Jill the Reckless

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER XIV

  MR. GOBLE MAKES THE BIG NOISE

  I

  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 his apartment on Park Avenue, Mr IsaacGoble, sniffing the gentle air from the window of his breakfast-room,returned to his meal and his _Morning Telegraph_ with a resolve towalk to the theatre for rehearsal: a resolve which had also come toJill and Nelly Bryant, eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house inthe Forties. On the summit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performingSwedish exercises to the delectation of various clerks andstenographers in the upper windows of neighbouring buildings, feltyoung and vigorous and optimistic, and went in to his shower-baththinking of Jill. And it was of Jill, too, that young Pilkingtonthought, as he propped his long form up against the pillows and sippedhis morning cup of tea. For the first time in several days a certainmoodiness which had affected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamedhappy day-dreams.

  The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily due tothe improvement in the weather. It had its source in a conversationwhich had taken place between himself and Jill's Uncle Chris on theprevious night. Exactly how it had come about, Mr. Pilkington was notentirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fully aware of what he wassaying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby's sympathetic ears thestory of his romance. Encouraged by the other's kindly receptiveness,he had told him all--his love for Jill, his hopes that some day itmight be returned, the difficulties complicating the situation owingto the known prejudices of Mrs. Waddesleigh Peagrim concerning girlswho formed the personnel of musical comedy ensembles. To all theseoutpourings Major Selby had listened with keen attention, and finallyhad made one of those luminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd,which emanate only from your man of the world. It was Jill's girlishambition, it seemed from Major Selby's statement, to become a force inthe motion-picture world. The movies were her objective.

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

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

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

  Mr. Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future indeed.

  "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. You go to your excellent auntand announce that you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. Thereis a momentary pause. 'Not _the_ Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs. Peagrim.'Yes, the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy,can you see her making any objection? Such a thing would be absurd.No, I can see no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, ashe had pictured Mrs. Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course,there would be the preliminaries."

  "The preliminaries?"

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

  "Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be done withoutmoney. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her time and herenergy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting years for achance that might never come. There is plenty of room at the top, andthat, in the motion-picture profession, is the place to start. If Jillis to become a motion-picture artist, a special company must be formedto promote her. She must be made a feature, a star, from thebeginning. Whether," said Uncle Chris, smoothing the crease of histrousers, "you would wish to take shares in the company yourself...."

  "Oo...!"

  "... is a matter," proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring the interruption,"for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have other claims on yourpurse. Possibly this musical play of yours has taken all the cash youare prepared to lock up. Possibly you may consider the venture toospeculative. Possibly ... there are a hundred reasons why you may notwish to join us. But I know a dozen men--I can go down Wall Streetto-morrow and pick out twenty men--who will be glad to advance thenecessary capital. I can assure you that I personally shall nothesitate to risk--if one can call it risking--any loose cash which Imay 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 and tell them about the scheme, and say'Here is ten thousand dollars! What is your contribution?' It puts theaffair on a business-like basis, you understand. Then we really get towork. But use your own judgment, my boy, you know. Use your ownjudgment. I would not think of persuading you to take such a step, ifyou felt at all doubtful. Think it over. Sleep on it. And, whateveryou decide to do, on no account say a word about it to Jill. It wouldbe cruel to raise her hopes until we are certain that we are in aposition to enable her to realize them. And, of course, not a word toMrs. Peagrim."

  "Of course."

  "Very well, then, my boy," said Uncle Chris affably. "I will leave youto turn the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as you thinkbest. How is your insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino? Capital!There's nothing like it. It did wonders for _me_! Good night, goodnight!"

  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 had beenbrought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected, themoney 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, asfar as Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his--young BrewsterPhilmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, and nobody hadmade the slightest objection. Brewster was to be seen with his bridefrequently beneath Mrs. Peagrim's roof. Against the higher strata ofBohemia Mrs. Peagrim had no prejudice at all. Quite the reverse, infact. She liked the society of those whose names were often in thepapers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to Otis Pilkington, inshort, that Love had found a way. He sipped his tea with relish, andwhen the Japanese valet brought in the toast all burned on one side,chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one may hope, touched thelatter's Oriental heart and inspired him with a desire to serve hisbest 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 a rehearsal-callfor the whole company at eleven. As he dressed, his mood was as sunnyas 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, bec
ause the stagewas wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electric light;and figuratively, because things were going even worse than usual withthe "My Heart and I" number, and Johnson Miller, always of anemotional 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 in agonizedprotest.

  "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 for it.It wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your heads whenyou 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 men wrongfullyaccused. They appeared to be silently calling on Heaven to see justicedone between Mr. Miller and themselves. The seventh, a long-leggedyoung man in faultlessly fitting tweeds of English cut, seemed, on theother hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It was this youth who nowstepped down to the darkened footlights and spoke in a remorseful andconscience-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, hisindia-rubber form moving in convulsive jerks. Only when he had turnedand retraced 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, crab-like, along the ledge of the stage-box. Heplaced his arm about Mr. Miller's shoulders and his lips to Mr.Miller'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 the tweed-cladyoung 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, "is thatI 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 with therest of the company? How can I put on chorus numbers if I am saddledevery 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?" he wailed. "My hands are tied! I am hampered! I amhandicapped! We open in two weeks and every day I find somebody new inthe company to upset everything I have done. I shall go to Mr. Gobleand ask to be released from my contract. I shall.... Come along, comealong, come along now!" he broke off suddenly. "Why are we wastingtime? The whole 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 and refrainby the lady who played the heroine of "The Rose of America," he foundtime 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 sky-line. 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 leading lady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of theensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly downtowards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on his nearestneighbour, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. A clapping ofhands from the dark auditorium indicated--inappropriately--that he hadfailed to do so. Mr. Miller could be perceived--dimly--with all hisfingers 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 up-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. Andit was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant, enteringthe 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.

  II

  The opportunity for a private conversation with Freddie did not occurimmediately. For ten minutes he remained alone on the stage, absorbingabusive tuition from Mr. Miller: and at the end of that period afurther ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of the numberwith the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When, finally,a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of Mr.Goble and at the same time indicated Mr. Goble's desire that the stageshould be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile ofrecognition and a faint "What ho!" was all that Freddie was able tobestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the ensembl
e, they had togo out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It was only whenthis had been run through four times and the stage left vacant for twoof the principals to play a scene that Jill was able to draw the Lastof the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the question.

  "Freddie, what are you doing here?"

  Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller's idea of an openingchorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, the ensemblewere supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, and Mr.Miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposedhouse-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victims ofSt. Vitus' dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, and exhausted: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 Mr.Miller."

  "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 biting apiece 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 he said'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? Butif 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 get messenger-boysto go anywhere and do anything nowadays. Derek ought to have thoughtof 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't realizehow 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, comingdown 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 point toseep through to his brain-centres a suspicion that all was not well.

  "Let me pull myself together!" said Freddie warily to his immortalsoul. "I believe I'm getting the raspberry!" And there was silence fora 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 knock thecover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you and youmiss 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 this 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 could beascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be said tohave sprung a leak.

  He proceeded to approach the matter from another angle.

  "I say!"

  "Yes?"

  "You do love old Derek, don't you? 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 either love achappie or you don't."

  Jill smiled painfully.

  "How nice it would be if everything were as simple and straightforwardas that. Haven't you ever heard that the dividing line between loveand hate is just a thread? Poets have said so a great number oftimes."

  "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 he wasnot 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 it,and 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 ever Ican 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 worshipper 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 for thefirst time a Spring suit which was the outcome of hours of painfulselection among the wares of a dozen different stores, and theknowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from her like aninner light. She felt happy, and her happiness had lent an unwontedcolour 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 realized that she was either incurious or else toodelicate-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 with falliblemortals, put two and two together and made the answer four when itwas not four at all. She had been deceived by circumstantial evidence.Jill, whom she had left in England wealthy and secure, she had metagain in New York penniless as the result of some Stock Exchangecataclysm in which, she remembered with the vagueness with which onerecalls once-heard pieces of information, Freddie Rooke had beeninvolved. True, she seemed to recollect hearing that Freddie's losseshad been comparatively slight, but his presence in the chorus of "TheRose of America" seemed to her proof that after all they must havebeen devastating. She could think of no other reason except loss ofmoney which could have placed Freddie in the position in which she nowfound him, so she accepted it; and, with the delicacy which was innatein her and which a hard life had never blunted, decided, directly shesaw him, to make no allusion to the disaster.

  Such was Nelly's view of the matter, and sympathy gave to her manner akind of maternal gentleness which acted on Freddie, raw from his lateencounter with Mr. Johnson Miller and disturbed by Jill's attitude inthe matter of poor old Derek, like a healing balm. His emotions weretoo chaotic for analysis, but one thing stood out clear from thewelter--the fact that he was glad to be with Nelly as he had neverbeen glad to be with a girl before, and found her soothing as he hadnever 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 felt thathe 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 modest youngmen, he had always had a sneaking suspicion at the back of his mindthat any girl who was decently civil to him was so from mixedmotives--or, more likely, motives that were not even mixed. Well, dashit, 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 heard 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 of slot-machines,you know."

  "My favourite 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, sharply excited,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 on to the stage.

  III

  There is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal ofa musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connected withit. Softened by the gentle beauty of the Spring weather, Mr. Goble hadcome to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an excellent temper, firmlyintending to remain in an excellent temper all day. Five minutes of"The Rose of America" had sent him back to the normal; and at tenminutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at thestage with all the sweetness gone from his soul. When Wally Masonarrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him,the manager received him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him acigar. And when a New York theatrical manager does that, it is acertain 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 in theneck. 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 was subject,like all other New York managers, to intermittent spasms of the ideathat the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera. Sometimes,lunching in his favourite corner in the Cosmopolis grill-room, hewould lean across the table and beg some other manager to take it fromhim that the time was ripe for a revival of comic opera--or, morecautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to be ripe for arevival of comic opera. And the other manager would nod his head andthoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sure as God madelittle apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripe for a revivalof comic opera. And then they would stuff themselves with rich foodand 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. Butwe'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 to rewriteit from end to end."

  "Well, I've got some idea 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 artists onthe stage stopped as if they had been shot. The assistantstage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had now beenturned 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 it meantanything." He cocked his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. Heclapped his hands. The action stopped again. "Cut it!" said Mr. Gobletersely.

  "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 Mr.Pilkington, 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 a painunder 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 with thelofty 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 avoice...."

  "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 you like!Go round the corner and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath! But don'tcome using it here, because I'm the little guy that does all thetalking in this theatre! That fellow makes me tired," 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 how todirect 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 his eyebrows,annoyed. Like Mr. Pilkington, he had never before come into contactwith Mr. Goble as stage-director, and, accustomed to the suavermethods of his native land, he was finding the experience trying. Hehad not yet recovered from the agony of having that water-melon linecut out of his part. It was the only good line, he considered, that hehad. Any line that is cut out of an actor's part is always the onlygood line he has.

  "The speech about Omar 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 at hiselbow.

  "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, everybody elsehas been wrong for a good many years. It's usually supposed that thegentleman's name was Omar Khayyam. Khayyam, Omar J. Born A.D. 1050,educated privately and at Bagdad University. Represented Persia in theOlympic 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 fixedfor him 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 that hadbeen. He stopped the rehearsal again.

  "Go back to that Khayyam speech!" he said interrupting Lord Finchleyin mid-sentence.
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  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 Mr.Goble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms except toWally. 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 Mr.Goble 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 Mr.Goble 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 come along. About oneand a half per cent of the gross would meet the case, 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 for myhanding 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 of thing!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, andall 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, of course,no real necessity why he should have employed Wally. New York was fullof librettists who would have done the work equally well for half themoney, but, like most managers, Mr. Goble had the mental processes ofa sheep. "Follow the Girl" was the last outstanding musical success inNew York theatrical history: Wally had written it, therefore nobodybut Wally was capable of re-writing "The Rose of America." The thinghad for Mr. Goble the inevitability of Fate. Except for decidingmentally that Wally had swelled head, there was nothing 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 the recently concludedbusiness talk, and the unfortunate Lord Finchley was back again,playing another of his scenes. Mr. Goble glared at Lord Finchley. Hedid not like him, and he did not like the way he was speaking hislines.

  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 touch to the manager'sfermenting state of mind. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell mejust 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 one wasspeaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. I was taughtthat 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 down-stage under the tuition ofJohnson Miller, he moved up-stage 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 a cold reaction from his fervid mood was about toset in, he perceived that Providence had been good to him. There, atthe extreme end of the line, stood a young man who, as far asappearance went, was the ideal Lord Finchley--as far as appearancewent, a far better Lord Finchley than the late Mr. Hill. He beckonedimperiously.

  "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've wastedenough time."

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

  "_Not_ the Automat to-day, 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!"