FLIGHT
The weeks passed swiftly. Days of pleasant labor behind Hesper's
soda fountain, nights of practise with The Playboys. Rudy knew it to
be the most profitable summer of his life, and he devoted himself to
study with an increasing zeal.
He had been correct in assuming that his father would ask for no part
of his small wages, and carefully saved, these now resulted in the
arrival of a package for which he had hoped and of which he had
dreamed since the night of his visit to The Magic Lantern. One
afternoon the local expressman delivered to his home a long box
bearing the conspicuous label _Ted Grant Saxophone Company, New York_.
Rudy ate no dinner that evening. His full hour off duty he devoted
to a careful and most prayerful unpacking and inspection of the
shining instrument. It was a beautiful saxophone, glittering with a
virginal freshness, and he gazed upon it as upon a miracle.
The customers of Hesper's fountain received rather haphazard service
when eventually he returned to duty. At occasional moments Rudy
would run to the back of the shop and feast his eyes upon the lovely
lines of the new sax, then hurry back to fill an impatient order. A
real Ted Grant saxophone--his!
It sent him to the night's practise session on winged feet. He ran
up the steps of Sport's home and entered the house with the air of
one who has a stunning message to deliver. But the other members of
the orchestra did not appear to share his excitement over the new
possession. In fact, Al Monroe merely remarked that he was later
than usual.
"I'd see that you were docked, if we were being paid salaries," he
added.
"Yeah," said Sam, "_if_ we were being paid salaries!"
"But look, gang!" Rudy exclaimed. "It's a beautiful new De Luxe,
Silver Plated, Super Toned, Ted Grant Saxophone. Listen to these low
notes."
As he played a few notes, Swiftie Clarke commented: "Giving himself
the bird."
"Good enough, Rudy," Al admitted. "But what's interesting us just
now is bank notes. And those don't seen to be exactly plentiful
around here. And when Sport shows up we're going to tell him so."
"Sure," said Sam. "What's the use of blowing our lungs out, and
never get any jobs?"
"Leave it to Sport," Rudy assured him. "He'll get us a job. Why,
we've only been going in a decent manner for about a week."
"Well, that's a week, ain't it? What's the sense of going over stuff
that you're already good at?"
Any answer to his question was forestalled by the appearance of Sport
himself. He looked unusually jaunty, and seated himself at the piano
after a greeting in which laughter mingled with self-assurance.
"Sorry to be late, boys. But you know how it is with us executives.
Now let's run through 'Lovable and Sweet.'"
When the number had run its more or less tuneful way, Sport sat back
from his keyboard, frowning. "That was terrible! Say, Sam, keep
your mind on your work, will you?"
"Aw, what's the matter now?" Sam demanded truculently.
"Nothing much," Sport informed him. "Except that the entire band is
out of tune, except you."
Sam scowled. "Yeah? What you always picking on me for, Sport?
Especially when you know that I can outplay anyone in the band."
"That's just the trouble, you not only can--but you do. Come on,
now," he added, rapping on the keys, "let's see if we can all start
and finish together, just once."
"Aw, what's the use?" Swiftie Clarke demanded. "There's no use
getting too good."
"There's not much danger of that with you guys," Sport said shortly.
Al Monroe looked at the huge and indolent clarinetist. "Say, that
guy'd make Sitting Bull look like a man of action."
Swiftie protested sleepily: "Aw, I can play it in my sleep."
"Come on," Sport said impatiently, "let's go."
"Go where," Al asked. "Doesn't look to me like we're going any
place. Here we've been practising like a lot of galley slaves--and
all we've got is the chance to hear our own music. For a manager you
seem to be a washout, Sport."
Sport looked at them coolly. "So you bozos are dissatisfied with me,
is that it? Think I have been falling down getting us jobs?"
"Don't worry about that, Sport," Rudy interposed. "Rome wasn't built
in a day, you know."
"Aw nuts, Rudy!" Sam exclaimed. "Can that patience noise. What we
want is a job--and soon!"
Sport hesitated. "Well, I guess I might as well tell you," he said,
as if speaking to himself. "We've got a chance to fill an engagement
at the new Laconia Hotel in New Hampshire." As a cheer started to
break from their suddenly delighted faces, he held up his hand,
frowning.
"Wait a minute. Maybe you won't be so tickled when you've heard the
details. It's only a fill-in engagement until their regular
orchestra gets loose from a contract in New York. Two or three weeks
at most--and not at much money. If you fellows with jobs can't get
vacations, you'll have to quit them; and it's a pretty long way up
there, and back. Now what do you say?"
But to the orchestra members, fretting over the wait for work, the
name of the hotel was a talisman of good fortune. "It's a start,"
cried Bud Dwight, and the words of the usually silent trombone player
were immediately taken up by the others.
"Sure it is," Swiftie cried. "We'll go up there and knock them cold,
and somebody'll give us a permanent job. Maybe they'll tell that New
York bunch to go hop in the river, after they hear us!"
"But the salary naturally starts up there," Sport said. "How about
transportation?"
"I've got a car," Rudy said quickly. "And so has Harry Ables. We'll
just--vagabond over."
"Swell!" Sam McMahon cried. "That's what we'll call ourselves, too.
If they think it's funny we arrive in flivvers we can say that's
simply part of our atmosphere--The Vagabonds!"
And so it was settled.
In the morning Sport wired the manager of the New Hampshire hotel
that The Vagabonds would be pleased to accept the short-term
engagement offered them; and by evening most of the members had shorn
themselves of what they now considered wholly superfluous jobs. One
or two of the more cautious ones, like Bud Dwight, asked for leaves
of absence. But the majority were so certain of an impending success
that they cut loose in a frank and abrupt manner which left several
employers in a state poised between bewilderment and rage.
Such, strangely enough, was the attitude taken by old Hesper when
Rudy informed him of his approaching trip. Prompted by much the same
feeling as the others regarding a certain success, he had
nevertheless no wish to offend the proprietor of the drug store. But
to his request for a vacation, the old man answered testily.
"You only been working a few weeks," he stormed, "and here you are
wanting to lay off already. No, sir! If you go you don't come
back--and that's final!"
"All right," Rudy said. "Then you better be getting some one for my
place."
Hesper looked at him in dismay. "Do you really mean it?" he gasped.
"Are you going to give up a good job here just to go galivanting
around with that--that----"
"Vagabond Orchestra," Rudy prompted him.
"Vagabond is right! And that's just what you'll end up--vagabonds!
Tramps! Well, when you do, you needn't come to me for any sympathy.
A good steady fellow like you," he added in a more kindly tone,
"hasn't any right going around with a rapscallion like that Sport
O'Malley. I hate to see him leading you, Rudy."
Rudy smiled. "I hate to see him leading me, too, Mr. Hesper--though
probably in a different way than you. I hate to see anyone leading
an orchestra that I'm in--except Rudy Bronson!"
"Get out!" said his erstwhile employer. "Get out and stay out!"
Walking thoughtfully in the direction of his home, Rudy mused: "Well,
that settles that." Although he had some disagreement with old
Hesper as to the "goodness" of the job he had quitted, it had been,
after all, a job. Now he was just a vagabond musician.
"Nothing venture, nothing gain," he said aloud. "Why, at one time
even Ted Grant himself was no better off than I am!"
Cheering as he found the thought, however, when two days later he
trundled his little car out of the garage and parked it in the street
until he had said good-by to his mother, some misgivings troubled
him. If the Hotel Laconia job was a failure, it would be awful to
come back and be forced to accept the jeers of townspeople minded
like old Hesper!
For the most part, the citizenry of Waterville took pride in the
venture. The Clarion had run a story captioned _Local Boys Make
Good_, which had brought no little satisfaction to all concerned.
But there was also the ever-present group of scoffers, and these
would welcome the chance to exercise their alleged wit.
"Good-by, son," said Mrs. Bronson, "and good luck."
"Thanks, Mother," Rudy answered. "And tell Dad 'so long' for me
again." He smiled. "Maybe I'll be back pretty quick, you can't
tell."
"If you do," Mrs. Bronson said, "you'll always find your home here
waiting for you."
Rudy went down the walk to his flivver with something close to tears
in his eyes. With such sustaining love and faith it was up to him to
do anything but fail--and fail he would not. He couldn't, now.
At Sport's home, he found the rest of the organization gathered.
Their silence told him that they must suddenly have found this
leave-taking as serious as had he. Looking at the two over-loaded
cars, Rudy realized that they truthfully had been named The Vagabonds.
Sport quickly stowed luggage and passengers in the yawning tonneau,
and climbed in beside Rudy.
"Fame, next stop," he grinned, "let's go."
Rudy meshed the gears, and they swept down the narrow, tree-shaded
street to the brighter light of the broad highway. As they rode
Sport continually re-read a much thumbed letter. Rudy suspected that
it was from Molly Bland, but he did not inquire. He merely hoped
that some day he would be receiving such notes from Jean Whitehall.
His ruminations were checked by Sport's voice.
"Did you see that piece in the paper about the Whitehalls?"
Rudy's heart leaped. "No, what?"
"They're going to spend the summer in New England," Sport answered
calmly. "Maybe they'll show up at the Laconia. I understand most
society people do, sooner or later. And if so, you'll have a chance
to feast thine eyes upon the girl friend!"
Sport grabbed at the wheel, as under the influence of the news on the
driver, the old car headed for the ditch at the roadside.
"Of course that's just a guess on my part," Sport said with telling
sarcasm. "Don't kill yourself until you know it's a fact!"
Rudy did not attempt to answer with words. But his foot went down on
the accelerator until it touched the floorboards.