A DECISION
In the morning Sport visited the manager's office, received payment
for the orchestra's services for the second week, and returned to his
co-workers with the impression that in the opinion of Mr. Loughboro
they had better go back to Waterville--and stay there.
The manager in addition had divulged one startling bit of
information. "The blond chap who sings can stay, if he wants to. I
don't know if the incoming troupe has a singer or not--they probably
have. But he's gone over so well with the patrons at the dinner hour
that I'm willing to keep him on just for that time alone. Send him
in if he's interested."
When Sport had divided the money, he nervously cleared his throat and
gave Rudy Mr. Loughboro's message. The silence which finished the
announcement told him that which he already knew--that in the
estimation of The Vagabonds, Rudy was half the band. Without Rudy,
there wouldn't be any orchestra.
Rudy's eyes lighted. A chance to stay on as a soloist! He had known
that he was favorably impressing the Laconia's guests, but he had not
imagined that he was succeeding so markedly as that! Then he slowly
became aware of the depressed expressions of his friends.
"Take it, Rudy," Sport was saying. "You'd be an awful chump to stick
with a bum outfit like this when you've got a chance like that."
Rudy grinned. "What do you mean, a bum outfit?" he demanded. "Say,
if you want my opinion, I don't think we've got to take the derbies
off our trombones to anybody's band!"
"What's the use of kidding ourselves?" Sport asked dully. "We're a
pretty good band, true enough; but without you we'd be just another
ham outfit. We might as well face it--and go back to Waterville and
face _that_."
Rudy looked at him. "Listen, Sport, do I honestly look like the sort
of a fellow who would leave his friends in the lurch?"
Sport's eyes widened. "And then you won't leave us? You'll stick?"
"What made you think I'd do anything else?"
They were upon him in an instant, pounding him affectionately,
describing his general appearance and capabilities in a manner which
caused several guests on the same floor to ring the desk and ask for
the house detective.
"But listen," Rudy said, when they finally had allowed him freedom
from their expressions of joy, "I'll stay only on one condition."
"Name it and she's yours!" Sport cried.
"Maybe you won't be so sure when I do," Rudy told him. "I'll stay
with the orchestra only if we hereafter are known as Rudy Bronson and
his Vagabonds."
There was a little silence. But Al Monroe seemed to voice the
general opinion when he said: "We ought to go a long way with a
mouth-filling name like that."
"Then it's settled?"
"Sure it's settled," said Sport. "It's obvious who the big shot of
this outfit is, and it might as well be named for you. But listen,"
he added, "that takes the responsibilities of managership out of my
hands. You're it, Rudy. If we're to take your name it's up to you
to get us jobs."
"And if you don't do any better than Sport did," Sam McMahon informed
him, "we won't be named anything for long."
Packing his tuxedo thoughtfully in his suitcase, Rudy was reminded by
a faint rustle of paper of yesterday's mail. Drawing the letters
from the pocket of the coat, he looked again at the one from Ted
Grant. "I suppose you fellows know," he said slowly, "that my
improvement on the saxophone has been due to my study under Ted
Grant?"
"What improvement?" inquired Al Monroe.
"Sure, we know, Rudy," Sport assured him. "Don't mind Al."
"Is that that correspondence-course fellow?" Bud Dwight asked.
"Yes," Rudy answered. "In addition to being the greatest saxophonist
in the world, he discovered Ben Bernie and Ted Lewis. I read all
about it in his ads."
Al Monroe snorted. "Do you believe everything you read, fella?"
"Never mind. Ted Grant's a remarkable man. Why, it was the ideal he
set for me that made me practise hours every day for months!"
Seeing that the sarcastic Al Monroe was on the verge of another of
his malicious remarks, Sport broke in hastily with: "He's a great
guy, all right. I guess he's got one of the biggest band
organizations in the country. If we only could hook up with him--as
one of his outfits!"
Rudy nodded slowly. "I was thinking of something like that," he said.
"But, Rudy," said Sam McMahon, "do you think that Ted Grant would be
interested in a small-time outfit like ours?"
"I don't see why not," Rudy answered. "He's almost a personal friend
of mine." He unfolded the letter. "Why, just see how he writes to
me. Here," as he pushed the letter into Sam's hand, "just read that
last paragraph!"
Sam took the letter, and after a moment of delay, during which time
his eyes skipped down the typewritten lines, began to read: "'And in
concluding this course, let me tell you that at all times I shall
follow your work, as my pupil, with heartfelt interest and hope that
you will bring your problems of the future to me as to an old friend.
Cordially, Ted Grant.'"
Hesitating a moment, Sam added: "There's a P.S. 'Please send the
names of any acquaintances who would be interested in subscribing to
this course under my direction.'
He laid the paper down, and looked at the others. "Say, that's
pretty good!"
"Imagine it!" exclaimed little Bud Dwight, with biting irony.
"Following the work of all his pupils like that!"
"And that isn't all," Rudy said expansively, ignoring Bud. "Here,
Sam, read this. It's a clipping my mother sent me yesterday in her
letter."
McMahon obediently took the printed strip. "'New blood,'" he began,
"'is what the jazz band industry of this country needs,' said Ted
Grant to the interviewer yesterday. 'And it is in the hope of
finding young talent for my bands that I have instituted the Ted
Grant Correspondence Course in Music. The crying need for players
trained by such competent methods as the Grant Correspondence Method
is----'"
"That," said Al Monroe, "sounds like another ad for his course."
"Oh, you don't know Ted Grant!" Rudy quickly protested. "He wouldn't
stoop to such a thing as that. Read on further, Sam."
"'Mr. Grant has rented a home in the smart summer resort of Longport,
L.I., where hereafter he will spend his idle hours scanning the work
of his pupils, as received by mail, in the hope of finding promising
material for the many profitable positions awaiting the graduates of
the Ted Grant Correspondence Method.'"
"Well, that sounds promising enough," Sport O'Malley admitted. "But
do you think it means what it says?"
Rudy leaped instantly to the defence of his hero. "Mean it? Why, of
course he means it! You should see some of the letters he's sent me.
Believe me, when Ted Grant says something, it goes."
"Talk's cheap," observed Al Monroe. "But it takes money to buy real
whisky. Supposin' you wire this guy Grant and let him know that
we're at liberty. And then see whether or not he means what he says."
Rudy flushed hotly at the suspicion thus cast upon the great
saxophonist. "Sure, I'll wire," he said suddenly. "I'll wire him
that we're coming!"
"What!"
"Just what I said. I'll send him a wire that we are on our way to
join his organization; then we'll climb in our flivvers and go to
Longport. I know he'll be glad to get a band like ours. That's the
only way to do business with a man, go see him personally."
"And personally get thrown out on your ear," opined Al Monroe.
"You just let me handle this," Rudy retorted. "I'll have you boys
all wearing diamonds before the snow flies."
Sport nodded thoughtfully. "Well, it's certain that we haven't
anything to lose. And you never can tell, we might have a lot to
gain."
"O.K.," Rudy said quickly. "Get your instruments and clothes
together and go on down to the cars. I'll go down to the office and
send the wire." As the boys moved to obey he hurried them
cheerfully: "Come on, gang, let's go. Fame's waiting for us."
In the office he wrote out his message on a telegraph blank, paid the
fee, and started toward the door. He was stopped by Mr. Loughboro.
"Did O'Malley tell you about my offer to let you stay and sing with
the new orchestra?" he asked.
"And did you think that maybe he wouldn't?"
"No need to get huffy, son. I was not seeking to dispute O'Malley's
honesty. It's just that I knew he knew your value to his
orchestra--and thought he might have, well, forgotten to remember."
Rudy grinned. "Thanks for the compliment," he said. "And I'm sorry
if I was hasty. Sport's my friend, you see."
"Well, what about the orchestra?"
"The orchestra is my orchestra now, Mr. Loughboro. It's Rudy Bronson
and his Vagabonds. Sorry I can't take up your offer, but I'd have to
be twins. We're going over to Longport and join the Ted Grant
organization."
The manager's eyebrows went up a trifle. "Say, that's fine! Well,
good luck to you." He held out his hand. "And if you should ever be
in need of a job, come around and let me know."
"Thank you." Rudy went out the door and down the long flight of
steps to the parkway. At a discreet distance from the swanky hotel,
two worn Fords stood waiting. Surrounded by a group of young men
loaded with luggage and band instruments, they looked pitiably
incapable of carrying such a load to the next town, much less to Long
Island.
Rudy smiled. With a good break under Ted Grant those old cars soon
would be replaced by models more in keeping with the estate of
successful makers of good dance music. The Vagabonds were good
musicians; he knew that. A little raw, but under the eye of such a
master as Ted Grant--well, there just wasn't any limit to what they
might hope to accomplish.
"Alley oop!" he said climbing in beside Sport. "I let Mr. Grant know
we're soon to be with him."
"I hope he's able to stand the strain of waiting," said Al Monroe.
Rudy's answer was lost as fender to fender the two tin conveyances
roared down the driveway and again The Vagabonds were on the open
road.