I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed
through one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment,
I found Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my
delight, they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly.
“Took your advice yesterday,” he said. “We went down to Long Beach
again. Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it.”
“What an unfortunate remark!” said Sylvia, laughing. “He means, not a
pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in
Jamaica.”
“I spoke the speech trippingly,” he admitted.
“And we left Dunbar behind!” said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful
little look that showed she knew I had tried to help.
“Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?” I asked, greatly
pleased to see them so happy.
“Hush!” she said. “We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show
gets.”
“Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced
while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You
know the kind of thing--'_Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press
Clippings Cupid's Aid_'.”
“You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent,” she said, merrily.
“They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the
paper.”
“Oh,” I said, “the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many
stories he knows that he can't tell.”
I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went
on through the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking
compartment, as luck would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking
huge cigars and talking together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in
his usual way, was trying to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There
was another musical horror of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal
shortly, and probably Fagan was hoping to land the job as director.
“What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?” said Fagan.
Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had
committed themselves.
“I've been telling you right along, he's impossible,” said Fagan. “No
one can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford
to promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need
for that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight.
I've given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can
start rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open
with the show in New York.”
“Four hundred a week,” was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the
end of his cigar.
“All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is
dear at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over.
God knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the
time. What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing
over the orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me.”
“Well, we'll open her up and see what we got,” said Upton. “Is Sampson
along?”
“No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write
a play afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her
straightened out.”
When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I
visited the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage
crew were busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I
lay down in my room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the
afternoon--about five o'clock, because I looked at my watch--by a
knocking at the door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay,
his cheerfulness had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and
anxious mood.
“Nervous, old man?” I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company
I had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that
I could keep an eye on him.
“Nervous?” he said. “I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming
spells in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?”