Madame Olga Stephano continued to be a “regular guy” for the remainder
of the season, but when the summer rolled around Jimmy began to feel
that his enthusiasm for the cause in the future would depend entirely
upon an utterly sordid matter of dollars and cents. He politely
suggested that a more obese emolument every Saturday night would make
all the difference in the world. Madame Stephano exploded like a giant
firecracker, shrugged her shapely shoulders and walked away.
Jimmy thereupon decided to leave the uplift flat on its back. He gave in
his notice and the next day a summons from Chester Bartlett reached him.
Bartlett offered him a place as press agent for his newest musical
comedy, “Keep Moving” at a salary which exceeded the demand which Madame
Stephano had rejected by twenty-five dollars a week. Jimmy went into
executive session with himself and considered a motion for a
reconsideration of his previously avowed determination to “keep all song
and dance shows for life.” It was passed by a unanimous vote.
Jimmy smiled cynically one Saturday night in the early fall as he stood
on the Boylston Street curb and watched a great throng of Boston
amusement seekers filing through the main entrance of the Colonial
Theatre. He was a backslider and an apostate, but he was no longer
conscious of any scruples in the premises. His cynical aspect on this
particular occasion was the result of his contemplation of the sign
which outlined in incandescent brilliance over the portals of the
playhouse the name of his new affiliation. It seemed to him to be, for a
moment, a symbol of his downfall and disgrace.
His smile lost its hardness a minute later, however, and became
something a shade softer and more human. A vagrant memory of a certain
young person from Cedar Rapids, Iowa,—a young person whom Jimmy held in
the highest regard—had crossed his train of thought. It was pleasant to
think that Lolita Murphy was close at hand and that when the performance
was over he could walk across the Common with her to her hotel, whisper
words of endearment, and bask in the effulgence of the smiles which she
so lavishly bestowed upon him.
Lolita, released from the oblivion of her drudgery as a player in the
Mt. Vernon Stock Company, still cherished a great and overwhelming
ambition to climb the ladder of theatrical fame and carelessly brush off
the more or less distinguished celebrities who, she felt, encumbered the
topmost rung.
She had reluctantly consented to accept a minor position in the “Keep
Moving” company at Jimmy’s behest. The latter, filled with a pardonable
desire to be near her, had convinced her that a little musical comedy
experience was a necessary part of her theatrical training and had
persuaded Bartlett to give her a microscopic part in the piece. In the
first act she separated herself from the ranks of the chorus and
remarked “Here comes the prince now.” In the second act she was the
hat-check girl in the scene depicting the entrance to the dining-room of
the Carlton Hotel and was called upon to say “think you’re fresh, don’t
you?” to the principal comedian. In the third and final act she was one
of the bridesmaids in the ragtime wedding number.
Jimmy, it must be confessed, had begun to strongly suspect that Lolita
would eventually find out that the American stage would be able to worry
along without her assistance if the worst came to the worst and that
destiny had not selected her to snatch the laurels from the brow of Mrs.
Fiske. That was one of the reasons which impelled him to suggest that
she associate herself with “Keep Moving.” He didn’t want her to have any
heart-aches or artistic growing pains and he felt that she could be
spared much distress and disillusion if he were on the sidelines at all
times with words of cheer and encouragement.
A smart limousine drew up alongside him and Chester Bartlett,
“classiest” of musical comedy entrepreneurs alighted, bringing with him
something of the flair of a Parisian boulevard as contrasted with the
Broadway manner which usually characterized theatrical men in his
particular field of endeavor. University man, cosmopolite, patron of
amateur sports, big game hunter and intimate of distinguished literary
men in a half dozen countries, Chester Bartlett was a unique figure in
the realm of twinkly-toes and tinkly music. As he came towards Jimmy he
seemed to exude such a suggestion of perfect poise and supreme savoir
faire that the press agent felt for a moment as if he should applaud.
“Hello, old man,” said Bartlett jovially. “What song doth our troubadour
sing next? You’ll have to woo the muse in accents soft and low if you
expect to equal her performance this morning for your young friend down
at the Colonial. That story had a tang that was delightful. Don’t you
think so?”
The manager had intended to pierce Jimmy’s Achillian heel and he had
succeeded. If there was anything that stirred the latent energies that
lay dormant in the press agent’s soul and filled him with the fierce and
fiery zest of a crusader it was praise of a rival’s achievements. And
that fellow down at the Colonial had put one over that morning. There
was no gainsaying that. His story about the group of chorus girls who
had organized a Back to Nature club and who had elected to live in tents
on the roof of one of the biggest hotels in town had landed with a
splash and an extensive pictorial lay-out in every paper in town. Jimmy
had been nursing a grouch all day because he hadn’t thought of the idea
first. He didn’t permit any outward signs of his annoyance to reach
Bartlett, however. He assumed his customary jaunty air of sublime
self-confidence in making reply.
“I’ll say it was pretty good,” he said, “but I’ve got something about
ready to spring that’ll send that fellow down for the count in the first
round. I’ve got a date with this Emily Ann Muse party tomorrow morning
and when she’s listened to what I’ve got to say she’ll jump through the
paper hoop at the word of command.”
Bartlett laughed good-naturedly. Jimmy’s dazzling metaphorical flights
and picturesque similes were a constant source of piquant delight to
him.
“You’re not quite as modest as the cooing dove,” he remarked, “but
you’re a darned sight more diverting. I hope you’re going to get our
stately queens into the web you are weaving. I rather fancy they’re on
the war-path tonight after all the notoriety their sisters in art got
today.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Jimmy. “They’re goin’ to be right in the little
old center of the stage with baby spot lights playin’ on ’em from all
sides. There won’t be anythin’ doin’ for about thirty-six hours or so,
though. I can’t open cold with this act. I’ve got to call a rehearsal.”
Bartlett chuckled and strolled into the lobby. As Jimmy watched his trim
figure disappear past the door-man at the far end he experienced a
sinking sensation that was decidedly unpleasant. He suddenly realized
that in a moment of expansiveness induced by jealousy of a hated rival
he had drawn a check against a sadly depleted bank account. As a matter
of plain, ungarnished fact he hadn’t a notion as to how he was going to
make good. He had no more idea than Bartlett as to the nature of the
story that was to startle the natives in thirty-six hours, but he was
the original cheery optimist and somehow he felt that the gods would be
good to him. He sauntered leisurely down the street in quest of an
inspiration.
* * * * *
The walk across the Common after the performance that night wasn’t quite
as stimulating as it generally was. Jimmy’s earlier saunter had failed
to result in the production of an idea that was even remotely possible
of materialization and he had slowly let himself drop into one of those
states of moody pre-occupation which are usually fatal to romance.
Lolita, too, was strangely silent and detached and their conversation at
first was mono-syllabic and intermittent. Presently they came to a bench
on the fringes of the park and sat down under the sheltering branches of
a great elm, as they had for several nights past. Neither spoke for a
minute or two. Jimmy was the first to find voice.
“I might have ’em organize a literary society and have one of those
Harvard ducks come over some off afternoon and slip ’em a lecture,” he
said abstractedly as he stared straight ahead.
Lolita eyed him curiously. The speech was so entirely disassociated from
his hitherto brief remarks that she couldn’t fathom its significance.
“Who?” she asked.
“There wouldn’t be time for that, though.” He went on unheedingly. “He’d
probably have to take a couple of days to decide and another couple to
get his nerve up.”
“What are you talking about, Jimmy Martin?” broke in Lolita impatiently.
Jimmy came to with a start and laughed foolishly.
“Excuse me, girlie,” he replied. “I forgot that you didn’t know anything
about it. You see I ain’t really here on this bench at all. I’m right
out on a sand-bar and the tide’s comin’ in. I’m goin’ to be all awash in
a little while if the life guards don’t come out and pull a rescue.”
“I don’t understand,” persisted Lolita.
“It’s easy, girlie. I’ve got a case of goods to deliver and the drivers
are out on strike. In words of one syllable, sweetheart, I’ve promised
Bartlett that I’m goin’ to back the peace pow-wow off on to the inside
pages on Monday morning and I’ve been reachin’ out all night for ideas,
but I don’t seem to get anywhere at all, not anywhere at all.”
“Is it something about some old story for the papers or something like
that that’s worrying you?”
Jimmy felt impelled to make a snappy rejoinder, but his saner judgment
prevailed. He checked himself just in time.
“That’s the general idea, girlie,” he said evenly and lapsed into
ruminative silence again.
It was dark under the old elm and Jimmy couldn’t see Lolita’s face. Had
he been able to he would have noted an expression on it that might
possibly have given him concern. It was an expression that was a blend
of petulance and of something wan and a bit forlorn, a mixture of
irritation and of anguish that seemed perilously near the breaking
point. When she spoke again her voice was tremulous and low.
“Stories, stories, stories,”—she paused with every repetition of the
word—“that’s all you think about. What good do they do? What’s the use
of them all? They don’t make anybody happier, do they? They don’t mean
anything, do they? They really don’t, do they?”
Jimmy slipped out of the silences instantly and edged closer to Lolita.
He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away quickly. He was
bewildered by her attitude and there was a shade of genuine agitation in
his voice as he made reply.
“What’s the matter, honey? Didn’t you like that little yarn and the two
column picture of you the Journal ran the other morning? That sheet’s
got a circulation of over four hundred thousand. Think of all those
people readin’ about you and seein’ your picture and talkin’ about you.
Didn’t that make you happy? I hoped it would. That’s what I got ’em to
use it for.”
Lolita touched him gently on the arm.
“I didn’t mean to be nasty, Jimmy,” she said. “I really didn’t and I
hate to tell you the truth, but you’d really ought to know it. Do you
want to?”
“Fire ahead. You don’t even have to blindfold me.”
“It didn’t make me as happy as you’d imagine. There wasn’t a single soul
that saw it who knew anything about who I was or anything except the
folks in the company, and they were all jealous because you’d put it in.
I didn’t mean any more to that four hundred thousand than the printer
that set up the type. Oh, no, I didn’t. You can’t tell me.
“Let me tell you something, Jimmy. Old Doc Crandall, the city editor of
the Cedar Rapids Democrat-Chronicle, wrote a piece once about the
graduation exercises at the Central High School and he said that I
recited with ‘fine expression and wonderful emotional control.’ There
were only two lines about me, but those two lines made me happier than a
whole page in Boston would,—yes, or New York either. Do you know why?”
Jimmy, whose ideals were crashing down to earth, sat entranced at
Lolita’s turbulent outburst.
“No,” he replied. “What’s the answer?”
“Because nine out of every ten people that read those two lines either
know me to speak to or by sight or knew mother or dad and what was
printed meant something to them about someone who meant something to
them. That’s kind of mixed up, I guess, but you know what I’m trying to
say. What do I mean to anyone here or in New York or any place else here
in the east? Nothing—nothing at all, Jimmy—just nothing at all.”
She wound up at a helter-skelter pace that left her quite out of breath
and had it not been for the sheltering elm Jimmy might have noticed that
she was biting her lip when she paused and that she was holding herself
in with a mighty effort. He again tried to take her hand, but she would
have none of it.
“Girlie,” he pleaded, making a clumsy attempt at gentleness, “you mean a
whole lot to a certain party who’s pretty close at hand. You’ve just
naturally got the Cedar Rapids blues again tonight, honey, but you’ll be
all right in the mornin’, all right in the mornin’, honey. Take it from
me. I don’t lose many bets.”
But Lolita had lapsed into silence again and didn’t reply. Presently she
complained of being chilly, got up wearily and begged to be taken home.
At the door of her hotel Jimmy made one last effort to lift her out of
her mood.
“Paper says fair and warmer tomorrow, honey,” he said. “Maybe we can
hire a little old gas wagon and get out among the golden rod and the
daisies, if I ain’t too busy. Would you go?”
“Maybe,” replied Lolita listlessly. “Good night.”
And she was gone. Jimmy gazed after her despairingly. Gloom entered his
soul and made preparations to settle down for the night.
A strident voiced newsboy turned the corner just then shrilly crying the
early or “bull-dog” edition of one of the Sunday papers.
“Hi, Journal,” he called, “Sunday Morning Journal—full account of
“Billy” Williams’ sermon on booze and tobacco—hi, Journal—all about
“Billy” Williams’ campaign—full account of both meetings—box score
world’s champion games—hi, Journal.”
Jimmy mechanically bought a paper. A screaming headline caught his
glance:
“BILLY” WILLIAMS
HITS BOOZE
AND TOBACCO
––––
Famous Evangelist Ends Second
Week of Campaign With Bitter
Onslaught on “Poison Slingers
and Hell Hounds.”
––––
357 CONVERTS HIT
THE SAWDUST TRAIL
––––
Only that and nothing more did Jimmy read. The strained look slowly left
his face and was replaced by an expression indicative of profound
satisfaction. Even Lolita was forgotten for the nonce. The Big Idea had
just loomed up in the offing and was heading straight for port.
------------------------------------------------------------------------