direction of MrGoble, who was now leaning against the safety-curtain trying to gethis breath back.

  "Don't be a fool," said Wally curtly. "Talk sense! You know perfectlywell that Miss Mariner wouldn't swindle you."

  "She may not have been in it," conceded Mr Pilkington. "I don't knowwhether she was or not. But that uncle of her swindled me out of tenthousand dollars! The smooth old crook!"

  "Don't talk like that about Uncle Chris!" said Jill, her eyesflashing. "Tell me what you mean."

  "Yes, come on, Pilkington," said Wally grimly. "You've beenscattering some pretty serious charges about. Let's hear what youbase them on. Be coherent for a couple of seconds."

  Mr Goble filled his depleted lungs.

  "If you ask me . . ." he began.

  "We don't," said Wally curtly. "This has nothing to do with you.Well," he went on, "we're waiting to hear what this is all about."

  Mr Pilkington gulped. Like most men
of weak intellect who are preyedon by the wolves of the world, he had ever a strong distaste foradmitting that he had been deceived. He liked to regard himself as ashrewd young man who knew his way about and could take care ofhimself.

  "Major Selby," he said, adjusting his spectacles, which emotion hadcaused to slip down his nose, "came to me a few weeks ago with aproposition. He suggested the formation of a company to start MissMariner in the motion-pictures."

  "What!" cried Jill.

  "In the motion-pictures," repeated Mr Pilkington. "He wished to knowif I cared to advance any capital towards the venture. I thought itover carefully and decided that I was favorably disposed towards thescheme. I . . ." Mr Pilkington gulped again. "I gave him a check forten thousand dollars!"

  "Of all the fools!" said Mr Goble with a sharp laugh. He caughtWally's eye and subsided once more.

  Mr Pilkington's fingers strayed agitatedly to his spectacles.

  "I may have been a fool," he cried shrilly, "though I was perfectlywilling to risk the money, had it been applied to the object forwhich I gave it. But when it comes to giving ten thousand dollarsjust to have it paid back to me in exchange for a very valuablepiece, of theatrical property . . . my own money . . . handed back tome . . . !"

  Words failed Mr Pilkington.

  "I've been deliberately swindled!" he added after a moment, harkingback to the main motive.

  Jill's heart was like lead. She could not doubt for an instant thetruth of what the victim had said. Woven into every inch of thefabric, plainly hall-marked on its surface, she could perceive thesignature of Uncle Chris. If he had come and confessed to herhimself, she could not have been more certain that he had actedprecisely as Mr Pilkington had charged. There was that sameimpishness, that same bland unscrupulousness, that same patheticdesire to do her a good turn however it might affect anybody elsewhich, if she might compare the two things, had caused him to passher off on unfortunate Mr Mariner of Brookport as a girl of wealthwith tastes in the direction of real estate.

  Wally was not so easily satisfied.

  "You've no proof whatever . . ."

  Jill shook her head.

  "It's true, Wally. I know Uncle Chris. It must be true."

  "But, Jill . . . !"

  "It must be. How else could Uncle Chris have got the money?"

  Mr Pilkington, much encouraged by this ready acquiescence in histheories, got under way once more.

  "The man's a swindler! A swindler! He's robbed me! I have beenrobbed! He never had any intention of starting a motion-picturecompany. He planned it all out . . . !"

  Jill cut into the babble of his denunciations. She was sick at heart,and she spoke almost listlessly.

  "Mr Pilkington!" The victim stopped. "Mr Pilkington, if what you sayis true, and I'm afraid there is no doubt that it is, the only thingI can do is to give you back your property. So will you please try tounderstand that everything is just as it was before you gave my unclethe money. You've got back your ten thousand dollars and you've gotback your piece, so there's nothing more to talk about."

  Mr Pilkington, dimly realizing that the financial aspect of theaffair had been more or less satisfactorily adjusted was neverthelessconscious of a feeling that he was being thwarted. He had much moreto say about Uncle Chris and his methods of doing business, and itirked him to be cut short like this.

  "Yes, but I do think. . . . That's all very well, but I have by nomeans finished . . ."

  "Yes, you have," said Wally.

  "There's nothing more to talk about," repeated Jill. "I'm sorry thisshould have happened, but you've nothing to complain about now, haveyou? Good night."

  And she turned quickly away, and walked towards the door.

  "But I hadn't _finished!_" wailed Mr Pilkington, clutching at Wally.He was feeling profoundly aggrieved. If it is bad to be all dressedup and no place to go, it is almost worse to be full of talk and tohave no one to talk it to. Otis Pilkington had at least anothertwenty minutes of speech inside him on the topic of Uncle Chris, andWally was the nearest human being with a pair of ears.

  Wally was in no mood to play the part of confidant. He pushed MrPilkington earnestly in the chest and raced after Jill. MrPilkington, with the feeling that the world was against him, totteredback into the arms of Mr Goble, who had now recovered his breath andwas ready to talk business.

  "Have a good cigar," said Mr Goble, producing one. "Now, see here,let's get right down to it. If you'd care to sell out for twentythousand . . ."

  "I would _not_ care to sell out for twenty thousand!" yelled theoverwrought Mr Pilkington. "I wouldn't sell out for a million! You'rea swindler! You want to rob me! You're a crook!"

  "Yes, yes," assented Mr Goble gently. "But, all joking aside, supposeI was to go up to twenty-five thousand . . . ?" He twined his fingerslovingly in the slack of Mr Pilkington's coat. "Come now! You're agood kid! Shall we say twenty-five thousand?"

  "We will _not_ say twenty-five thousand! Let me go!"

  "Now, now, _now!_" pleaded Mr Goble. "Be sensible! don't get allworked up! Say, _do_ have a good cigar!"

  "I _won't_ have a good cigar!" shouted Mr Pilkington.

  He detached himself with a jerk, and stalked with long strides up thestage. Mr Goble watched him go with a lowering gaze. A heavy sense ofthe unkindness of fate was oppressing Mr Goble. If you couldn't gyp abone-headed amateur out of a piece of property, whom could you gyp?Mr Goble sighed. It hardly seemed to him worth while going on.

  4.

  Out in the street Wally had overtaken Jill, and they faced oneanother in the light of a street lamp. Forty-first Street at midnightis a quiet oasis. They had it to themselves.

  Jill was pale, and she was breathing quickly, but she forced a smile.

  "Well, Wally," she said. "My career as a manager didn't last long,did it?"

  "What are you going to do?"

  Jill looked down the street.

  "I don't know," she said. "I suppose I shall have to start trying tofind something."

  "But . . ."

  Jill drew him suddenly into the dark alley-way leading to thestage-door of the Gotham Theatre's nearest neighbor: and, as she didso, a long, thin form, swathed in an overcoat and surmounted by anopera-hat, flashed past.

  "I don't think I could have gone through another meeting with MrPilkington," said Jill. "It wasn't his fault, and he was quitejustified, but what he said about Uncle Chris rather hurt."

  Wally, who had ideas of his own similar to those of Mr Pilkington onthe subject of Uncle Chris and had intended to express them,prudently kept them unspoken.

  "I suppose," he said, "there is no doubt . . . ?"

  "There can't be. Poor Uncle Chris! He is like Freddie. He meanswell!"

  There was a pause. They left the alley and walked down the street.

  "Where are you going now?" asked Wally.

  "I'm going home."

  "Where's home?"

  "Forty-ninth Street. I live in a boarding-house there." A suddenrecollection of the boarding-house at which she had lived in AtlanticCity smote Wally, and it turned the scale. He had not intended tospeak, but he could not help himself.

  "Jill!" he cried. "It's no good. I must say it! I want to get you outof all this. I want to take care of you. Why should you go on livingthis sort of life, when. . . . Why won't you let me . . . ?"

  He stopped. Even as he spoke, he realized the futility of what he wassaying. Jill was not a girl to be won with words.

  They walked on in silence for a moment. They crossed Broadway, noisywith night traffic, and passed into the stillness on the other side.

  "Wally," said Jill at last.

  She was looking straight in front of her. Her voice was troubled.

  "Yes?"

  Jill hesitated.

  "Wally, you wouldn't want me to marry you if you knew you weren't theonly man in the world that mattered to me, would you?"

  They had reached Sixth Avenue before Wally replied.

  "No!" he said.

  For an insta
nt, Jill could not have said whether the feeling thatshot through her like the abrupt touching of a nerve was relief ordisappointment. Then suddenly she realized that it was disappointment.It was absurd to her to feel disappointed, but at that moment shewould have welcomed a different attitude in him. If only this problemof hers could be taken forcefully out of her hands, what a relief itwould be. If only Wally, masterfully insistent, would batter down herhesitations and _grab_ her, knock her on the head and carry her offlike a caveman, care less about her happiness and concentrate on hisown, what a solution it would be. . . . But then he wouldn't be Wally.. . . Nevertheless, Jill gave a little sigh. Her new life had changedher already. It had blunted the sharp edge of her independence.Tonight she was feeling the need of some one to lean on--some onestrong and cosy and sympathetic who would treat her like a little girland shield her from all the roughness of life. The fighting spirit hadgone out of her, and she was no longer the little warrior facing theworld with a brave eye and a tilted chin. She wanted to cry and bepetted.

  "No!" said Wally again. There had been the faintest suggestion of adoubt when he had spoken the word before, but now it shot out like abullet. "And I'll tell you why. I want _you_--and, if you married mefeeling like that, it wouldn't be you. I want Jill, the whole Jill,and nothing but Jill, and, if I can't have that, I'd rather not haveanything. Marriage isn't a motion-picture close-up with slow fade-outon the embrace. It's a partnership, and what's the good of apartnership if your heart's not in it? It's like collaborating with aman you dislike. . . . I believe you wish sometimes--not often,perhaps, but when you're feeling lonely and miserable--that I wouldpester and bludgeon you into marrying me. . . . What's the matter?"

  Jill had started. It was disquieting to have her thoughts read withsuch accuracy.

  "Nothing," she said.

  "It wouldn't be any good," Wally went on "because it wouldn't be_me_. I couldn't keep that attitude up, and I know I should hatemyself for ever having tried it. There's nothing in the world Iwouldn't do to help you, though I know it's no use offering to doanything. You're a fighter, and you mean to fight your own battle. Itmight happen that, if I kept after you and badgered you and naggedyou, one of these days, when you were feeling particularly all alonein the world and tired of fighting for yourself, you might consent tomarry me. But it wouldn't do. Even if you reconciled yourself to it,it wouldn't do. I suppose, the cave-woman sometimes felt ratherrelieved when everything was settled for her with a club, but I'msure the caveman must have had a hard time ridding himself of thethought that he had behaved like a cad and taken a mean advantage. Idon't want to feel like that. I couldn't make you happy if I feltlike that. Much better to have you go on regarding me as a friend . . .knowing that, if ever your feelings do change, that I am right there,waiting."

  "But by that time _your_ feelings will have changed."

  Wally laughed.

  "Never!"

  "You'll meet some other girl . . ."

  "I've met every girl in the world! None of them will do!" Thelightness came back into Wally's voice. "I'm sorry for the poorthings, but they won't do! Take 'em away! There's only one girl inthe world for me--oh, confound it! why is it that one always thinksin song-titles! Well, there it is. I'm not going to bother you. We'repals. And, as a pal, may I offer you my bank-roll?"

  "No!" said Jill. She smiled up at him. "I believe you would give meyour coat if I asked you for it!"

  Wally stopped.

  "Do you want it? Here you are!"

  "Wally, behave! There's a policeman looking at you!"

  "Oh, well, if you won't! It's a good coat, all the same."

  They turned the corner, and stopped before a brown-stone house, witha long ladder of untidy steps running up to the front door.

  "Is this where you live?" Wally asked. He looked at the gloomy placedisapprovingly. "You do choose the most awful places!"

  "I don't choose them. They're thrust on me. Yes, this is where Ilive. If you want to know the exact room, it's the third window upthere over the front door. Well, good night."

  "Good night," said Wally. He paused. "Jill."

  "Yes?"

  "I know it's not worth mentioning, and it's breaking our agreement tomention it, but you do understand, don't you?"

  "Yes, Wally dear, I understand."

  "I'm round the corner, you know, waiting! And, if you ever do change,all you've got to do is just to come to me and say 'It's all right!'. . ."

  Jill laughed a little shakily.

  "That doesn't sound very romantic!"

  "Not sound romantic! If you can think of any three words in thelanguage that sound more romantic, let me have them! Well, never mindhow they sound, just say them, and watch the result! But you must getto bed. Good night."

  "Good night, Wally."

  She passed in through the dingy door. It closed behind her, and Wallystood for some moments staring at it with a gloomy repulsion. Hethought he had never seen a dingier door.

  Then he started to walk back to his apartment. He walked veryquickly, with clenched hands. He was wondering if after all there wasnot something to be said for the methods of the caveman when he wenta-wooing. Twinges of conscience the caveman may have had when all wasover, but at least he had established his right to look after thewoman he loved.