Chester Bartlett was not given to enthusiasm, but he felt impelled to
congratulate Jimmy after glancing over the morning papers the next day
and making a mental inventory of the net results of the press agent’s
Sunday evening “plant.” The story leaped out of the front page of every
journal in town and dwarfed, by comparison, the accounts of a
super-heated debate in the United States Senate on disarmament, of a
great strike which industrially paralyzed Great Britain from end to end
and of a volcanic eruption in a far-flung island of the Pacific which
claimed 8,000 human lives as its toll.
The “feature writers” who covered the “Billy” Williams’ meetings had
figuratively and literally turned themselves loose on the proceedings
and had written stories with a heart-throb in every sentence and a tear
in at least every other line. They had embellished and embroidered the
actual incidents so effectively that even Bartlett himself,
case-hardened cynic that he was, found himself growing a bit sentimental
when he read the story in the first paper to hand. The narratives were
all adorned with photographs of the “Keep-Moving” beauties and the name
of that blithesome musical comedy figured extensively in all of them.
Bartlett particularly liked the headline in the Journal:
CHORUS BEAUTIES
CONVERTED BY
“BILLY” WILLIAMS
––––
Thirteen “Keep Moving” Girls
Hit the Trail After Eloquent
Plea by Evangelist.
––––
TEN THOUSAND WEEP AS
SOLEMN PLEDGE IS MADE
––––
“The counter attack was well developed and the ground gained is
satisfactory to the higher command,” was the way Bartlett framed his
congratulations over the telephone. “You can consolidate your present
position and rest up for a few days.”
“All right,” Jimmy replied with a chuckle, “but there’s no tellin’ when
I may make another raid on the enemy trenches. I’ve got ’em goin’. That
one was as easy as getting a drink on Broadway since the U.S.A. went
dry.”
“In plain, everyday English,” went on Bartlett, “that’s just about the
best plant I’ve seen pulled off in the twenty years that I’ve been in
the theatrical business. I noticed that your little Cedar Rapids friend
was one of the ring-leaders. How you managed to get them all to play up
as well as they did is what I can’t understand. How did you work it?”
Jimmy paused for a moment or two before replying and coughed uneasily.
“I’ve got ’em trained,” he finally replied. “They’ll—they’ll do anything
I ask ’em to do—anything.”
It was characteristic of Jimmy to have decided, after considerable
speculation, that no motive other than an unselfish desire to please
himself and to assist in adding to the greater glory of the occasion had
prompted Lolita and her associates to profess conversion on the night
before. He had tried to reach her on the telephone several times with
the idea of thanking her for her unexpected co-operation in furthering
the success of his publicity scheme, but had been always met with the
response that she was not in. He finally decided to defer the expression
of his gratitude until that evening at the theatre. As a slight token of
his good-will and heart-felt thankfulness he ordered a bouquet of roses
delivered to her dressing-room and he personally wrote out a little card
to be affixed to it.
“To the best little press agent ever,” it ran, “from a cheap piker at
the game—Yours with love—Jimmy.”
He tried to preserve a slight semblance of becoming modesty throughout
the day, but the congratulations which poured in upon him from all sides
were of such a fulsome nature and coincided so perfectly with his own
opinion of himself that when evening came he was as expansive as the
leading man of a small town stock company and just about as reticent and
self-effacing as an auctioneer. He dined alone with a fine inner glow of
self-satisfaction and strolled into the lobby of the Colonial Theatre
about half an hour before curtain time at peace with the world.
There was a long line of patrons extending from the box-office window
almost out to the sidewalk and he watched the scramble for tickets with
a feeling of exalted serenity. The sound of voices at the swinging doors
leading into the foyer attracted his attention. He turned to see
Bartlett and the stage manager coming through. Their mood was one that
plainly boded developments of a decidedly disagreeable nature. They made
for Jimmy and pounced upon him simultaneously.
“Where’s that girl of yours?” inquired Bartlett in a tone that Jimmy
felt was a bit menacing.
“Yes, and where’s Natalie Nugent and Hilda Hennessey and Trixie Seville
and Yvonne Elaine and Dulcie Dolores and five or six others,” chimed in
the stage manager. “What do you know about ’em?”
“What do I know about ’em?” echoed Jimmy helplessly. “I don’t know
anything about ’em. What’s the idea?”
“The idea is that they haven’t shown up tonight,” said Bartlett tartly.
“Not a single one of that outfit that put your story over last night has
put in an appearance back stage, and I have a remote suspicion that you
know why they haven’t. Have you got some new stunt up your sleeve? If
you have I won’t stand for it. Understand me, my dear sir, I won’t stand
for it.”
“I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Peters,” said Jimmy with an air of
injured innocence, “not a single little thing. I haven’t seen Lolita all
day and I haven’t laid eyes on any of those other queens either. What
makes you think I know anything about it?”
“Just general principles, I fancy. You’re a very smart young man and I
had, and still have for that matter, an idea that you may be planning a
follow-up of some sort on that yarn you landed this morning. Let me warn
you that if you are, you are monkeyin’ with the well-known buzz-saw.
Here are a dozen or more of the best looking de luxe girls in this show
missing and the house practically sold out. I’ve got a reputation to
live up to and I don’t propose to have it suffer just for a fool press
story.”
“But, Mr. Bartlett,” broke in Jimmy.
“Ifs and buts are superfluous at this writing,” interrupted the manager
angrily. “It’s within fifteen minutes of curtain time, and we’ll have to
give a show that’ll look like a Number Three company out in the tall
grass. The next time you plan a press story you’ll have to get it passed
by the censor beforehand and I’m going to be the censor. Do you get me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jimmy weakly as Bartlett and the stage manager
disappeared into the theatre again.
He leaned against the wall for support and tried to collect his
thoughts. Somehow he couldn’t. He felt himself in the clutch of
uncertainties beyond his understanding at the moment and vague distress
was written large upon his face. One of the uniformed carriage
attendants tapped him on the shoulder and slipped a letter into his
hand.
“A young lady left this half an hour ago, Mr. Martin,” he said, “and
told me to see as how you got it handed to you personally.”
Jimmy knew the handwriting on the envelope and a queer feeling came over
him. He hesitated for a moment before reading it. When Matthews, the
house manager, strolled up to him two minutes afterwards vain regret was
in his heart and in his eyes there lurked a look of blended bewilderment
and futile rage.
“What’s the matter, old man?” inquired Matthews. “Has Bartlett been
making things hard for you?”
Jimmy smiled a sickly smile and handed over the letter.
“I don’t mind so much what he says,” he replied, “but this has got under
the little old cuticle all right. Read it if you like.”
The manager adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and read the letter,
written in the stiff, vertical handwriting of a school-girl.
Dear Jimmy:
This is just to say good-bye. You’ve been very nice and very kind to
me and I’m thankful for everything and all that, but I’ve just got
to get away from the sinful stage and go back home. The other girls
are all quitting, too. I knew weeks ago that it was foolish to
pretend I’d ever be anything more than just a fifth or sixth rater
and now I’m glad that I’ve been brought to see the wickedness of it
all. I guess maybe I’ve got the “Cedar Rapids blues” you spoke about
the other night, too. Mother and dad have been writing me for weeks
to come home. Thank you again for your kindness and all that and
don’t bother trying to look me up for I’m taking a train tonight.
Many thanks again—from your little friend,