The Little Warrior

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1.

  On the boardwalk at Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resortwhich has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there standsan all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management andoffering the same hospitality as the one in Columbus Circle at whichJill had taken her first meal on arriving in New York. At least, itshospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day;but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and thecustomer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silentgravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voiceand tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. Themembers of the chorus of "The Rose of America," dropping in by onesand twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after theevents recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave theirorders for breakfast in a subdued undertone.

  The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. Itis the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to liveentirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudevilleperformance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday nights:and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenerycould be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Roseof America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama nodress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and ahalf, the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller's opening chorus tillhalf past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences,interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysteriousman in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, furtherconferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak ofdebate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the"spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the nameof Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o'clock acomplete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, whohad partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night,had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before goingto bed.

  They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circlesbeneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of themake-up which they had been too tired to take off. The Duchess,haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table.The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring at theceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morningsunshine out on the boardwalk.

  The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost freshthrough a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made duringthe interval of waiting for the meal.

  "The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She lookedat her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It _is_ aface!" she murmured reflectively. "But I should hate to have to goaround with it long!"

  A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work onthe night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table witha clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling.The Southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. Already, at themere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of thetheatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. In five minutesthese girls would be feeling completely restored and fit foranything.

  Conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm ofthe restaurant was shattered. Its day had begun.

  "It's a great life if you don't weaken," said the Cherub, hungrilyattacking her omelette. "And the wortht is yet to come! I thupposeall you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewrittenfrom end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the timewe're on the road."

  "Why?" Lois Denham spoke with her mouth full. "What's wrong with it?"

  The Duchess took a sip of coffee.

  "Don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "What's wrong with it? What'sright with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!"

  "One would feel thtill more inclined," said the Cherub, "to athk whyone was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thingwhen one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars amonth."

  "The numbers are all right," argued Babe. "I don't mean the melodies,but Johnny has arranged some good business."

  "He always does," said the Southern girl. "Some more buckwheat cakes,please. But what about the book?"

  "I never listen to the book."

  The Cherub laughed.

  "You're too good to yourself! I listened to it right along and takeit from me it's sad! Of courthe they'll have it fixed. We can't openin New York like this. My professional reputation wouldn't thtand it!Didn't you thee Wally Mason in front, making notes? They've got himdown to do the rewriting."

  Jill, who had been listening in a dazed way to the conversation,fighting against the waves of sleep which flooded over her, woke up.

  "Was Wally--was Mr Mason there?"

  "Sure. Sitting at the back."

  Jill couldn't have said whether she was glad or sorry. She had notseen Wally since that afternoon when they lunched together at theCosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had givenher little opportunity for thinking of him. At the back of her mindhad been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think ofhim, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy tore-examine him as a factor in her life. There had been times when thethought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warmingher with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. And thensome sharp, poignant memory of Derek would come to blot him out. Sheremembered the image she had used to explain Derek to Wally, and thetruth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. Whatever Derekmight have done, he was in her heart and she could not get him out.

  She came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken anotherturn.

  "And the wortht of it is," the Cherub was saying, "we shall reheartheall day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone,and then, when they're good and ready, they'll fire one of us!"

  "That's right!" agreed the Southern girl.

  "They couldn't!" Jill cried.

  "You wait!" said the Cherub. "They'll never open in New York withthirteen girls. Ike's much too thuperstitious."

  "But they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked sohard!"

  There was a general burst of sardonic laughter. Jill's opinion of thechivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of hermore experienced colleagues. "They'll do anything," the Cherubassured her. "You don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed LoisDenham. "You don't know the half of it!"

  "Wait till you've been in as many shows as I have," said Babe,shaking her red locks. "The usual thing is to keep a girl slaving herhead off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the NewYork opening."

  "But it's a shame! It isn't fair!"

  "If one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the Duchess with aprolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business."

  And, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleepagain.

  The slumber of the Duchess was the signal for a general move. Hersomnolence was catching. The restorative effects of the meal werebeginning to wear off. There was a call for a chorus-rehearsal atfour o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get somesleep while there was time. The Duchess was roused from her dreams bymeans of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; checks were paid;and the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlightof the empty boardwalk.

  Jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seatfacing the ocean. Tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight,crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walkingto the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharinga room with the Cherub, paralyzed her.

  It was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warmfreshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. The sea sparkledin the sun. Little waves broke lazily on the gray sand. Jill closedher eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and herthoughts
went back to what the Cherub had said.

  If Wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be throwntogether. She would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure thatshe was ready to meet him. Still, he would be somebody to talk to onsubjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebodywho belonged to the old life. She had ceased to regard Freddie Rookein this light: for Freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as aprincipal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in thecompany. Freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject forconversation that did not have to do with "The Rose of America" ingeneral and his share in it in particular. Jill had given him up, andhe had paired off with Nelly Bryant. The two were inseparable. Jillhad taken one or two meals with them, but Freddie's professionalmonologues, of which Nelly seemed never to weary, were too much forher. As a result she was now very much alone. There were girls in thecompany whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimatefriends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. Shewas lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tiredmind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thoughtthat Wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness.

  She opened her eyes, blinking. Sleep had crept upon her with aninsidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. Shewas just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to theboarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side.

  "Hullo! Good morning!"

  Jill looked up.

  "Hullo, Wally!"

  "Surprised to see me?"

  "No. Milly Trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night."

  Wally came round the bench and seated himself at her side. His eyeswere tired, and his chin dark and bristly.

  "Had breakfast?"

  "Yes, thanks. Have you?"

  "Not yet. How are you feeling?"

  "Rather tired."

  "I wonder you're not dead. I've been through a good manydress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. Why they couldn't havehad it comfortably in New York and just have run through the piecewithout scenery last night, I don't know, except that in musicalcomedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. Theyknow perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the sceneryinto the theatre till the small hours. You must be worn out. Whyaren't you in bed?"

  "I couldn't face the walk. I suppose I ought to be going, though."

  She half rose, then sank back again. The glitter of the waterhypnotized her. She closed her eyes again. She could hear Wallyspeaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and sheceased to fight the delicious drowsiness.

  Jill awoke with a start. She opened her eyes, and shut them again atonce. The sun was very strong now. It was one of those prematurelywarm days of early Spring which have all the languorous heat of latesummer. She opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feelinggreatly refreshed. She also discovered that her head was resting onWally's shoulder.

  "Have I been asleep?"

  Wally laughed.

  "You have been having what you might call a nap." He massaged hisleft arm vigorously. "You needed it. Do you feel more rested now?"

  "Good gracious! Have I been squashing your poor arm all the time? Whydidn't you move?"

  "I was afraid you would fall over. You just shut your eyes andtoppled sideways."

  "What's the time?"

  Wally looked at his watch.

  "Just on ten."

  "Ten!" Jill was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp forabout three hours! You must have had an awful time!"

  "Oh, it was all right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that thebirds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the'Babes in the Wood.'"

  "But you haven't had any breakfast! Aren't you starving?"

  "Well, I'm not saying I wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim ifit happened to float past. But there's plenty of time for that. Lotsof doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and Indian fakirs gowithout food for days at a time in order to develop their souls.Shall I take you back to wherever you're staying? You ought to get aproper sleep in bed."

  "Don't dream of taking me. Go off and have something to eat."

  "Oh, that can wait. I'd like to see you safely home."

  Jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. Therewas no doubt about it, Wally was different from any other man she hadknown. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining somethingvaluable under false pretences.

  "Wally!"

  "Hullo?"

  "You--you oughtn't to be so good to me!"

  "Nonsense! Where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--toa pal in trouble?"

  "You know what I mean. I can't . . . that is to say . . . it isn't asthough . . . I mean . . ."

  Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.

  "If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! Wehad all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. Youmustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossedthe boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead theway. I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothingmore. But, as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an oldfriend. If an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_an old friend behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of theconversation. But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?"

  "Oh, no."

  "Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr Pilkington."

  "What!"

  "Well, when I say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The humangiraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which helegged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takesnourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had aconference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr Goble toldhim in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience Ihave never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rottenhigh-brow false-alarm of a show--I am quoting Mr Goble--would have tobe rewritten by alien hands. And these are them! On the right, alienright hand. On the left, alien left hand. Yes, I am the instrumentselected for the murder of Pilkington's artistic aspirations. I'mgoing to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritten thefirst act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency andtold me to get busy two weeks ago, and I've been working hard eversince. We shall start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open inBaltimore next Monday with practically a different piece. And it'sgoing to be a pippin, believe me, said our hero modestly. A gang ofcomposers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chuckingout nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. Itmeans a lot of work for you, I'm afraid. All the business of thenumbers will have to be re-arranged."

  "I like work," said Jill. "But I'm sorry for Mr Pilkington."

  "He's all right. He owns seventy per cent of the show. He may make afortune. He's certain to make a comfortable sum. That is, if hedoesn't sell out his interest in pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it.From what he said at the close of the proceedings, I fancy he wouldsell out to anybody who asked him. At least, he said that he washedhis hands of the piece. He's going back to New York thisafternoon,--won't even wait for the opening. Of course, I'm sorry forthe poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellentcentral idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. Oh, by theway!"

  "Yes?"

  "Another tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He'sout!"

  "Oh, no!"

  "Out!" repeated Wally firmly.

  "But didn't you think he was good last night?"

  "He was awful! But that isn't why. Goble wanted his part rewritten asa Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hitlast season in 'Hoots, Mon!' That sort of thing is always happeningin musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good peoplehappen to be available at the moment. When you've had one or twoexperiences of changing your Italian count to a Jewishmillionaire--invariably against time: they always want the script
onThursday next at noon--and then changing him again to a RussianBolshevik, you begin to realize what is meant by the words 'Death,where is thy sting?' My heart bleeds for Freddie, but what can onedo? At any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of myshows. In the second act he was supposed to have escaped from anasylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted thathe should shave his head. The day after he shaved it, they heard thata superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It's a ruthlessbusiness."

  "The girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed."

  "Oh, I shouldn't think that's likely."

  "I hope not."

  "So do I. What are we stopping for?" Jill had halted in front of ashabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which springup overnight at seashore resorts and start to decay the moment thebuilders have left them.

  "I live here."

  "Here!" Wally looked at her in consternation. "But . . ."

  Jill smiled.

  "We working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quitecomfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry inand go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind yougo and get a good breakfast."

  2.

  When Jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorusrehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. No steps had apparentlybeen taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in thecast preyed on Mr. Goble's superstitious mind. But she found hercolleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "Wait!"was the gloomy watchword of "The Rose of America" chorus.

  The rehearsal passed off without event. It lasted until six o'clock,when Jill, the Cherub, and two or three of the other girls went tosnatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. Itwas not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in after the overexertionof the previous night, and it was too early for first-nightexcitement to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whosespirits seldom failed her, was depressed, and the idea of anoverhanging doom had grown. It seemed now to be merely a question ofspeculating on the victim, and the conversation gave Jill, as thelast addition to the company and so the cause of swelling the ranksof the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was gladwhen it was time to go back to the theatre.

  The moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it wasmade clear to them that the doom had fallen. In a chair in thecorner, all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood oftears, sat the unhappy Duchess, the center of a group of girlsanxious to console but limited in their ideas of consolation to anoccasional pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief.

  "It's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as Jill came in.

  Somebody else said it was fierce, and a third girl declared it to bethe limit. A fourth girl, well-meaning but less helpful than shewould have liked to be, was advising the victim not to worry.

  The story of the disaster was brief and easily told. The Duchess,sailing in at the stage-door, had paused at the letter-box to see ifCuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman, had sent her a good-lucktelegram. He had, but his good wishes were unfortunately neutralizedby the fact that the very next letter in the box was one from themanagement, crisp and to the point, informing the Duchess that herservices would not be required that night or thereafter. It was thesubtle meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "The Roseof America" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had beentimed.

  "Poor Mae, if she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her twoweeks' notice or her salary. But they can fire her without a centjust because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!"

  The Duchess burst into fresh flood of tears.

  "Don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who wouldhave been in her element looking in on Job with Bildad the Shuhiteand his friends. "Don't you worry!"

  "It's tough!" said the girl, who had adopted that form of verbalconsolation.

  "It's fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective.

  The other girl, with an air of saying something new, repeated herstatement that it was the limit. The Duchess cried forlornlythroughout. She had needed this engagement badly. Chorus salaries arenot stupendous, but it is possible to save money by means of themduring a New York run, especially if you have spent three years in amilliner's shop and can make your own clothes, as the Duchess, inspite of her air of being turned out by Fifth Avenue modistes, couldand did. She had been looking forward, now that this absurd piece wasto be rewritten by someone who knew his business and had a goodchance of success, to putting by just those few dollars that make allthe difference when you are embarking on married life. Cuthbert, forall his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of theestablishment unsupported for at least another eighteen months; andthis disaster meant that the wedding would have to be postponedagain. So the Duchess, abandoning that aristocratic manner criticizedby some of her colleagues as "up-stage" and by others as "Ritz-y,"sat in her chair and consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as theywere offered to her.

  Jill had been the only girl in the room who had spoken no word ofconsolation. This was not because she was not sorry for the Duchess.She had never been sorrier for any one in her life. The pathos ofthat swift descent from haughtiness to misery had bitten deep intoher sensitive heart. But she revolted at the idea of echoing thebanal words of the others. Words were no good, she thought, as sheset her little teeth and glared at an absent management,--amanagement just about now presumably distending itself with aluxurious dinner at one of the big hotels. Deeds were what shedemanded. All her life she had been a girl of impulsive action, andshe wanted to act impulsively now. She was in much the same Berserkmood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of Bill the parrot onthe occasion of his dispute with Henry of London. The fighting spiritwhich had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had comeback in full measure.

  "What are you going to _do?_" she cried. "Aren't you going to _do_something?"

  Do? The members of "The Rose of America" ensemble looked doubtfullyat one another. Do? It had not occurred to them that there wasanything to be done. These things happened, and you regretted them,but as for doing anything, well, what _could_ you do?

  Jill's face was white and her eyes were flaming. She dominated theroomful of girls like a little Napoleon. The change in her startledthem. Hitherto they had always looked on her as rather an unusuallyquiet girl. She had always made herself unobtrusively pleasant tothem all. They all liked her. But they had never suspected her ofpossessing this militant quality. Nobody spoke, but there was ageneral stir. She had flung a new idea broadcast, and it wasbeginning to take root. Do something? Well, if it came to that, whynot?

  "We ought all to refuse to go on tonight unless they let her go on!"Jill declared.

  The stir became a movement. Enthusiasm is catching, and every girl isat heart a rebel. And the idea was appealing to the imagination.Refuse to give a show on the opening night! Had a chorus ever donesuch a thing? They trembled on the verge of making history.

  "Strike?" quavered somebody at the back.

  "Yes, strike!" cried Jill.

  "Hooray! That's the thtuff!" shouted the Cherub, and turned thescale. She was a popular girl, and her adherence to the Causeconfirmed the doubters. "Thtrike!"

  "Strike! Strike!"

  Jill turned to the Duchess, who had been gaping amazedly at thedemonstration. She no longer wept, but she seemed in a dream.

  "Dress and get ready to go on," Jill commanded. "We'll all dress andget ready to go on. Then I'll go and find Mr Goble and tell him whatwe mean to do. And, if he doesn't give in, we'll stay here in thisroom, and there won't be a performance!"

  3.

  Mr Goble, with a Derby hat on the back of his head and an unlightedcigar in the corner of his mouth, was superintending the erection ofthe first act set when Jill found him. He was standing with his backto the safety-curtain glowering at a blue c
anvas, supposed torepresent one of those picturesque summer skies which you get at thebest places on Long Island. Jill, coming down stage from thestaircase that led to the dressing-room, interrupted his line ofvision.

  "Get out of the light!" bellowed Mr Goble, always a man of directspeech, adding "Damn you!" for good measure.

  "Please move to one side," interpreted the stage-director. "Mr Gobleis looking at the set."

  The head carpenter, who completed the little group, said nothing.Stage carpenters always say nothing. Long association with fussydirectors has taught them that the only policy to pursue on openingnights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap themselves up in it, andnot emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone off to worrysomebody else.

  "It don't look right!" said Mr Goble, cocking his head on one side.

  "I see what you mean, Mr Goble," assented the stage-directorobsequiously. "It has perhaps a little too much--er--not quiteenough--yes, I see what you mean!"

  "It's too--damn--BLUE!" rasped Mr Goble, impatient of thisvacillating criticism. "That's what's the matter with it."

  The head carpenter abandoned the silent policy of a lifetime. He feltimpelled to utter. He was a man who, when not at the theatre, spentmost of his time in bed, reading all-fiction magazines: but it sohappened that once, last summer, he had actually seen the sky; and heconsidered that this entitled him to speak almost as a specialist onthe subject.

  "The sky _is_ blue!" he observed huskily. "Yessir! I seen it!"

  He passed into the silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse,stopped up his mouth with a piece of chewing-gum.

  Mr Goble regarded the silver-tongued orator wrathfully. He was notaccustomed to chatter-boxes arguing with him like this. He wouldprobably have said something momentous and crushing, but at thispoint Jill intervened.

  "Mr Goble."

  The manager swung round on her.

  "What _is_ it?"

  It is sad to think how swiftly affection can change to dislike inthis world. Two weeks before, Mr Goble had looked on Jill with favor.She had seemed good in his eyes. But that refusal of hers to lunchwith him, followed by a refusal some days later to take a bit ofsupper somewhere, had altered his views on feminine charm. If it hadbeen left to him, as most things were about his theatre, to decidewhich of the thirteen girls should be dismissed, he would undoubtedlyhave selected Jill. But at this stage in the proceedings there wasthe unfortunate necessity of making concessions to the temperamentalJohnson Miller. Mr Goble was aware that the dance-director's serviceswould be badly needed in the re-arrangement of the numbers during thecoming week or so, and he knew that there were a dozen managerswaiting eagerly to welcome him if he threw up his present job, so hehad been obliged to approach him in quite a humble spirit and enquirewhich of his female chorus could be most easily spared. And, as theDuchess had a habit of carrying her haughty languor onto the stageand employing it as a substitute for the chorea which was Mr.Miller's ideal, the dancer-director had chosen her. To Mr Goble'sdislike of Jill, therefore, was added now something of the fury ofthe baffled potentate.

  "'Jer want?" he demanded.

  "Mr Goble is extremely busy," said the stage-director. "Ex-tremely."

  A momentary doubt as to the best way of approaching her subject hadtroubled Jill on her way downstairs, but, now that she was on thebattle-field confronting the enemy, she found herself cool,collected, and full of a cold rage which steeled her nerves withoutconfusing her mind.

  "I came to ask you to let Mae D'Arcy go on tonight."

  "Who the hell's Mae D'Arcy?" Mr Goble broke off to bellow at ascene-shifter who was depositing the wall of Mrs Stuyvesant vanDyke's Long Island residence too far down stage. "Not there, youfool! Higher up!"

  "You gave her her notice this evening," said Jill.

  "Well, what about it?"

  "We want you to withdraw it."

  "Who's 'we'?"

  "The other girls and myself."

  Mr Goble jerked his head so violently that the Derby hat flew off, tobe picked up, dusted, and restored by the stage-director.

  "Oh, so you don't like it? Well, you know what you can do . . ."

  "Yes," said Jill, "we do. We are going to strike."

  "What!"

  "If you don't let Mae go on, we shan't go on. There won't be aperformance tonight, unless you like to give one without a chorus."

  "Are you crazy!"

  "Perhaps. But we're quite unanimous."

  Mr Goble, like most theatrical managers, was not good at words ofover two syllables.

  "You're what?"

  "We've talked it over, and we've all decided to do what I said."

  Mr Goble's hat shot off again, and gambolled away into the wings,with the stage-director bounding after it like a retriever.

  "Whose idea's this?" demanded Mr Goble. His eyes were a little foggy,for his brain was adjusting itself but slowly to the novel situation.

  "Mine."

  "Oh, yours! I thought as much!"

  "Well," said Jill, "I'll go back and tell them that you will not dowhat we ask. We will keep our make-up on in case you change yourmind."

  She turned away.

  "Come back!"

  Jill proceeded toward the staircase. As she went, a husky voice spokein her ear.

  "Go to it, kid! You're all right!"

  The head-carpenter had broken his Trappist vows twice in a singleevening, a thing which had not happened to him since the night threeyears ago, when, sinking wearily onto a seat in a dark corner for abit of a rest, he found that one of his assistants had placed a potof red paint there.

  4.

  To Mr Goble, fermenting and full of strange oaths, entered JohnsonMiller. The dance-director was always edgey on first nights, andduring the foregoing conversation had been flitting about the stagelike a white-haired moth. His deafness had kept him in completeignorance that there was anything untoward afoot, and he nowapproached Mr Goble with his watch in his hand.

  "Eight twenty-five," he observed. "Time those girls were on stage."

  Mr Goble, glad of a concrete target for his wrath, cursed him inabout two hundred and fifty rich and well-selected words.

  "Huh?" said Mr Miller, hand to ear.

  Mr Goble repeated the last hundred and eleven words, the pick of thebunch.

  "Can't hear!" said Mr Miller, regretfully. "Got a cold."

  The grave danger that Mr Goble, a thick-necked man, would undergosome sort of a stroke was averted by the presence-of-mind of thestage-director, who, returning with the hat, presented it like abouquet to his employer, and then his hands being now unoccupied,formed them into a funnel and through this flesh-and-blood megaphoneendeavored to impart the bad news.

  "The girls say they won't go on!"

  Mr Miller nodded.

  "I _said_ it was time they were on."

  "They're on strike!"

  "It's not," said Mr Miller austerely, "what they like, it's whatthey're paid for. They ought to be on stage. We should be ringing upin two minutes."

  The stage director drew another breath, then thought better of it. Hehad a wife and children, and, if dadda went under with apoplexy, whatbecame of the home, civilization's most sacred product? He relaxedthe muscles of his diaphragm, and reached for pencil and paper.

  Mr Miller inspected the message, felt for his spectacle-case, foundit, opened it, took out his glasses, replaced the spectacle-case,felt for his handkerchief, polished the glasses, replaced thehandkerchief, put the glasses on, and read. A blank look came intohis face.

  "Why?" he enquired.

  The stage director, with a nod of the head intended to imply that hemust be patient and all would come right in the future, recovered thepaper, and scribbled another sentence. Mr Miller perused it.

  "Because Mae D'Arcy has got her notice?" he queried, amazed. "But thegirl can't dance a step."

  The stage director, by means of a wave of the hand, a lifting of botheyebrows, and a wrinkling of the nose, replied that the situation,unreasonable
as it might appear to the thinking man, was as he hadstated and must be faced. What, he enquired--through the medium of aclever drooping of the mouth and a shrug of the shoulders--was to bedone about it?

  Mr Miller remained for a moment in meditation.

  "I'll go and talk to them," he said.

  He flitted off, and the stage director leaned back against theasbestos curtain. He was exhausted, and his throat was in agony, butnevertheless he was conscious of a feeling of quiet happiness. Hislife had been lived in the shadow of the constant fear that some dayMr Goble might dismiss him. Should that disaster occur, he felt,there was always a future for him in the movies.

  Scarcely had Mr Miller disappeared on his peace-making errand, whenthere was a noise like a fowl going through a quickset hedge, and MrSaltzburg, brandishing his baton as if he were conducting an unseenorchestra, plunged through the scenery at the left upper entrance andcharged excitedly down the stage. Having taken his musicians twicethrough the overture, he had for ten minutes been sitting in silence,waiting for the curtain to go up. At last, his emotional naturecracking under the strain of this suspense, he had left hisconductor's chair and plunged down under the stage by way of themusician's bolthole to ascertain what was causing the delay.

  "What is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?" enquired MrSaltzburg. "I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. . . . Wecannot play the overture again. What is it? What has happened?"

  Mr Goble, that overwrought soul, had betaken himself to the wings,where he was striding up and down with his hands behind his back,chewing his cigar. The stage director braced himself once more to thetask of explanation.

  "The girls have struck!"

  Mr Saltzburg blinked through his glasses.

  "The girls?" he repeated blankly.

  "Oh, damn it!" cried the stage director, his patience at last givingway. "You know what a girl is, don't you?"

  "They have what?"

  "Struck! Walked out on us! Refused to go on!"

  Mr Saltzburg reeled under the blow.

  "But it is impossible! Who is to sing the opening chorus?"

  In the presence of one to whom he could relieve his mind without fearof consequences, the stage director became savagely jocular.

  "That's all arranged," he said. "We're going to dress the carpentersin skirts. The audience won't notice anything wrong."

  "Should I speak to Mr Goble?" queried Mr Saltzburg doubtfully.

  "Yes, if you don't value your life," returned the stage director.

  Mr Saltzburg pondered.

  "I will go and speak to the children," he said. "I will talk to them.They know _me!_ I will make them be reasonable."

  He bustled off in the direction taken by Mr Miller, his coattailsflying behind him. The stage director, with a tired sigh, turned toface Wally, who had come in through the iron pass-door from theauditorium.

  "Hullo!" said Wally cheerfully. "Going strong? How's everybody athome? Fine! So am I! By the way, am I wrong or did I hear somethingabout a theatrical entertainment of some sort here tonight?" Helooked about him at the empty stage. In the wings, on the promptside, could be discerned the flannel-clad forms of the gentlemanlymembers of the male ensemble, all dressed up for Mrs Stuyvesant vanDyke's tennis party. One or two of the principals were standingperplexedly in the lower entrance. The O. P. side had been given overby general consent to Mr Goble for his perambulations. Every now andthen he would flash into view through an opening in the scenery. "Iunderstood that tonight was the night for the great revival of comicopera. Where are the comics, and why aren't they opping?"

  The stage director repeated his formula once more.

  "The girls have struck!"

  "So have the clocks," said Wally. "It's past nine."

  "The chorus refuse to go on."

  "No, really! Just artistic loathing of the rotten piece, or is theresome other reason?"

  "They're sore because one of them has been given her notice, and theysay they won't give a show unless she's taken back. They've struck.That Mariner girl started it."

  "She did!" Wally's interest became keener. "She would!" he saidapprovingly. "She's a heroine!"

  "Little devil! I never liked that girl!"

  "Now there," said Wally, "is just the point on which we differ. Ihave always liked her, and I've known her all my life. So, shipmate,if you have any derogatory remarks to make about Miss Mariner, keepthem where they belong--_there!_" He prodded the other sharply in thestomach. He was smiling pleasantly, but the stage director, catchinghis eye, decided that his advice was good and should be followed. Itis just as bad for the home if the head of the family gets his neckbroken as if he succumbs to apoplexy.

  "You surely aren't on their side?" he said.

  "Me!" said Wally. "Of course I am. I'm always on the side of thedown-trodden and oppressed. If you know of a dirtier trick thanfiring a girl just before the opening, so that they won't have to payher two weeks' salary, mention it. Till you do, I'll go on believingthat it is the limit. Of course I'm on the girls' side. I'll makethem a speech if they want me to, or head the procession with abanner if they are going to parade down the boardwalk. I'm for 'em,Father Abraham, a hundred thousand strong. And then a few! If youwant my considered opinion, our old friend Goble has asked for it andgot it. And I'm glad--glad--glad, if you don't mind my quotingPollyanna for a moment. I hope it chokes him!"

  "You'd better not let him hear you talking like that!"

  "An contraire, as we say in the Gay City, I'm going to make a pointof letting him hear me talk like that! Adjust the impression that Ifear any Goble in shining armor, because I don't. I propose to speakmy mind to him. I would beard him in his lair, if he had a beard.Well, I'll clean-shave him in his lair. That will be just as good.But hist! whom have we here? Tell me, do you see the same thing Isee?"

  Like the vanguard of a defeated army, Mr Saltzburg was comingdejectedly across the stage.

  "Well?" said the stage-director.

  "They would not listen to me," said Mr Saltzburg brokenly. "The moreI talked, the more they did not listen!" He winced at a painfulmemory. "Miss Trevor stole my baton, and then they all lined up andsang the 'Star-Spangled Banner'!"

  "Not the words?" cried Wally incredulously. "Don't tell me they knewthe words!"

  "Mr Miller is still up there, arguing with them. But it will be of nouse. What shall we do?" asked Mr Saltzburg helplessly. "We ought tohave rung up half an hour ago. What shall we do-oo-oo?"

  "We must go and talk to Goble," said Wally. "Something has got to besettled quick. When I left, the audience was getting so impatientthat I thought he was going to walk out on us. He's one of thosenasty, determined-looking men. So come along!"

  Mr Goble, intercepted as he was about to turn for another walkup-stage, eyed the deputation sourly and put the same question thatthe stage director had put to Mr Saltzburg.

  "Well?"

  Wally came briskly to the point.

  "You'll have to give in," he said, "or else go and make a speech tothe audience, the burden of which will be that they can have theirmoney back by applying at the box-office. These Joans of Arc have gotyou by the short hairs!"

  "I won't give in!"

  "Then give out!" said Wally. "Or pay out, if you prefer it. Trotalong and tell the audience that the four dollars fifty in the housewill be refunded."

  Mr Goble gnawed his cigar.

  "I've been in the show business fifteen years . . ."

  "I know. And this sort of thing has never happened to you before. Onegets new experiences."

  Mr Goble cocked his cigar at a fierce angle, and glared at Wally.Something told him that Wally's sympathies were not wholly with him.

  "They can't do this sort of thing to me," he growled.

  "Well, they are doing it to someone, aren't they," said Wally, "and,if it's not you, who is it?"

  "I've a damned good mind to fire them all!"

  "A corking idea! I can't see a single thing wrong with it except thatit would hang up the prod
uction for another five weeks and lose youyour bookings and cost you a week's rent of this theatre for nothingand mean having all the dresses made over and lead to all yourprincipals going off and getting other jobs. These trifling thingsapart, we may call the suggestion a bright one."

  "You talk too damn much!" said Mr Goble, eyeing him with distaste.

  "Well, go on, _you_ say something. Something sensible."

  "It is a very serious situation . . ." began the stage director.

  "Oh, shut up!" said Mr Goble.

  The stage director subsided into his collar.

  "I cannot play the overture again," protested Mr Saltzburg. "Icannot!"

  At this point Mr Miller appeared. He was glad to see Mr Goble. He hadbeen looking for him, for he had news to impart.

  "The girls," said Mr Miller, "have struck! They won't go on!"

  Mr Goble, with the despairing gesture of one who realizes theimpotence of words, dashed off for his favorite walk up stage. Wallytook out his watch.

  "Six seconds and a bit," he said approvingly, as the managerreturned. "A very good performance. I should like to time you overthe course in running-kit."

  The interval for reflection, brief as it had been, had apparentlyenabled Mr Goble to come to a decision.

  "Go," he said to the stage director, "and tell 'em that fool of aD'Arcy girl can play. We've got to get that curtain up."

  "Yes, Mr Goble."

  The stage director galloped off.

  "Get back to your place," said the manager to Mr Saltzburg, "and playthe overture again."

  "Again!"

  "Perhaps they didn't hear it the first two times," said Wally.

  Mr Goble watched Mr Saltzburg out of sight. Then he turned to Wally.

  "That damned Mariner girl was at the bottom of this! She started thewhole thing! She told me so. Well, I'll settle _her!_ She goestomorrow!"

  "Wait a minute," said Wally. "Wait one minute! Bright as it is, thatidea is _out!_"

  "What the devil has it got to do with you?"

  "Only this, that, if you fire Miss Mariner, I take that neat scriptwhich I've prepared and I tear it into a thousand fragments. Or ninehundred. Anyway, I tear it. Miss Mariner opens in New York, or I packup my work and leave."

  Mr Goble's green eyes glowed.

  "Oh, you're stuck on her, are you?" he sneered. "I see!"

  "Listen, dear heart," said Wally, gripping the manager's arm, "I cansee that you are on the verge of introducing personalities into thisvery pleasant little chat. Resist the impulse! Why not let your spinestay where it is instead of having it kicked up through your hat?Keep to the main issue. Does Miss Mariner open in New York or doesshe not?"

  There was a tense silence. Mr Goble permitted himself a swift reviewof his position. He would have liked to do many things to Wally,beginning with ordering him out of the theatre, but prudencerestrained him. He wanted Wally's work. He needed Wally in hisbusiness: and, in the theatre, business takes precedence of personalfeelings.

  "All right!" he growled reluctantly.

  "That's a promise," said Wally. "I'll see that you keep it." Helooked over his shoulder. The stage was filled with gayly-coloreddresses. The mutineers had returned to duty. "Well, I'll be gettingalong. I'm rather sorry we agreed to keep clear of personalities,because I should have liked to say that, if ever they have askunk-show at Madison Square Garden, you ought to enter--and win theblue ribbon. Still, of course, under our agreement my lips aresealed, and I can't even hint at it. Good-bye. See you later, Isuppose?"

  Mr Goble, giving a creditable imitation of a living statue, wasplucked from his thoughts by a hand upon his arm. It was Mr Miller,whose unfortunate ailment had prevented him from keeping abreast ofthe conversation.

  "What did he say?" enquired Mr Miller, interested. "I didn't hearwhat he said!"

  Mr Goble made no effort to inform him.