IX

Jarvis marshalled his reluctant feet into "Forward, March!" down the

hall, and trod softly in the hope that he could get past Bambi's door;

but at his first step on the corridor it was flung open, and the small

figure silhouetted against the light of the room behind.

"You read him the play?"

He led her gently into the room, closed the door, and faced her.

"Jarvis, he refused it?" she cried.

"I have spent seven hours sitting in an anteroom with a blond steno,

waiting. Nobody has been near, all day, excepting fat old girls and

Billy boys, looking for jobs."

"Belasco didn't come?"

"He did not. What's more, he sometimes does not come for days."

"Couldn't they send him word you were there?"

Even Jarvis smiled at this.

"My dear, they treated me with the same consideration afforded the

janitor. It occurred to me, during those seven hours of enforced

thought, that our ideas of the simplicity of selling a play were a

trifle arrogant. It seems to have unforeseen complications."

Bambi sat down on the bed, her brow knitted.

"Seven hours sitting? That's awful!"

"The blond young woman suggested a letter of introduction or an

appointment, but I don't know any one to give me a letter. I doubt if he

will give me the appointment without it."

"I can get it for you!" she said.

"You can? Where? How?"

"I know a way. Never you mind."

"I was afraid you would be so disappointed I was tempted not to come

back at all," he remarked.

"Disappointed? Not I! Why, we can wait seven years, if need be. In the

end we will win."

"You are a very good sport, Miss Mite."

"I are," laughed she. "I am a very able woman, Jarvis. Some day you will

be proud of me."

"You are a terrible egotist," he objected.

"If I didn't believe in myself, where would I be? You and father

scarcely notice me."

"I'm beginning to notice you," Jarvis interrupted. "I was really

surprised to find how concerned I was not to disappoint you."

"That was nice of you, Jarvis," she beamed at him.

"Don't do that," he said sharply.

"Do what?"

"Smile like a cat at a mouse," he said.

"I intended that for a grateful smile."

"It didn't turn out that. It was possessive. If I can't be friendly with

you without your over-occupying my thoughts, I shall ignore you."

"You mustn't worry about liking me, Jarvis. It's inevitable. People

always like me. I become a necessity, like salt and pepper. Just accept

me cheerfully, for here I am."

He looked at her, frowning.

"Yes, there you are."

"That scowl is very becoming to you. You look like an angry viking."

"I am in no good mood to play."

"Oh, very well, Grandfather Grunt. I had such a nice day. Why don't you

ask me about it?"

"I should be interested to hear what you did."

"Your manners are painful but impeccable," she laughed. "Well, I

flittered and fluttered up and down the avenue, like a distracted

butterfly. I spent a few hours in Tiffany's with such a pleasant man."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know. He was a clerk there. I went in to look at jewels."

"What for?"

"Just for the joy of it."

"And a clerk spent two hours with you?"

She nodded.

"But why?"

"Because I'm so charming, stupid. He asked me to come in next week to

see some famous pearls. I also inspected a bookshop. I asked about the

sale of published plays. I thought we might make your things into

a book."

"If Broadway doesn't want them?"

"Better still if Broadway does."

"Do you always go about making acquaintances?" he inquired.

"Always. People like to talk to me. I look so inoffensive."

He smiled at her saucy, tip-tilted face.

"Any more adventures?"

"Oh, yes. A gay old man asked me if I was alone?"

"What?" he exploded.

"He did. He liked my looks enormously. I could see it."

"Did you call a policeman?"

"Not I. Do you think I am a 'bitty-lum'?"

"A what?" he asked.

"Once a pig molicepan,

Saw a bitty-lum,

Sitting on a surbcone,

Chewing gubber rum.

Hi, said the molicepan,

Will you sim me gome?

Tinny on your nintype,

Said the bitty-lum."

"How old _are_ you?" inquired Jarvis.

"Well, I've got all my teeth."

"What did you do with the old masher?"

"I squelched him."

"Did he go away?"

She nodded.

"You must be more careful on the streets, Bambi. People misunderstand

you."

"Well, I can always explain myself," she added, laughing.

"Then what did you do?"

"More or less directly, I came here, and lunched, in the conviction that

you were closeted with Belasco. Did you have any lunch?"

"Yes. The blond one drove me out for half an hour."

"I should have gone with you."

"Why?"

"I would never sit anywhere seven hours."

"What would you have done?"

"Gone to Belasco's house, or telephoned something startling that would

have brought him down quickly."

"For instance?"

"Well, that the theatre was on fire."

"But when he got there?"

"I'd have made him see it was a joke."

"Maybe he hasn't that kind of a sense of humour?"

"Then I should have perished bravely."

So the incidents of their first day's careering ended jocularly.

Bambi called Mr. Strong on the wire next day, and told him of Jarvis's

unprofitable sitting. Could he get her a letter to Belasco? Or to any

other leading manager? He laughed, said he did not know Belasco, but

thought he could arrange it for her. He promised to send a letter to

the club.

With this assurance to fall back upon, she persuaded Jarvis to go to the

office of one of the newer managers who seemed to be of an open mind in

regard to untried playwrights. She showed him a magazine article about

this "live wire," named over his productions, and repeated his cordial

invitation to new writers.

Jarvis set forth reluctantly. He liked salesman work as little as he had

expected to. But he felt he owed some effort to Bambi, since he was her

guest, and her mind was so set on his success.

This time the cheeky-faced office boy admitted that the manager was in.

He accepted and scrutinized Jarvis's card with disdain, but on his

return from the inner office he ejaculated, "Wait!" So Jarvis sat down

for his second endurance feat. The same Johnnies and Billies and Fays

came to this office in their endless seeking. He began to vision the

great, ceaseless army of them "making the rounds," as they call it,

often hungry and tired. They were most of them uneducated, you could

tell by their speech, for all their long "a's" and short "r's." That

they were physically unadapted to the profession was obvious enough in

many cases. They were probably badly trained. How did they live? Where

did they go? They began to haunt him.

He was interrupted by hearing his name called. He rose mechanically, and

followed the boy into a very large and ornate office. A fat Jewish man,

in loud clothes, a brown derby hat, and a cigar, sat at a desk,

dictating.

"H'are ye?" he ejaculated as Jarvis entered. He went on dictating and

smoking, until Jarvis finally interrupted him, saying he wanted to see

the manager. The fat man glared at him.

"Sit down until I get through!" he shouted. "I'm the manager."

Jarvis took a chair and looked at the man closely. What would such a

creature find in his play, with its roots in a modern condition, no more

grasped by this man than by Professor Parkhurst? The absurdity of the

idea struck Jarvis so forcibly that he laughed out loud.

"Let's have it, if it's any good," said the fat man.

"I beg your pardon," Jarvis replied.

The manager dismissed the stenographer, took up Jarvis's card, looked at

it, and then at his victim.

"Jarvis Jocelyn," he read. "Good stage name. What's your line, Jarvis?"

[Illustration: "WELL, BELIEVE ME, THAT HIGH-BROW STUFF IS ON THE

TOBOGGAN."]

"I've come to see you about a play."

"Oh, you're a writer? What have you done?"

"Several plays, and some poetry."

"Nix on the poetry. Who brought out the plays?"

"Nobody yet. I am just beginning to offer them."

"What sort of stuff is it?"

"It's a dramatic handling of the feminist movement."

"What's that?"

"The emancipation of woman."

"I hadn't heard about it. Is your stuff funny?"

"No. It is a serious presentation of an unique revolution----"

"Well, believe me, that high-brow stuff is on the toboggan. I knew it

couldn't last. I gave it to them when they demanded it, but I am cutting

it out now. Haven't you got a good melodrama, or a funny show?"

"I have not," superbly.

"Say, do you know any Jews? I got a great idea for a Jew play that would

take like the measles if some fellow would work it up. Pile of money

in it."

Jarvis rose, furious.

"It is so apparent that we have nothing to say to each other that I'll

bid you good morning."

"If you fellows who come in here from the country to run Broadway could

put _yourselves_ in a show, it would be the scream of the town," said

the fat man in Jarvis's wake.

"I'd rather starve than endure a pig like you!" cried Jarvis, as he

fled.

The fat man's laugh followed him to the street. He hated himself, and

the whole situation. It galled him to think he had deliberately

submitted himself to such treatment. Even Bambi could not expect it of

him,--to set him to sell his dreams in such a market. He charged down

Broadway, clearing a wake as wide as a battleship in action. He saw red.

He was unconscious of people. He only felt the animus of the atmosphere,

the sense of things tugging at him, which had to be cast off. Why was he

here? He wanted the quiet, the open stretches, and his own free

thoughts. What turn of the wheel had brought him into this maelstrom?

Bambi! The old story, Samson and Delilah! He had visioned great things.

She had shorn him, and pushed him into a net of circumstances. He would

not endure it. He would sweep her out of his life, and be about

his work.

He was disappointed to find her out when he returned to the club. He had

his opening speech all ready and it was annoying to have his scene

delayed. He raged about, to keep his wrath hot, until she came.

"Greeting," she began; then saw his face, and added, "Jungle beast!"

"I'll not stay here another day!" he cried.

"You saw the manager?"

"He asked me if the stuff was funny! He invited me to write a Jew play,

and make a pot of money! He said 'Nix on the high-brow stuff,' and never

heard of the feminist movement," he blurted out in one breath.

She sat down under the onslaught, trying to arrange her rebellious

features.

"'Nix on the high-brow stuff.' To me!" he repeated.

Bambi gave up. She rolled on the bed, and laughed.

Jarvis raged the room up and down. There was no gleam of humour in it

for him. When her paroxysm had passed, she sat up and looked at him.

"Poor old Knight with the Broken Lance," she said. "It's tough, but it

had to be done."

"What had to be done?"

"This morning's work. It was part of your training. You must know just

what the situation is here, in the market-place."

"But there is no place for me here."

"After two days' failure, you give up?"

"I told you I couldn't sell my things. They are too good."

"That's rubbish. Nothing you, nor I, nor any other human can think, is

too good. If we have big thoughts, and want to tell them to our brothers

who speak another tongue, if we have the brains, we must learn their

tongue, not hope for them to acquire ours. That is what I hoped you

would see."

"You think I've got to learn the Broadway lingo?"

"I do. If you have anything to say, Broadway needs it."

"I can't translate what I want to say into that speech."

"But you can. It will mean hard work, hard work and heartache, and

disappointment, but you can do it, because you have the soul stuff of a

great man."

Her eyes shone now, misted with feeling. He saw again his multitudes

flocking to him in the wilderness. He saw them aroused, revived,

triumphant over life through him.

"Will you help me?" he cried to her. It was his first uttered need of

her, and her heart beat high in response.

"I will, if you will let me, Jack o' Dreams."

"Don't let me give up! Don't let me lose heart!"

"No, I won't. I'll push, or haul you, to the top!"

"I came to scoff, and I stay to pray," said Jarvis, cryptically. "God

bless you, Bambi!" he added, as he left her.

X

No letter from Mr. Strong arrived in the morning's mail, so Bambi

induced Jarvis to go over to the Cubist show, by himself, on the plea

that she had a headache. He went, most willingly, anywhere,

except Broadway.

The minute he was out of the way her languid, headachey manner changed

to one of brisk energy. She donned her smartest frock and hat. She was

more earnest in her effort to allure the eye than she was on the day of

her own conquest. "You must look your best, you little old Bambi, you,

and see what you can do for big Jarvis!"

After the last nod of approval at her reflected self, she tucked

Jarvis's manuscript under her arm, and started forth. She had made a

close study of all the theatrical columns of the papers and magazines

since their arrival in New York, so she was beginning to have a formal

bowing acquaintance with the names of the leading managers.

In spite of her cheerful acceptance of Jarvis's mood of despair, the day

before, she was really deeply touched by it, and appealed to by his

helplessness to cope with the situation. She remembered her words to her

father, "He cannot accommodate himself to the commercial standards of

the times." It was so true. And was she right in submitting him to them

so ruthlessly? Was she blunting something fine in him by this ugly

picture she was holding up for him to see, of a thoroughly

commercialized drama, the laws and restrictions of which he must know

and conquer, or be silenced? All the mother in her hated to have him

hurt, but the sensible helpmeet part of her knew that it must be done.

Of course he could not be expected to know how to approach managers, all

at once. He was probably very tactless. He admitted that he had called

the enemy of yesterday a "pig." Naturally that was no way to help his

cause. Perhaps, after this experience, and his new cognizance of

conditions, it would be better for him to write in quiet and solitude,

while she acted as salesman.

"I'm just plain adventuress enough to love the fight of it," she

admitted to herself as she approached the office she had selected for

her first try. She tripped in, confidently, and addressed the

office boy.

"Mr. Claghorn in?" she asked.

"Nope."

"When do you expect him?"

"Oh, any time. He's in and out."

"I'll wait."

"Probably won't be back until after lunch."

A railing shut off the hall where she stood from the office proper,

where the boy was on guard. Doors opened off this central room into the

private offices. There were no chairs in this hall, and the boy made no

move to open the railing.

"Is that large armchair in there rented for the day?" Bambi inquired.

"Not so far as I know," he grinned.

"Does this thing open, or do I have to jump it?" she smiled.

"Where are you goin'?"

"To the large armchair."

"Welcome to our city," said he, as he lifted the rail. "Nobody allowed

in here except by appointment."

"That's all right. I understand that," she said nonchalantly, and sank

into the haven of the chair.

All the details of the office, which bored Jarvis, or which he entirely

failed to see, fascinated Bambi. She set herself to the subjection of

the office boy, by a request for the baseball score.

"Say, are you a fan?" he asked.

"Can't you see it in my eye?"

He was launched. He gave her a minute biographical sketch of every

player on the team, his past and future possibilities. He went over all

the games of the past season, while Bambi turned an enraptured face

upon him.

He was frequently interrupted by actors and actresses who came by

appointment, or otherwise, and he gave her all the racy details

concerning them at his disposal. By indirection she obtained a

description of Claghorn, so that he might not escape her if he came in.

All the actors looked at her with interest, the actresses with disdain.

One whispered to the boy, who shook his head.

"Say, what you wid?" he asked her later.

"I don't understand you."