THE WINGS OF SONG
Mrs. Whitehall again called for the attention of her assembled guests.
"My dear friends," she said with a glance at Mrs. Todhunter, "I now
wish to announce the final number on our program. I take pleasure in
introducing my very dear friend and neighbor, Mr. Ted Grant, who with
his band has consented to come here as my guest and play for us!"
At the announcement an excited stir went over the room. The name of
the famous radio entertainer was familiar to all, and the knowledge
that they were about to hear in person the great musician known to
everyone who possessed a radio had about it the importance of great
news.
Rudy took his position in front of his orchestra with a set smile on
his face. He had no qualms about his ability, either as a
saxophonist or a singer, for his long hours of study had assured him
of success there. For the moment he forgot the barrier to his dream
of Jean and thought only of the message he was about to send her on
the wings of melodious song.
"'If You Were the Only Girl,'" he said briefly.
Sport nodded, gave the signal, and the band launched into the number.
As the chorus was repeated for the second time, Rudy, as was his
custom, stood up and began to sing. He sang with closed eyes, and in
every syllable of the song was a tender message for one girl in his
audience.
"If you were the only girl in the world,
And I was the only boy,
Nothing else would matter in this world to-day;
We could go on loving in the same old way.
A garden of Eden just made for two,
With nothing to mar our joy;
I would say such wonderful things to you--
There would be such wonderful things to do--
If you were the only girl in the world,
And I was the only boy."
The Vagabonds, to immense applause, played several numbers. Rudy did
not sing more than once. Sport asked why, but Rudy shook his head
noncommittally. He was so anxious to hear Jean's reaction that he
did not feel he could do justice to another number. So in the next
piece his role was solely that of saxophonist.
When they had finished and come down from the platform he had his
answer. Jean came forward, her lovely face alight.
"That was just beautiful," she said.
Rudy smiled. "I was singing about something beautiful."
Before either of them could speak again, Mrs. Whitehall came hurrying
forward.
"Oh, Mr. Grant!" she exclaimed, "you were the hit of the evening."
She turned to her friendly enemy for confirmation. "Wasn't he, Mrs.
Todhunter?"
"It was quite interesting," admitted the social leader. "So
different, though, from the trained operatic voices."
But Mrs. Whitehall was not to be checked.
"Wouldn't it be wonderful," she enthused, "if we could persuade Mr.
Grant to head our benefit program to-morrow night!"
Rudy hastily applied a handkerchief to a suddenly damp brow.
"But we haven't secured our manager's permission!" he protested.
"Suppose we secure the permission?" asked the indefatigable Mrs.
Whitehall.
Mrs. Todhunter interrupted coldly: "I'm afraid a plain jazz band
wouldn't be quite suitable on a program with real concert and
operatic artists," she said.
"Mr. Grant's is hardly a plain jazz band," Mrs. Whitehall bridled.
"Nevertheless," observed Mrs. Todhunter, "I'm sure my operatic
friends would view it as such. I know the artistic temperament.
They would never consent to appear on a program which lacked artistic
dignity."
"And quite right," said Rudy with a heart-felt earnestness. "Quite
right."
Mrs. Todhunter turned to Rudy with a cold smile.
"So good of you to say so, Mr. Grant," she said. "You understand----"
"Certainly," Rudy assured her as she swept away. "I understand
exactly."
"Oh, Mr. Grant, I hope you are not offended," Mrs. Whitehall
exclaimed nervously.
"Not at all, really," Rudy said. "I think there is a great deal in
what she says."
"But you have every right to be offended," Mrs. Whitehall said
bitterly. "I shan't let her off so easily. I'm going to bring the
matter before the committee and insist that you head the program."
"But----"
"Don't fear, Mr. Grant! I have some influence with that committee,
and I shall see that you have a proper courtesy extended to you!"
And with that she, too, left Jean and Rudy.
Jean smiled at him. "Well, it looks as if you're going to play.
Auntie will insist to the committee. You may be sure of that."
"But I don't want her to insist!" Rudy protested.
"Don't worry," Jean assured him. "She won't let anyone be insulted
in her house."
"An orphanage benefit can't have too much dignity," he said after a
few desperate moments of thought. But he realized the inanity of the
words even as he voiced them.
"Nobody can impose on Auntie when she gets her back up," Jean went on
composedly. "She won't stop at anything to get even with anyone who
tries to injure her social prestige."
"I imagine you are right," Rudy admitted dismally.
"Yes, she'll do anything when she's really angry. She's like one of
those queens who chopped off the heads of people who opposed her--or
sent them to prison on very restricted diets!"
"To prison!" Rudy exclaimed with a mounting alarm. "To prison!"
"If they stand in her way," Jean said. "Pretense is what Auntie
hates."
Had Jean deliberately been trying to increase Rudy's feeling of
discomfiture, she could not have chosen more apt words with which to
do so. At each fresh instance of Mrs. Whitehall's manner of handling
pretenders and those who in any way might damage the fabric of her
social aspirations, his already tormented consciousness took on added
realization of the plight into which the masquerade had plunged The
Vagabonds.
"I tell you," he heard Jean continue, "I wouldn't be the person to
have her after me for anything in the world. She had a dressmaker
fined five thousand dollars once for pretending to sell her imported
models. And then there was that cook who swindled her on the
household accounts. She had him sent to jail, yes, actually to jail!"
She completed her fearsome description with a little movement of her
hands.
"That's why I'm so glad she likes you, for she really does."
Rudy looked at her desperately.
"And you--do you think--do you like--I mean----"
Before he could finish his tangled and laborious sentence, he caught
sight of Sport signaling him from the doorway. It was apparent from
the other's frantic gestures that something was wrong.
"What were you saying?" Jean asked softly.
Rudy turned a miserable face.
"I guess I'll have to tell you later," he said. "Something seems to
have happened that needs my attention just now."
"Something extremely important?"
Rudy looked again at the strained face of Sport across the room.
"Apparently very important," he said. "Can you wait a few minutes?"
Jean rose, a slight flush on her face.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "It's late, anyhow. The guests are
going and I should be helping Auntie say her good-bys."
"But, Jean!" Rudy cried. "I want to talk to you!"
Jean smiled. "Won't it keep until to-morrow?"
Then, with a graceful, rapid stride, she left him.
Rudy watched her go with mingled emotions. To-morrow! Why, by
to-morrow they hoped to be miles away. And--and----
"Rudy!"
It was Sport, who had crossed the room as Jean disappeared. He
grinned, seeking to mask his distress.
"Boy, we got a tough break," he said. "The boys went out to load
some stuff in the cars, and they found two of Harry Ables' tires
blown. Overloaded, I guess; but that sure puts his car out of the
running."
"Can't we all pile in mine?" Rudy asked.
"Ten of us? Why that bum set of tires of yours would pop before we'd
gone a block. Nope, it looks like the train for us."
"Well, that's all right. We've enough money to pay fares home for
half the boys."
"Sure, but the train doesn't leave until to-morrow around noon! We
wanted to get out to-night. That cop Tuttle has been hanging around
again."
Much as he realized the gravity of delay, Rudy could not force a dour
expression over the news. He smiled.
"Well, we'll go to-morrow then," he said. "I guess my bus can carry
five extra as far as the station, anyway."
"But don't you realize how dangerous it is to stick around here with
Grant liable to find out at any minute that we've been impersonating
him?"
"Surely it's dangerous," Rudy admitted. "But what are you going to
do, take wings and fly? You should have thought of things like this
when you told them that I was Ted Grant. But don't worry," he added
in a comforting tone. "There isn't much can happen before to-morrow
at noon."
But Sport for this once was inclined to look on the pessimistic angle
of the affair.
"The boys are scared, Rudy. That guy Tuttle snooping around has got
their goats. But I suppose you're right," he admitted. "There isn't
anything we can do but wait for that train."
"Don't worry," Rudy repeated. "And now are you on your way?"
"Yeah. You coming? The gang has gone already."
Rudy hesitated. He wanted a final word with Jean alone, to tell her
that now "to-morrow would do." But he had no wish to appear too
presumptuous, and concluded that it would be best simply to leave
with Sport.
"Alley oop," he said. "Let's shove off."
At the door, Mrs. Whitehall and Jean were saying good-by to the last
of the guests.
"Good-night, Mr. Grant," she said. "It was so wonderful of you to
come to-night. I do hope that you weren't offended by Mrs.
Todhunter. But as you know, there is no explaining the actions of
some people."
"I wasn't offended," Rudy said in a last attempt to free himself of
the intolerable situation. "Really, I think there was a lot in what
she said."
"Perhaps Mr. Grant doesn't want to play for our benefit, Auntie."
It was Jean who spoke, and looking at her, Rudy saw that the coils
were tightening about him even more unbreakably than before. Sport,
too, appeared to grasp the predicament into which he had been cast,
and made some murmur of dissent.
"No," he said, "Mr. Grant and the band would like to play for you.
But you see----"
"Don't you concern yourself, Jean," Mrs. Whitehall interrupted. "I
can see by Mr. Grant's face that he isn't the kind of a young man who
would fail a worthy charity. We'll see you to-morrow, gentlemen.
Good-night."
"Yes," Jean repeated with an inscrutable smile. "We'll see you
gentlemen to-morrow. Good-night."
The door closed and Rudy and Sport walked silently across the lawn in
the direction of the Grant house. Neither felt like talking. Nor,
indeed, was there much to say.