IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH ATTEMPTS TO DRIVE PUBLIC OPINION.
It is a trifle chilly in the early morning, even by the first of May,
and Cecil shivered slightly as he paced the rustic platform at
Meadowbrook with his publisher and host of the night before.
"You see," the great man was saying, "there's an etiquette about all
these things. We can't advertise our publications in the elevated trains
like tomato catsup or the latest thing in corsets. It's not dignified.
The book must succeed, if at all, through the recognised channels of
criticism and on its own merits. Of course it's a bad season. But once
the war's well under way, people will give up newspapers and return to
literature."
"Meantime it wants a boom," contended the young Englishman, with an
insistence that apparently jarred on his hearer, who answered shortly:
"And that, Mr. Banborough, it is not in my power to give your book, or
any other man's."
There was an element of finality about this remark which seemed to
preclude further conversation, and Cecil took refuge in the morning
paper till the train pulled into the Grand Central Station, when the two
men shook hands and parted hurriedly, the host on his daily rush to the
office, the guest to saunter slowly up the long platform, turning over
in his mind the problems suggested by his recent conversation.
The busy life of the great terminus grated upon him, and that is perhaps
the reason why his eye rested with a sense of relief on a little group
of people who, like himself, seemed to have nothing particular to do.
They were six in number, two ladies and four gentlemen, and stood
quietly discussing some interesting problem, apparently unconscious of
the hurrying crowds which were surging about them.
Cecil approached them slowly, and was about to pass on when his
attention and footsteps were suddenly arrested by hearing the younger of
the two ladies remark in a plaintive voice:
"But that doesn't help us to get any breakfast, Alvy."
"No, or dinner either," added the elder lady.
"Well," rejoined the gentleman addressed as "Alvy," who, in contrast to
the frock coats and smart tailor-made gowns of his three companions,
wore an outing suit, a short overcoat of box-cloth, a light, soft hat,
and a rather pronounced four-in-hand tie. "Well, I'm hungry myself, as
far as that goes."
Banborough was astonished. These fashionably dressed people in need of a
meal? Impossible! And yet--he turned to look at them again. No, they
were not quite gentlefolk. There was _something_-- He stumbled and
nearly fell over a dress-suit case, evidently belonging to one of the
party, and marked in large letters, "H. Tybalt Smith. A. B. C.
Company."
Actors, of course. That explained the situation--and the clothes.
Another company gone to pieces, and its members landed penniless and in
their costumes. It was too bad, and the young woman was so very
good-looking. If only he had some legitimate excuse for going to their
assistance.
Suddenly he stood motionless, petrified. An idea had occurred to him,
the boldness and originality of which fairly took his breath away. "The
Purple Kangaroo" wanted advertising, and his publishers refused to help
him. Well, why should he not advertise it himself? To think was to act.
Already the company were starting in a listless, dispirited way towards
the door. The Englishman summoned all his resolution to his aid, and,
overcoming his insular reticence, approached the leader of the party,
asking if he were Mr. Smith.
"H. Tybalt Smith, at your service, sir," replied that portly and
imposing individual.
Cecil Banborough bowed low.
"I hope you'll not think me intrusive," he said, "but I judge that
you're not now engaged, and as I'm at present in want of the services of
a first-class theatrical company, I ventured to address you."
"The manager skipped last evening," remarked the man in mufti.
"Alvy," corrected Mr. Smith, "I will conduct these negotiations. As Mr.
Spotts says, sir," he continued, indicating the last speaker, "with a
colloquialism that is his distinguishing characteristic, our manager is
not forthcoming, and--a--er--temporary embarrassment has resulted, so
that we should gladly accept the engagement you offer, provided it is
not inconsistent with the demands of art."
"Oh, cut it short, Tyb," again interrupted the ingenuous Spotts.
Mr. Smith cast a crushing glance at the youth, and, laying one hand
across his ample chest, prepared to launch a withering denunciation at
him, when Cecil came to the rescue.
"I was about to suggest," he said, "that if you've not yet breakfasted
you would all do so with me, and we can then discuss this matter at
length."
Mr. Smith's denunciation died upon his lips, and a smile of ineffable
contentment lighted up his face.
"Sir," he said, "we are obliged--vastly obliged. I speak collectively."
And he waved one flabby hand towards his companions. "I have not,
however, the honour of knowing your name."
Cecil handed him his card.
"Ah, thanks. Mr. Banborough. Exactly. Permit me to introduce myself: H.
Tybalt Smith, Esq., tragedian of the A. B. C. Company. My companions are
Mr. Kerrington, the heavy villain; Mr. Mill, the leading serious. Our
juvenile, Mr. G. Alvarado Spotts, has already sufficiently introduced
himself. The ladies are Mrs. Mackintosh, our senior legitimate,"
indicating the elder of the two, who smilingly acknowledged the
introduction in such a good-natured, hearty manner that for the moment
her plain, almost rugged New England countenance was lighted up and she
became nearly handsome. "And," continued Mr. Smith, "our leading lady,
the Leopard-- I mean Miss Violet Arminster," pointing to the bewitching
young person in the tailor-made gown.
Each of the members bowed as his or her name was spoken, and the
tragedian continued:
"Ladies and gentlemen of the A. B. C. Company, I have much pleasure in
introducing to you--my friend--Mr. Cecil Banborough, who has kindly
invited you to breakfast at--the Murray Hill? Shall we say the Murray
Hill? Yes."
The ensuing hour having been given up to the serious pursuit of
satisfying healthy appetites, the members of the A. B. C. Company heaved
sighs of pleasurable repletion, and prepared to listen to their host's
proposition in a highly optimistic mood. Banborough, who had already
sufficiently breakfasted, employed the interval of the meal in talking
to Miss Arminster and in studying his guests. Mrs. Mackintosh, who
seemed to take a motherly interest in the charming Violet, and whose
honest frankness had appealed to him from the first, appeared to be the
good genius of the little company. As he came to know her better during
the next few days, under the sharp spur of adversity, he realised more
and more how much goodness and strength of character lay hidden under
the rough exterior and the sharp tongue, and his liking changed into an
honest admiration. Mr. Smith was ponderous and egotistical to the last
degree, while Spotts seemed hail-fellow-well-met, the jolliest,
brightest, most good-looking and resourceful youth that Cecil had met
for many a long day. The other two men were the most reserved of the
company, saying little, and devoting themselves to their meal. But it
was to Miss Arminster that he found himself especially attracted. From
the first moment that he saw her she had exercised a fascination over
him, and even his desire for the success of his book gave way to his
anxiety for her comfort and happiness. She was by no means difficult to
approach; they soon were chatting gaily together, and by the time the
repast was finished were quite on the footing of old friends--so much
so, indeed, that Cecil ventured to ask her a question which had been
uppermost in his mind for some time.
"Why did Mr. Smith call you the Leopard when he introduced you to me at
the station?" he said.
"Oh," she answered, laughing, "that's generally the last bit of
information my friends get about me. It has terminated my acquaintance
with a lot of gentlemen. Do you think you'd better ask it, just when we
are beginning to know one another?"
"Are you another Lohengrin," he said, "and will a white swan come and
carry you off as soon as you've told me?"
"More probably a cable-car," she replied, "seeing we're in New York."
"Then I shall defer the evil day as long as possible," he answered.
"You seem to forget," she returned, "that I don't know as yet what our
business relations are to be."
"And you seem to forget," he replied, "that there are still some
strawberries left on that dish."
She sighed regretfully, saying:
"I'm afraid they must go till next time--if there's to be a next time."
Banborough vowed to himself that instead of confining the advertisement
of his book to the city alone, he would extend it to Harlem and
Brooklyn--yes, and to all New York State, if need be, rather than forego
the delight of her society.
"Isn't your father an English bishop?" continued Miss Arminster,
interrupting his reverie.
"Now how on earth did you know that?" exclaimed Cecil.
The little actress laughed.
"Oh, I know a lot of things," she said. "But I was merely going to
suggest that we call you 'Bishop' for short. Banborough's much too long
a name for ordinary use. What do you say, boys?" turning to the men of
the company.
A chorus of acclamation greeted this sally, and to the members of the
A. B. C. Company Cecil Banborough was 'the Bishop' from that hour.
"And now," said the Englishman, "that you've christened me, suppose we
come to the business in hand?"
Every one was at once intently silent.
"I am," he continued, "the author of 'The Purple Kangaroo.'"
The silence became deeper. The audience were politely impressed, and the
heavy villain did a bit of dumb show with the leading serious, which
only needed to have been a trifle better to have proved convincing.
"Yet," continued the author, "owing to the popular interest in an
imminent war and a lack of energy on the part of my publishers, the book
doesn't sell."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "Impossible! Why, I was saying only
the other day to Henry Irving, 'Hen,' I said--I call him 'Hen' for
short,--'that book--'"
"What you say doesn't cut any ice," broke in Spotts. "What were you
saying, sir?"
"I was about to remark," continued Banborough, "that what the novel
needs is advertising. For an author to make the round of the shops is so
old an artifice that any tradesman would see through it."
"It is," interjected the tragedian. "I have more than once demanded the
lower right-hand box when I was playing the leading role."
"And always got it," added Spotts. The silence was appalling, and Cecil
rushed into the breach, saying:
"It's occurred to me, however, that if a number of people, apparently in
different walks of life, were to call at the various bookshops and
department stores of the city, demanding copies of 'The Purple
Kangaroo,' and refusing to be satisfied with excuses, it might create a
market for the book."
"A first-rate idea!" cried Spotts heartily.
"But supposing it was in stock?" suggested the more cautious duenna.
"I shall of course see you're provided with funds for such an
emergency," the author hastened to add; "and if you ladies and gentlemen
feel that you could canvass the city thoroughly in my interests at--ten
dollars a day and car-fares?" he ventured, fearing he had offered too
little.
"I should rather think we do," said Spotts emphatically. "Ten dollars a
day and car-fares is downright luxury compared with one-night stands and
a salary that doesn't get paid. You're a might good fellow, Mr.
Banborough," continued the young actor, "and Violet and I and the rest
of the company will do our best to make your book a howling success."
And as he spoke he laid his hand familiarly on the little actress's
shoulder, an action which did not altogether please Cecil, and made him
realise that in the attractive young comedian he had found a strong
rival for Miss Arminster's favour.
"Well, then, we'll consider it settled," he said; whereat the company
arose and clasped his hands silently. Their satisfaction was too deep
for words. Spotts was the first to rouse himself to action.
"Come," he said, "we mustn't lose any time. Your interests are ours now,
Mr. Banborough, and the sooner we get to work the more thoroughly we'll
earn our salary," and touching a bell, he said to the answering
messenger:
"Bring me a New York directory," thereby showing an honest activity
which was much appreciated by his employer.
An hour later, the company, fully primed, departed joyfully on their
mission.
Banborough, rich in the comforting sense of a good morning's work well
accomplished, retired to his club to dream of the success of his book.
In spirit he visited the book-stalls, noting the growing concern of the
clerks as they were obliged to turn away customer after customer who
clamoured for "The Purple Kangaroo." He saw the hurried consultations
with the heads of firms, who at length realised their blind stupidity
in neglecting to stock their shelves with the success of the season. He
saw the dozens of orders which poured into the publishing house, and
heard in fancy that sweetest of all announcements that can fall upon an
author's ears: "My dear sir, we have just achieved another edition."
So dreaming, he was rudely awakened by a slap on the shoulder, and the
cheerful voice of Marchmont, saying:
"Who's asleep this time?"
"Not I," replied his friend, "only dreaming."
"Of the success of 'The Purple Kangaroo'?" asked the journalist. "Well,
you'll have it, old man--see if you don't--and live to bless the name of
Marchmont and the _Daily Leader_. Why, thousands will be reading your
book before the week's out."
"What do you mean?" gasped the Englishman. "Surely you don't know--?"
For he feared the discovery of his little plot.
"Know!" replied the journalist. "I know that your book has leaped at one
bound from fiction to the exalted sphere of politics. Now don't you
breathe a word of this, for it's professional, but the Spanish
secret-service agents have taken the title of your novel as their
password. The city is watched by our own special corps of detectives,
and the instant 'The Purple Kangaroo' is used in a suspicious sense we
arrest the spies and unravel the plot."
"But, good heavens, man! You don't understand--" began Banborough.
"I understand it all. I tell you the _Daily Leader_ will not shrink from
its duty. It'll leave no stone unturned to hound the offenders down. I
dare say they may be making arrests even now, and once started, we'll
never pause till every Spanish sympathiser who has knowledge of the plot
is under lock and key."
"Stop! Stop!" cried Cecil. "You don't know what you're doing!"
"Oh, trust me for that, and think of the boom your book'll get. I'll
make it my special care. I tell you 'The Purple Kangaroo' will be all
the rage."
"But you're making a ghastly mistake," insisted the author. "You must
listen to me--"
"Can't!" cried Marchmont, springing up as the sound of shouts and
clanging bells fell upon his ear. "There's a fire! See you later!" and
he dashed out of the club and was gone.
Cecil sank back in his chair fairly paralysed.
"Good heavens! Suppose any of the company should be suspected or
arrested! Supposing--"
"A gentleman to see you, sir," said a page at his elbow.
"Show him in!" cried Banborough, fearing the worst, as he read Tybalt
Smith's name on the card.
There was no need to have given the message. The actor was at the page's
heels, dishevelled, distraught.
"Do you know we're taken for Spanish spies?" he gasped.
"Yes, yes; I've just heard--"
"But they've arrested--"
"Not one of your companions--Spotts, Kerrington, or Mill?"
"No," said the tragedian, shaking his head, "they've arrested Miss
Arminster."