ENGAGEMENT
The Hotel Laconia was one of those New Hampshire hostelries which do
their best business in the summer. Snow-locked and forbidding during
the winter months, it found economy necessary during the paying
portion of the year; and it was due to this economy policy that the
management had found itself without a dance orchestra at the height
of its season.
The manager himself greeted the Vagabonds. He was a plump, rosy man
with eyes like faded marbles appearing incongruously in the freshness
of his face. Calling a bellboy to show them to their quarters, he
asked Sport to visit his office later to complete the financial
arrangements. When he left them, his hard eyes made them all
extremely conscious of the fact that they had arrived in two very
worn Fords.
"Just a pal," remarked Al Monroe, when the door had closed upon his
well-tailored back. "And all I got to say is that we better deliver
for this baby right from the opening note, or it'll be back to
Waterville for little us."
"That's right," Sport agreed, "except that if we flop, I'll be
willing to go most any place except back to Waterville. We can't
muff this, gang! The way I talked us up, he'll be expecting nothing
less than music like Whiteman's. So let's try and get off to a good
start. Get your tuxes out and send them down to be pressed. You
take care of mine, will you, Rudy?" he asked. "I'll chase down and
talk money with our genial host."
Thus ten tuxedos made a double descent in the elevator of the Hotel
Laconia that afternoon. Creased and wrinkled from packing, they
first went down to the valet service in the basement; and carefully
draped on the somewhat apprehensive frames of ten young men, the
second time they stopped off at the main floor.
The manager met them at the desk and ushered them with their
instruments to the orchestral platform in one corner of the long
dining room. "We don't have any dancing during the dinner hour," he
explained in answer to their mystified looks. "Tables are set on the
floor in the middle of the room. Later those will be removed and the
dancing will take place there."
As The Vagabonds arranged themselves, he added: "Of course that means
that during the dinner hour we won't want the usual syncopation.
Give us something quieter--a little more highbrow." He left them
without another word.
The orchestra exchanged mutual glances of chagrin. "Holy cow!"
ejaculated Sport, "and us without even a semi-classical number in our
repertoire!"
"This is a swell time to be thinking of that!" Al Monroe growled.
"If we break out in a red-hot-mama number some of these old crows are
liable to choke on their bird-seed."
"Don't worry, gang," Rudy Bronson said quietly. "We can play the hot
numbers softly--and I won't sing any of the choruses except the
ballads. So far as that goes, Sport can play the piano, and I'll
piece out with some solos until the dance hour."
In their moment of extremity they were willing to jump at any
solution of the unexpected problem. "Atta boy, Rudy!" Sport cried.
"And for the love of great crying catfish, try and come through!"
"Yeah," said Swiftie Clarke, "because we're just about anything but
anxious to go home."
"O.K., gang! We'll start with 'Loveable and Sweet.' For the chorus,
instead of having Rudy sing, I'll do a piano solo. I'll dress it all
up until they'll think they're hearing Beethoven."
Somehow the dinner hour was passed. Although an occasional diner was
seen to cast curious glances in the direction of the orchestra, the
majority apparently were able to consume their meals without the
indigestion said inevitably to accompany modern music.
[Illustration: A scene from the Radio Picture, "The Vagabond Lover,"
starring RUDY VALLEE.]
Rudy did a yeoman's service. As the band ran out of pieces which it
could play in a manner that disguised a frankly jazz origin, he
stepped into the breech with a long array of ballads. Most of these
were popular, true enough, but by singing softly he was able to
concentrate upon the sweetness of the music without calling much
attention to the lyrics. When at last the floor was cleared for
dancing, he sighed relievedly. Apparently they had come through the
dangerous situation without difficulty.
He noted that the manager had been watching them closely, but the
fellow's ever-present smile disguised whether he was pleased or
inwardly raging. As the peppy music to which the boys were more
accustomed allowed them to get on familiar ground, there seemed less
room for worry. But the manner in which the manager kept his eye on
them proved disconcerting to Sport.
"We haven't any more privacy than a lot of goldfish," he complained.
"Take this next one big, boys. He's still watching."
"Let Rudy sing again," Sam suggested. "If he doesn't like that he
wouldn't like his mother-in-law's life insurance."
Such assurances of good opinion are heartening to one's self-respect,
and as the evening wore on Rudy gained in confidence. Knowing that
his voice was not remarkably strong, he had hoped that its purity of
tone would carry him over the shoal waters of criticism. This wish,
to judge from the reaction of his fellow musicians, was being carried
out in a manner that left nothing to be desired.
When the last number had been played, the orchestra gave a collective
sigh of relief. "Well, at least that's over," said Sport. "And I
don't think we were so rotten. But what a rehearsal we're going to
have in the morning on semi-classical numbers!"
He was about to say more, when the appearance of the manager stopped
him. "Ah, Mr. Loughboro, I hope you liked our music."
"Not bad," said the manager. "Not good--but not bad. Give the blond
kid more numbers to sing. The women like him. I'd be sending for a
new band to-night if it weren't for the fact that you had him with
you." And with this cheering message he departed as abruptly as he
had come.
Sport mopped his brow. "And just to think," he said, "that once I
had some doubt about letting you play with us." He grinned at Rudy.
"And now you save us our job."
"Such as it is," Rudy said coolly. "Don't worry, Sport. We're
slated for bigger things than any country hotel. When we hit our
stride there isn't a night club in New York that won't be busting its
neck to get us."
"Well, I must say you've got confidence," commented Al Monroe.
"And," said Swiftie Clarke, "a voice that the ladies like. Which is
more than I can say for nine other guys not very far from here."
"I'll say!" Sport agreed. "And it looks to me like its up to you to
carry us through that dinner hour for the rest of the engagement,
Rudy."
It was a truthful prophecy. With diligent morning practice, The
Vagabonds were able to counterfeit a fair knowledge of semi-classical
numbers for the dinner hour. But during this hour and those of the
dancing period which followed, it was soon evident that Rudy's mellow
voice was the cardinal point in their favor.
The two-week engagement closed on Saturday night. Sunday, no music
was played, except that of a string quartet especially imported for
the afternoon tea hour. On Monday the New York orchestra would
arrive. As early as the middle of the first week, all hope had been
abandoned that Mr. Loughboro would not bring the other band up from
the city, and it was an unhappy group of young men who prepared for
their last evening at the Hotel Laconia.
"It isn't that I hate leaving here so very much," Sport complained.
"It's just that I hate having nowhere else to go--except home."
Rudy put two letters in his pocket, and straightened his tie. Both
were from Waterville, one from his mother, the other from Ted
Grant--the last letter he ever would receive from Grant as a pupil,
for it signalized the completion of the course.
He was anything but happy. The hotel job had not led to the
hoped-for future engagement, and return to Waterville seemed an
impossibility. Both his mother's disappointment and the cackling of
such tongues as old Hesper's would be equally unbearable. But what
else was there to do?
The dinner hour passed uneventfully. With the two weeks of
experience, the orchestra was able to put forth a nice medley of
music suitable to the occasion, and Rudy appeared to be in even
better voice than ever before. He had several encores, but refused
to take a bow. "I'm just a part of the band," he said. "Let it go."
When the dance floor was cleared and the major business of the
evening actually began, he strangely began to grow nervous. It was
as if some secret voice were attempting to whisper of a coming event
of peculiar significance. But shrugging off the premonition, he
applied himself to the work prepared for him, refusing attention to
anything save the immediate problem of making the Vagabonds seem a
good orchestra.
With the evening nearing its close without anything of a startling
nature having occurred, Rudy was tempted to wonder at the odd fancy
which had affected him. And yet, it was at precisely the moment when
he was scoffing the strongest at his strange hunch that he looked up
to see Jean Whitehall entering the room with a party of friends.
His pulse quickened and his lips set tightly. So Sport had been
right! Rudy found her more lovely than ever. She was so utterly
desirable that he had to look determinedly to another section of the
room. He remembered with what eagerness he had dreamed of finding
her here at the Laconia. Now, in a flash, he wanted only to escape
her notice. He had dreamed of success for the Vagabonds. They were
not successes, however, as the fact that this was their last night
testified. He had no wish to be seen in the ignominious role of
saxophonist in a country town band that was not good enough to stay
in even a summer hotel.
When he saw her party take a table out of a direct line of vision
with the orchestra, Rudy's breath escaped in a little sigh of relief.
She would not see him from her present position. Then he heard Sport
say:
"You catch the chorus on this, Rudy."
Rudy mechanically set the music on his stand. To sing would surely
be to draw Jean's attention. He shook his head as he silently made
his decision. No, he couldn't do it--not if he wanted to, his throat
was that constricted.
"No go, Sport," he said to that surprised individual.
"What's wrong?" Sport demanded.
"Throat's raw as a beefsteak. Let's stick to the music. It sounded
good enough to-night."
Sport did not insist. Al Monroe, however, refused to let the moment
pass without a word. "What's the matter? Afraid you'll crack and
disappoint the ladies?"
"I'll say I'm afraid," Rudy grinned mirthlessly.
Jean danced several times. Once or twice she glanced in the
direction of the orchestra platform; but he knew that from her
distance its members were nothing more than an impersonal blur. And
for this he was as thankful as that Sport had failed to notice her in
the crowd.
Without appearing to do so, Rudy watched her party closely. They
were older people, suggesting the thought that she must be visiting
in the district. He was grateful for the pronounced age of one of
the men in her party who apparently wished to leave. Evidently this
gentleman had the authority to cause his wishes to be respected, for
presently they gathered their forces and went toward the doorway.
Rudy was relieved, but saddened, too. There went Jean again! Must
she always be going away from him? Going away! Would there ever be
a time when he could meet her on the footing which he hoped for--when
she must recognize him as a social equal? His hands clenched. That
time _must_ come!
Subconsciously he heard the orchestra launch into "I Love You,
Believe Me, I Love You." His mind traveled back to the night when he
had stood on Sorority Row, singing to the girl whom he believed had
not heard him.
"I'll take the next chorus," he called to Sport.
Jean already had left the room. Rudy saw her crossing the verandah
to a waiting motor. The elderly gentleman saw her into the ear and
then entered with her. Slowly the motor moved away. Rudy closed his
eyes and opened his lips. A limpid flow of golden notes that only
emphasized the sincerity of his words filled the room:
"You'll be my one inspiration,
You've changed my whole life from the start,
I love you, believe me, I love you,
This theme is the dream of my heart."
The last words of the song drifted away. The Vagabonds were through.
It took but a moment to gather up their instruments and scores. They
were gone and the big room quite deserted when a girl rushed back
from the verandah. It was Jean. Her car had been delayed by a
traffic snarl; Rudy's song had reached her ears as clearly as it had
reached them the night of the dance.
"The orchestra has left," she said in evident disappointment to her
escort.
He smiled tolerantly. "You'll hear it again, Jean."
"It was the singer," she admitted. "His voice sounded so familiar."
Upstairs in his room, Rudy slumped down into a chair. Sport looked
at him inquiringly. "What's wrong?"
"She was out there to-night--Jean," he muttered unhappily. "She
didn't see me, though--fortunately."
"Say!" Sport cried. "What's the idea? You almost put us in the
ditch when I tipped you off that she might blow into this hotel some
night. And now you say you didn't want her to see you. What _is_
this?"
"You don't understand, Sport. I was a bust in school, and to-night
I'm playing the sax in a punk little band that couldn't hold a job in
a country hotel. When I meet her, she won't have to apologize for me
to her friends; she'll be proud of me--proud. I've got just two
ideas--and she's one of them. I've got to amount to something,
Sport. And I will!"
Sport looked at him soberly.
"You will," he declared without hesitation. "And don't ever forget
that it was Sport O'Malley who discovered you!"