Mr. J. Herbert Denby, between sips of his morning coffee next day in a
secluded corner of the breakfast room of his hotel, was reading for the
second time, with an inner glow of satisfaction, a letter which he had
just received. It was a brief communication from Chester Bartlett
complimenting him upon his success as a lecturer and announcing the
manager’s forthcoming arrival in Chicago that very morning.
“I can’t resist the temptation,” Bartlett wrote, “to look in on one of
your seances and catch His Royal Highness and yourself in action. I must
congratulate you on the success which you have achieved in putting this
stunt over on the natives and I have instructed the office to give you a
twenty-five per cent increase in salary.”
Mr. Denby laid the letter down and decided that, after all, theatrical
managers had their proper place in the scheme of existence. Up to that
moment he had always been inclined to consider them as useless
encumberers of the earth.
He picked up the morning paper which lay at his elbow, adjusted his
glasses and turned to the front page. He glanced cursorily at a story in
the left-hand column dealing with the newest series of what are
technically known in newspaper circles as “Red Raids;” let his attention
wander to an account of the launching of a new presidential boom and
then took a look at the right hand corner. What he saw emblazoned there
caused him to almost drop the cup which he had just daintily raised to
his lips and provoked an audible spluttering that sent the head-waiter
hurrying in his direction from the other side of the room.
“Anything wrong, sir?” deferentially inquired the chief servitor, noting
with apprehension the startled mien of the eminent lecturer.
Mr. Denby tried to compose himself.
“Nothing important,” he managed to reply. “Just some unwelcome tidings
from home. I’ll be all right in a moment or two.”
When the head-waiter had bowed himself away Mr. Denby turned to a
perusal of the paper. The words which struck his eyes seemed to spell to
him the collapse of all things temporal.
PRINCE BAMBOOZLES
SOCIETY; RAJPUT SINGH
PROVED RANK IMPOSTER
––––
Alleged Son of Nazir of Hydrabad
and Glib Tongued Lecturer
Associate Revealed as Wily
Promoters of Publicity for
Theatrical Enterprise.
––––
FAKIRS ALMOST GOT
AWAY WITH IT
The harrowing details which followed were dressed up in such sarcastic
verbiage that Mr. Denby’s soul went sick and his appetite for breakfast
vanished. He paid his check and sought the seclusion of his room. He
wished to hide his face from the public gaze and apply poultices to his
wounded dignity.
Jimmy Martin, coming up unannounced, found him a half hour later gazing
pensively out of the window—a picture of incarnate misery. Jimmy wasn’t
in a particularly jaunty mood himself, but he assumed his best
“cheery-oh” manner when he caught a glimpse of his associate’s face.
“What’s the matter, little song-bird?” he inquired breezily. “You look
about as lonely as a bartender.”
Mr. Denby turned a pair of ineffably sad eyes on the press agent and
sighed mournfully.
“I’m disgraced, Mr. Martin,” he said feebly, “irretrievably disgraced. I
should never have gone into this masquerade—never. My saner judgment
should have prevailed. I shall never recover from this. I’m the most
miserable man in Chicago this morning—the most utterly miserable.”
“You’ve got another think coming, old popsy-wop,” replied Jimmy. “I’ve
just seen his royal highness. You’re a care-free babe in arms compared
to that bird. He’s passin’ on to New York on the twelve forty.”
“What I can’t understand,” said Mr. Denby, “is how the story got out.
Have you any idea?”
“Yes, I have,” replied the press agent, slowly. “As a matter of fact I
gave it out myself.”
“You gave it out yourself,” stammered the bewildered Mr. Denby. “I—I
don’t understand. Why did you do such a thing as that?”
“Well, the low-down of it is that I had to. I was out to that Easton
dame’s house yesterday afternoon with his royal jiblets and when I saw
the way the poor nut was makin’ a fool out of herself over that little
brown brother it just made me sick. He’d been milkin’ her for thousands
and I could see he was layin’ lines to wish himself into an easy life at
her expense. She’s a good-natured old gal, too, but she’d fallen for him
so hard that she’d have believed him if he told her he was that Buddha
party come back to earth for a little holiday.
“She told me about some fairy tale or other he’d pulled—something about
a row with his father and how his allowance had been stopped and so
forth and so on and when I took one last look at her at the front door
and thought of that baby lollin’ around on sofas and lettin’ her wait on
him and callin’ her a lot of flossy names so’s to keep his stock up I
didn’t have the heart to let her go through with the marriage thing,
story or no story. Somethin’ sort of caught hold of me and wouldn’t let
me go on. I wonder what it was?”
“Some philosophers call it the categorical imperative,” replied Mr.
Denby, thoughtfully.
“They do, eh? Well, maybe that’s a good name for it, but I’ve got a kind
of a hunch that it was the little old Golden Rule that made me ashamed
of myself. I thought the best of cramp Rajjy’s style would be to get
word to that brother of the blushin’ bride so I got in to see him last
night and coughed up everything. He’s a fine fellow. They don’t grow ’em
better. He was mighty grateful, but he said it wouldn’t do any good for
him to say anything to her. He figured that would make it worse. He said
she wouldn’t believe him. The only thing that’d get to her, he said,
would be to have some paper expose his royal job-lots and make him
ridiculous in the eyes of all her friends.
“So I came down town and slipped an ear-full to Cunningham, a friend of
mine on the Times, and he did the rest. I’m sorry, old boy, but I just
couldn’t help it. It’d a been one of the best stories ever put over if
we’d let it go through and it puts the kibosh on the lecture tour, but
there just naturally wasn’t anythin’ else to do. Women and children
first, as they say when the ship hits an iceberg. Am I right?”
Mr. Denby sprang up and grasped Jimmy by the hand.
“You certainly are,” he said enthusiastically. “I feel better already.
I’m sure Mr. Bartlett will understand. Did you know he was coming to
town today?”
“I did not,” returned Jimmy. “That’s a good exit cue, though. I haven’t
the nerve to face him until this thing kind of blows over. I’ll duck
under cover for twenty-four hours and let you break the news to mother.
Slip him the real inside stuff. Maybe he’ll fall for it.”
* * * * *
Chester Bartlett was the maddest man in the entire state of Illinois
when he read the story of the expose on the incoming train to Chicago
that morning and the quips which were hurled at him by dozens of his
friends in his club at luncheon gave substance and solidity to his rage.
His interview with Mr. Denby was a stormy affair and his reaction to
what Jimmy termed the “real inside stuff” was violent in the extreme.
While still in the throes of his anger he wrote a brief message to the
press agent which the erstwhile lecturer on far eastern affairs was
requested to deliver in person to his friend.
Mr. Denby found Jimmy at his hotel immersed in the preparation of
advertising copy. He looked up hopefully; Mr. Denby handed him the note
in silence and he tore it open with a foreboding of disaster.
“No man can make me ridiculous and remain in my employ,” it ran. “You’re
through the moment you receive this. You should never have encouraged
such an affair as the romance Denby tells me about. As a matter of fact
it was a foolhardy thing to try and palm that fellow off as a prince.
You might have known you’d come a cropper sooner or later. You’ve got
too many ideas for your own good and I’ll be satisfied to go along
hereafter with someone who’s perhaps a little shy on brilliancy, but
who’s long on balance.”
“Can you beat ’em,” inquired Jimmy, helplessly. “They’re all alike. No
matter what you do you’re always in wrong.”
The telephone bell rang just then and he barked a rude “hello” into the
transmitter. The voice at the other end was hearty and good-natured.
“Is that Mr. Martin—Mr. James T. Martin?—this is Easton
talking—Easton—Junius P. Easton—thought I’d let you know that my sister
is cured—can’t begin to thank you for what you did—tried to reciprocate
this morning—told my brokers to carry a thousand shares of Consolidated
Gutta Percha in your name—closed out at a quarter to three—ten point
rise—you’ll get the check in the morning—had a little inside
information, you know—did pretty well myself, too—say, you impress me as
being a pretty clever sort of a lad—ever think of going into business on
your own?—it’s the only game—why work for anyone?—think it over.”
Jimmy was still mumbling his thanks when the other excused himself and
hung up. Mr. Denby, who hadn’t grasped the import of the telephonic
conversation, betrayed an intense interest in the proceedings.
“What’s up?” he questioned.
“Consolidated Gutta Percha,” replied Jimmy. “Want a job?”
“You know I do. Who with?”
“Why with me, of course, you old highbrow. And look here. Don’t you go
palmin’ off any fake dukes or rajahs or anythin’ like that. If you do
you’ll get the bum’s rush and I won’t take the trouble to write you a
letter about it, either.”
Mr. Denby raised a deprecatory hand.
“I’ll promise to be good,” he said, “but may I be permitted to ask
another question?”
“Shoot—while the shootin’s good.”
“Well, then, in the parlance of the theatrical profession—with which, I
take it, we are still to be identified—‘where do we go from here?’”
Jimmy pulled a pink letter out of an inside pocket and proffered it to
his friend with a flourish.
“Cedar Rapids is our next stand, you old adjective hound,” he said
heartily. “Take a look at this little message.”
It was, Mr. Denby found, a note from Lolita Murphy and it contained a
contrite plea for forgiveness for her abrupt departure from Boston many
weeks before and a hope that the diplomatic relations then severed might
be renewed.
“Old Mr. Higgins,” she wrote, “wants someone to take the lease of the
Opera House off his hands. He’s had a cataract on his left eye for two
years, and now he’s got rheumatism in his right hip and he wants to go
out to California. He’s been doing great business this season and on the
nights when he hasn’t had regular shows he’s been putting on big extra
special feature films and packing people in. I thought maybe you’d like
to try your hand at settling down and running a theatre. Of course, Main
Street isn’t Broadway, but I like it lots better and maybe you could
learn to, too. It means home folks to me. Maybe it might come to mean
the same thing to you—some time.”
Mr. Denby gasped when he read this. When he tried to talk the words did
not come trippingly....
“You mean you’re going to—to—run the opera house in Cedar Rapids?”
Jimmy grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him in an outburst of
fierce joviality.
“I mean that _we’re_ going to run it,” he said. “All _three_ of us. What
do you think about smearing a catch-line all over town—‘A Homey Theatre
for Home Folks’? I’ve got an idea that’d make a hit with a Certain
Party.”