DÉNOUEMENT
On the outskirts of the crowd stood a short, pompous man with the
worried eyes of success in his chosen field, and a huge burly man who
hovered by him protectively.
"Look at that, will you?" Connors demanded. "Can you beat it? What
do you think of that," he demanded with the dull lack of originality
of his type. "Can you feature it!"
Ted Grant's eyes were fixed beadily on the distant stage.
"Using the Ted Grant method, is he? Trying to steal my stuff.
I'll--I'll----"
But Connors, with the born manager's eye for the crowd, had noted the
response that was being given Rudy's number.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Let's get a load of this guy. He's sure
to sing again after a hand like that!"
It seemed a just prophecy. The applause which had greeted the
conclusion of the "I Love You" number had dwarfed all that preceded
it. Rudy was forced to take a bow, and a second one.
"He sure went over," Ted Grant admitted. "Wonder who he is?"
"I'll scout around and find out," Connors said. "There seems to be
real talent in these hills."
As the two men were about to move on, several figures approached from
the dusk.
"Now I want two of you to sneak around there and come in behind those
fellows. Do you get me?"
In the strident, nasal tone peculiar to a certain type of New
Englander, there was no mistaking the malice behind the words. Grant
and Connors looked around, to see Tuttle deploying his men toward the
orchestra platform.
"And two of you others go in behind them from the right. Nail them
right there. Does everybody understand?"
There was a general assent, and the little group of policemen moved
off into the night, obviously on their way to put the performers on
the stage under custody.
Grant whistled. "And what do you make of that?"
"Can't figure it," Connors replied. "Unless these kids have gotten
in bad around here somehow."
"That'd be a shame," Grant exclaimed. "Why, they've got real stuff.
I'd hate to see them get nabbed by any yokel cop on some small town
complaint. Those boys ought to be in the big town!"
"Let's follow around and see what's up," said Connors. "Maybe we can
give them a lift."
A few words came from the loudspeaker:
"The Vagabonds now will offer their final number, which also will be
the closing number of our performance."
With evident determination to leave a good last impression on their
audience, the Vagabonds had chosen one of their best pieces, "Then
I'll Be Reminded of You." Rudy Bronson was notably good on the vocal
rendition, and as he took up the chorus, they now saw that the choice
had been a happy one. Rudy had never been in better voice.
"I'll gather some June dreams,
I'll search for some moonbeams,
Then I'll be reminded of you.
I'll walk by the mill stream,
I'll talk to the hill stream
Then I'll be reminded of you.
I'll climb to the rainbow and vigor anew,
I'll find Paradise and I'll keep it for you.
I'll spend all my hours, among fragrant flowers,
Then I'll be reminded of you."
Struck by the peculiar aptness of the lyric, Rudy completed the song
in a cloud of unhappiness. _Then I'll be reminded of you_. Yes, and
wouldn't he be reminded of Jean, of the girl he loved, by everything
beautiful so long as he lived? Reminded to his everlasting regret
for having allowed himself to try and win her esteem as a cheat....
The Vagabonds hurriedly were putting away their instruments. It was
obvious that none of them was anxious to linger for the generous
plaudits being given them on all sides. They had too much to lose by
delay for even the vainest to wish to stay longer than was absolutely
necessary on the Todhunter estate.
With his customary sanguineness, Sport O'Malley had convinced himself
that with such a showing as they had made on the program, even Mrs.
Whitehall would not be able to entertain much anger with them. But
as he saw the dowager approach, her face creased in lines of
disapproval, his feeling of assurance ebbed abruptly.
"Well, here it is, gang," he said, as he saw that beside her walked
Tuttle.
Sam McMahon groaned. "And to think that by now we could be so far
away from this place they couldn't catch us with a special delivery
letter."
Four policemen, two upon each side of the stage, appeared from the
wings. "Don't try and leave!"
Tuttle went directly to Rudy Bronson.
"Young man, we want to see you," he said heavily.
Rudy nodded. "I know. I'll take all the blame if you'll let the
others go."
"What do you mean, you'll take all the blame?" Sport O'Malley said,
coming forward. "Listen, fella, you seem to forget that you came
through for me in a tight spot. Molly writes me that if I ever
forget it, that I'd better forget her, too. But there's no need to
worry about that." He turned to Tuttle. "Whatever this guy did, I
did just as much, get that?"
"What do you intend to do with us, lady?" asked the tremulous voice
of Bud Dwight.
"I intend to prosecute you fully for causing the failure of our
benefit."
"The failure!" Sport exclaimed. "Listen, Mrs. Whitehall, Ted Grant
himself couldn't have gotten a better hand than we did."
"What's the use of arguing, Sport?" Rudy asked. "I'll go with you,
officer," he said to Tuttle. He got to his feet, looking at the
swaying curtain which had blotted out all the approving hundreds of a
few minutes ago. Was Jean out there, unconscious of what was taking
place behind the lowered velvet? Or did she know--and approve?
As if summoned by his thoughts, Jean came from the wings, her hands
full of telegrams, her face alight with excitement.
"Why, Jean," Mrs. Whitehall said, "where have you been?"
"At the radio, receiving telegrams," Jean answered. "And before you
say another word to Mr. Bronson and his friends, I want you to look
at these wires."
Mrs. Whitehall took a handful of the yellow envelopes.
"What on earth----?"
"The radio announcer says they always get a quick response from their
public," Jean went on. "But he says they haven't had one so warm as
this for ever so long!"
Mrs. Whitehall had opened the first telegram.
"Oh, dear," she cried, "just listen to this: 'If charity benefit is
as delightful as orchestra now playing, count on us every night. Mr.
and Mrs. Richmond.'"
Jean ripped open another of the envelopes.
"'All the patients in our hospital enjoyed the charity benefit
orchestra greatly,'" she read. "And it is signed by the head nurse
of the Montclair Hospital."
But Mrs. Whitehall had pleasant reading matter of her own.
"Oh, how sweet," she enthused. "'Never heard such a soothing voice
and band. Am coming to the benefit just to see them. Mrs. Roger
Hackett.'" She turned to Jean. "Mrs. Roger Hackett! Can you
imagine that, my dear!"
"Look here," Jean answered. "'Hope that Rudy Bronson and his
Vagabonds will be a permanent feature on the air. Congratulate
benefit committee for having secured such a delightful artist. The
Sherman family.'"
"The Shermans!" Mrs. Whitehall cried. "Let me see! Oh, dear," she
added, examining the telegram, "this is too much!"
"The radio people say he's a hit,"' Jean told her. "A sensation.
They knew it the minute they heard him out there. Oh, there are tons
of other telegrams, too! Can't you see, Auntie," she asked, "he
hasn't made your benefit a failure. He's put it over for you."
"Imagine!" was Mrs. Whitehall's only reply. Or, indeed, the only
reply of which she was capable.
Rudy looked at Jean. His senses were in a whirl; things had happened
so precipitately that he was unable for the moment to grasp the good
fortune which had attended his efforts. But one fact stood forth
with beacon clearness--and that was that Jean, the girl who had
scorned him, had been the instrument which had delivered them from
the waiting grasp of Officer Tuttle.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Whitehall!"
It was the radio announcer, freed of the press of his duties, coming
forward with outstretched hand.
"It isn't everyone who has the genius to make a find like this and
then exploit it so magnificently. You certainly showed superb
showmanship. In fact I wonder that you don't take up promotion as a
profession!"
"Yes?" Mrs. Whitehall murmured dazedly. "Yes?"
"The committee certainly owes a lot to you," the announcer went on.
"I'm afraid that the operatic singers would have made of this just
another boresome charity benefit. But with Mr. Bronson and his band,
I assure you it has been the most entertaining affair that we have
had the pleasure to broadcast all year."
Mrs. Whitehall had by now regained some of her customary composure.
"Oh, yes," she admitted, "I recognized the quality of Mr. Bronson and
his hand the minute I heard them. I think you are right in saying
they differ from the usual trained operatic singers. After all, this
is a new country--and we should have new and modern ways of
expressing ourselves. There is nothing to be gained by following the
old, worn-out precedents of Europe!"
"I might add on that score that Europe seems to be following us, Mrs.
Whitehall. Our contemporary music has taken the Continent by storm."
As all eyes turned to the speaker, he came more definitely into the
group.
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Ted Grant. And this is my
manager, Mr. Jack Connors. We came down here under the impression
that an imposition was about to be practised. And very happy I am
that we came."
"Ted Grant!" Rudy breathed. "You mean--_the_ Ted Grant."
"None other," the musician smiled. "And I want to talk to you, young
fellow, as soon as you have time."
Before he could make his wishes more fully known, Mrs. Whittington
Todhunter, amid a flurry of elegant skirts, pushed her way through
the crowd.
"Have you arrested him yet?" she demanded.
"Arrested whom?" Mrs. Whitehall asked innocently.
"Why this young impostor. Just a few minutes ago you were saying----"
"My dear Mrs. Todhunter," Mrs. Whitehall cut her short. "This seems
to be just another instance of your flair for making mistakes. Mr.
Bronson is no impostor. He appeared on our bill under his own
name--and, I may point out, scored one of the biggest hits that this
gentleman from the broadcasting station has ever put on the air."
"That's right," the announcer assured her. "He'll be set from now
on."
"I'll say he will," said Ted Grant.
"Then you aren't going to have him arrested?" Mrs. Todhunter
persisted.
"Why, of course not!" Mrs. Whitehall replied. "That was just part of
my superb--superb--whatever it was that I should take up
professionally!"
Officer Tuttle had for some time been attempting to make himself
heard. He now stepped into the circle of discussion.
"But lookee here," he said, "it's up to Mr. Grant himself to advise
us on this charge. He's the one who made the complaint, and he's the
injured party. It was his house that was broken into by these--these
young vagabonds!"
"Why, Officer Pluffle--" Mrs. Whitehall protested weakly.
"Tuttle," he said snappishly, "Tuttle--with two t's!"
Ted Grant took him by the arm, confidentially.
"There seems to be something of a mistake here, Chief. I guess the
best thing to do would be to call it that--and let the matter rest."
"Then you don't care to make a charge against this young fellow?"
Tuttle asked, pointing to Rudy. "He's the ringleader of the crowd."
"Make a charge against Rudy?" Sport O'Malley asked. "Why, I guess
you don't know that this young man is one of Mr. Grant's pupils--a
graduate of the Ted Grant Correspondence School in Music."
"And," said Al Monroe, "a personal friend of Mr. Grant's. With
letters and everything."
"You boys keep out of this," Tuttle advised. "It's Mr. Grant I'm
talking to."
"But the boys are right," Grant returned. "You don't think I'd care
to make a charge against one of my pupils. I tell you, I was never
prouder of one of my graduates in all my life; and I might add that
among my graduates have been Ted Lewis, Ben Bernie, and----"
"Sure," said Connors, "we're going to put this young fellow's name in
our advertising along with the others."
"You bet we are!" Grant cried enthusiastically. "Why, he's the
biggest find I've made since Paul Whiteman!"
Mrs. Whitehall slowly had been bristling. Now her indignation came
to a head.
"The greatest find you've made, Mr. Grant?" she exclaimed. "Of
course, I have no wish to take any credit away from you. But you
must admit that it was through my superb courage and--and----"
"Showmanship," the announcer prompted her.
--"and showmanship that this appearance of Mr. Bronson's was made
possible to-night."
But Ted Grant was paying small heed to any voice that sought to
detract from the glamour of a new discovery via the roster of the Ted
Grant Correspondence School.
"If you knew the effort it takes, developing new talent like Bronson,
you'd appreciate my feelings when I heard this new find of mine----"
"New find of yours!" Mrs. Whitehall exploded. "Pardon me, Mr. Grant!
I want to tell you that when I first heard that boy sing at my
musicale, I knew he was----"
"And the beauty of it all is," Grant continued imperturbably, "is
that he uses the Ted Grant technique perfectly, the method that has
made me the greatest saxophone player in the world. Well, lest you
think me boastful, I'll just leave any description of my skill to my
manager here."
He turned to The Vagabonds, smiling beneficently.
"When you young men are ready to talk business," he said. "I'll be
ready to talk with you. I have a spot for a first-class outfit in a
new supper club just opening in New York, and I think you boys should
fill the bill, and then some. Who's your manager?"
"Rudy himself is the manager," Sport O'Malley told him.
"Well, where did he go?" Grant asked. "He was here just a minute
ago."
"He beat it with Miss Whitehall," Bud Dwight explained. "They were
looking at each other all the time you people were talking, and then
all at once Rudy got up and followed her out there," he pointed
toward the wings, "into the garden."
Ted Grant grinned. "Oh," he said. "Well, I guess he won't feel like
talking business any more to-night. At least not my kind of
business."
"But look," said Swiftie Clarke, "Sport here used to be our manager
before Rudy. How about him talking to you?"
"Nothing doing," Sport said, starting hastily away. "There's a girl
I've got to wire to--and tell her that I've gone and got myself a
real job. Is that right, Mr. Grant?"
"It sure is," Grant laughed. "And I guess that we can talk terms
just as well in the morning as now. If it'll make any of the rest of
you sleep better, however," he said to the circle of eager faces
about him, "I might as well tell you that they'll be good ones."
"And what Mr. Grant says he'll do," Connors informed them, "you can
bet your life he'll do!"
The shout which followed this statement carried to Rudy and Jean,
standing in the garden amid a riotous cloud of perfume from the
thousands of flowers about them.
"You were a great success with the show, Rudy," Jean said softly.
Rudy smiled. "Thanks--but was I a great success," he swallowed
desperately, "was I a great success with you, Jean?"
Jean inclined her head. "You were game. You came back in spite of
everything to help our little charity. And, Rudy! If you only knew
how women admire gameness--in their men!"
"In their----?"
Scarcely crediting his ears, Rudy looked at her. But Jean had turned
slightly away from him. Slowly he put out his hands and drew her
face around to his. The message he read in her eyes sent the blood
crashing through his heart like wine.
"I," he said, "I--I--I'm forgiven?"
With this great, hoped-for moment upon him, he knew that he was
unable to express all the thousand dear and tremulous things that
stirred within him. Unable to express them except in one way. With
a wistful, whimsical smile, holding Jean close within his arms, he
began to sing:
"We'll be so happy, we'll always sing,
If we remember one little thing,
A little kiss each morning, a little kiss each night.
Who cares if hard luck may be ahead ..."
But that was one song Rudy Bronson never finished. Jean stopped it
with her lips.
"I've loved you from the moment I first saw you," he whispered.
"That's why I sang to you that night at school. I was just a
freshman--hardly even that, for I had flunked--so I just sang and ran
and never suspected that you had heard."
"You--it was you, Rudy?" Jean gasped.
He nodded. "And I sang to you after you'd left at the Laconia."
"I remember," she sighed happily. "I came back, but you were gone.
We seem to have always missed each other----"
"But never again, dear," Rudy assured her, "because--
"You are my one inspiration,
You've changed my life from the start.
I need you, believe me, I need you,
I'll be blue when we two are apart----"
THE END