THE INVISIBLE HOST
That night Florence dreamed of herself as a gray-haired woman in a drab
shawl selling papers on Christmas Eve.
The bright sun of next day drove all such dark fancies from her mind.
“Jeanne!” she exclaimed as she bounced out of bed, “Today we rehearse.
Tomorrow we rehearse again. And that night comes the big show!”
As the hours passed, Florence found herself losing all thought that she
was simply to make a little six-minute talk into a microphone. The
feeling grew upon her with every passing moment that she was to be a part
of a truly big thing.
And why not? Was she not preparing to speak to a million people? Would
the opportunity ever come again? Perhaps not. And would not her friends
be listening? Crowded about their radios on Isle Royale, in Chicago, in
far-away Alaska, would they not be saying, “That’s Florence! How natural
her voice sounds!” Ah, yes, it was to be wonderful.
Nor did Tim O’Hara allow a single member of his cast to forget the
importance of his part. Every moment of rehearsal found them keyed up to
a high pitch.
There were individual rehearsals, general rehearsals, a rehearsal for
recording. And then, on the second day, Florence caught her breath as she
was ushered into a large theater.
“Is this the place?” she asked, staring at a “mike” in the center of the
stage.
“This is the place,” was the answer.
“And will there be people here?”
“Two thousand people.” Florence was ready to bolt out of the door.
“Oh, but my dear!” Jeanne exclaimed. “It is just another show. Remember
how I sang in light opera.”
“Yes, but you are you and I am I.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Jeanne. “One or a million! Tell them! I know you
can.”
When orchestra members began filing in she felt better. Her part of the
show might not be so grand, but these would back her up.
Then a bright idea occurred to her, and in thinking of others she forgot
herself. It is often so in life.
While others were rehearsing their parts she slipped over to the
orchestra leader and said something to him in a low tone. He looked at
Jeanne and nodded.
She talked some more. He smiled broadly, then began beating out imaginary
notes with his baton.
“It can be done,” he agreed at last.
“I promise you it will be startling and wonderful!” said Florence.
The dress rehearsal thrilled her to the very tips of her toes. As the
notes of the orchestra died away and she took her place before the
“mike,” she seemed to feel the expectant hush of a real audience and from
the far-flung prairies and the blue waters of her own beloved midwest a
breath seemed to fan her cheek. For the moment, forgetting her little
plot with the orchestra director, she went through her part as in a
dream. Almost she expected a boy to step out from among those empty seats
and say, “I am the boy in the crimson sweater.”
After that her thoughts returned to the orchestra leader and Jeanne. The
moments dragged, but at last the rehearsal was over.
And then, just as Tim O’Hara was about to bid them scatter until
six-thirty, the place went dark, a spotlight began playing over the
stage, the girl in red drew her hands across the harp strings, the
orchestra took up the notes of some tantalizing oriental music and,
dressed in red with red and orange scarfs streaming behind her, Jeanne
danced out upon the stage.
In the moments that followed the little French girl was dancing upon a
great flat rock. The roar and crackle of fire was in her ears, the flash
and heat of flames in her eyes.
To the little group of onlookers this dance was entrancing. When at last,
all aflutter, Jeanne danced away into the wings, even the musicians
dropped their instruments to applaud.
“Bravo!” Tim O’Hara exclaimed. “You shall repeat it tonight.”
“But you cannot dance on the radio,” Jeanne protested.
“No,” was the answer, “but when we go off the air the audience here shall
be treated to a grand surprise. They shall see _The Dance of the
Flames_.”
So it was arranged. While Florence and Jeanne slipped away to a little
place around the corner to sip hot chocolate and nibble at sweet cakes,
the moments passed quickly and at last the opening moment of the great
show was at hand.
As the audience began to arrive the curtain dropped and there they were,
the performers moving about, quite breathless with anticipation. Slowly,
one by one, the musicians arrived and took their places.
From behind the curtain came the murmur of many voices. How many?
Florence could not guess. One thing she knew, these were but a handful
compared to the invisible host waiting out there in the vast spaces
beyond the theater’s walls.
Now someone outside the curtain was speaking, welcoming the audience.
There was laughter and applause.
Then, slowly—ever so slowly—the curtain rose. And there they were seated
before a theater packed to the very doors.
Florence caught her breath. She fixed her eyes on the clock. At exactly
seven fifteen the show would go on the air. Fascinated, she watched the
long second hand sweep around the dial. And then—
The girl in red drew her fingers across all the chords in her harp. The
little dark-eyed Spaniard on a stool thrummed his guitar, the big man
with a bass viol drew his bow, the horns, drums, the violins joined in
with a crashing crescendo. In the strange silence that followed a voice
said, “The Adventurers’ Club is on the air, coast to coast.”
Once again Florence watched the circling of that second hand. At exactly
seven twenty-seven she was to go on the air. Never had that hand raced so
madly. Her heart kept time to its racing. At last here was a nod from Tim
O’Hara.
Her knees trembled as she marched up to the microphone. But like a flash
it came to her, “All my good friends are listening out there. They are
part of the invisible host. I shall speak to them.”
And she did. The audience before her thrilled and chilled at hearing of
her adventures. They laughed when she told how Plumdum got his name and
were breathlessly silent as she told of being trapped by the flames, of
Plumdum’s parachute jump, and of the mad moose. As she told of her escape
they burst into applause. But to her, the great, invisible audience
counted most. And when, in her last tense sixty seconds, she sent out an
appeal, it was for one person somewhere out there on the air, the boy
with the crimson sweater.
Ten seconds of applause followed her speech. This was broken in upon by
the wild wail of the harp strings, and her share of the big show was at
an end.
At an end? Not quite. Truth is, she was only half through. At ten thirty
there would be another show for the western states. And before that, she
knew, the whole cast was to be treated to a banquet in one of the show
places of New York. What a night!
Jeanne’s triumph, as, at the end of the performance, she did her weird
dance of the flame, was even greater than Florence’s own. And Florence
was glad.