DOROTHY AND THE MANAGER
Dorothy sank into a chair near the door. Two or three important-looking
women were moving about restlessly, awaiting their turn to pass beyond
the portal guarded by a stout youth, and face the manager in his private
rooms. Others, younger and more timid, sat quite still in their chairs,
as did Dorothy, and the girl could imagine that they were silently
praying for success in the prospective interview with one who might
decide their fate. Dorothy seemed beyond thinking consistently about her
own circumstances; she just sat there and waited. The youth at the door
of the private office looked at her sharply. Doubtless he was wondering
whether she had an appointment, or whether she was one to be allowed to
enter out of her turn because of some “pull.”
It seemed to Dorothy that the very place rang with an appeal for place,
for position—for opportunity, although not a word was spoken. But the
look on the faces of those waiting spoke louder than words.
Finally a girl in a red hat went in and came out so quickly that the
others looked at her curiously. She murmured something that showed she
had been treated with scant ceremony. Then a very stout woman, wearing an
enormous veil brushed past Dorothy. She was not escorted in by the boy,
but dashed past him as the girl in red came out. Then, when the woman
with the excess of avoirdupois came out, the boy stepped up to Dorothy.
“Your turn,” he said kindly. Then it occurred to Dorothy that every one
so far had been kind to her. Were these people, that others had spoken of
so slightingly, not all respectful and polite to any one who seemed to
merit such consideration? She felt that they were not half as black as
they had been painted.
The next moment the anxious girl was in the private office of the
manager. It was a small room, but not gloomy in spite of the fact that it
was in the midst of a darkened theatre. A fine rug was on the floor and
there were a few well-chosen pictures on the walls, the electric lights
showing them off to advantage.
While the manager, who sat in a big revolving chair, looked over some
papers on his desk before turning to Dorothy, she had an opportunity to
see that there hung before him what were evidently family photographs.
One was of a little girl and another of a youth. Surely, she thought, a
man who had time to look at his children’s pictures during business hours
could not be so very harsh because his time was taken up by a girl.
“Well?” asked the manager suddenly as he wheeled around in his chair,
wiping his glasses carefully but not seeming to look at Dorothy.
She caught her breath with a gasp. The moment had come. Her heart was
beating painfully.
“I—I came to—to ask if you—if you have on your books the name of a young
lady—Miss Octavia Travers?” she managed to stammer out. “A young lady
with the ‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ company, I believe.”
“Travers,” repeated the manager thoughtfully, “Travers? Seems to me I
have. Is she your sister?”
“Not exactly, but I have always regarded her as such—we have been very
close friends all our lives.”
“Not a very long time at that,” remarked the manager with a smile. “But
what is it you want to know about her?”
“To get her address.”
“Let me see, I’ll look it up—but if she is such a close friend of yours
why didn’t she send you her address? She knew where she was going to be,”
and he spoke pointedly.
Tears welled into Dorothy’s eyes, and she felt that she could not trust
herself to speak. The manager looked critically at her. Then he laid
aside the book he had picked up to consult.
“Run away?” he asked.
Dorothy nodded.
“Well, don’t feel so badly about it, my girl. We’ll see if we can’t find
her for you. But first you had better tell me the story. It will help
greatly. You see when we engage a girl and she happens to prove
satisfactory we have no excuse for dismissing her unless she might be
under age—and then her parents—of course—”
“But I must keep the entire matter from her parents,” interrupted
Dorothy. “I must find Tavia myself and I know when I do she will listen
to me and it will be all right again.”
Dorothy was visibly trembling. The manager folded his arms and looked at
her thoughtfully.
“You’re quite a young girl to undertake this,” he said finally. “But I
like your spirit, and I’m going to help you. I tell you, my child, the
stage is no place for a young person who has had no experience with the
ways of the world. I never encourage a young girl to go on the stage.
There are plenty of older characters whom we can get and then there is
less danger. But this girl you are looking for—was she about your
height?”
“Yes, with very brown hair,” replied Dorothy. “And such lovely light
brown eyes.”
“Let me see,” and he consulted the book again. Dorothy waited anxiously,
as he turned page after page. Then he stopped. “Yes, here it is,” he
said. “Christina Travers. That must be the girl. They rarely give the
name just right.”
“Yes, she might say Christina,” admitted Dorothy. “The girls at school
called her ‘Chris’ for short.”
“Well, she is with the ‘L. R. S.’ company—I beg your pardon, I mean the
‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ company. We get in the habit of abbreviating it.
It’s a light thing we put on for a filler. I’m afraid it isn’t doing any
too well, which, however, may make it easier for you to induce your
friend to give it up.”
“Oh, I hope I can!” and Dorothy left her seat and came to stand beside
the manager’s desk. She had lost nearly all her fear and nervousness now.
“They play in Rochester to-night,” went on the manager consulting his
list. “Then they go to Rockdale—”
“Only one night in Rochester?” asked Dorothy, showing some surprise and
disappointment.
“Well, one night of that I fancy will be enough for any place,” was the
manager’s laughing reply. “However, they may stay over to-morrow. But
Rockdale is only a few miles from there. You could easily catch them at
Rockdale. Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” and Dorothy turned away.
“If I can now, or later, just let me know,” went on the manager. Then he
wished her good-bye and turned back to his desk.
Dorothy’s cheeks were flushed when she stepped up to Nat in the lobby
where he was watching the men putting in place the photographs of the
next week’s performers. He seemed to have forgotten all about his cousin.
“Oh, is that you?” he asked, and he looked like some one suddenly
awakened from a dream. “I do believe if I stood here much longer I’d be
put into a frame by mistake. How did you make out?”
“You mustn’t ask,” answered Dorothy pleasantly. “You see I can’t quite
report on it yet.”
“Oh, very well. I was only wondering—”
“But you mustn’t wonder. You agreed to act as my escort and so you must
be content with that. I can only tell you that I am perfectly satisfied
with the interview I had.”
“Which means that our little friend Tavia is not with any company. Well,
I’m glad of it. I always did give her credit for having better sense. But
you see, Doro, you are such a romancer that you sometimes make stories
out of dreams. But I must say you do look ten years younger. That manager
must have been a nice fellow.”
“He was,” answered Dorothy, glad that Nat, as usual, had jumped to a
conclusion and decided the matter of the interview for himself, leaving
her free to go on without contradicting or making any explanations. It
was so much better under the circumstances, she thought, that not even
Nat should know the truth.
But just how she was going to carry out the remainder of her task
secretly she could not quite determine. However, she had now become
accustomed to doing each part as it presented itself, without planning
further into the future, and, in that manner, she hoped to be able to
proceed until the last link in the chain of her search had been
completed.
“We must get the souvenir cards,” Nat reminded her, as they came to a
store with the pretty-pictured varieties in the window. “I’ll just buy a
pack of mixed ones—it will save time.”
But Dorothy was not thinking of souvenir cards. Thoughts came to her of
the play at Rochester, with Tavia as one of the characters—Tavia who must
be timid amid her new and unaccustomed surroundings in spite of her
apparent recklessness—yes, Tavia would be much frightened at what she had
done, Dorothy was sure of it, when the girl, so far away from home and
friends found herself before a critical audience in a theatre.
“If I could only reach her before another night,” Dorothy thought, “but
how can it be managed?”
The boys would start for home to-morrow, and of course Dorothy would have
to go with them. Something would surely happen—_must_ surely happen
before then to help her, Dorothy thought, with a confidence which great
emergencies sometimes inspire.
“Now I suppose,” remarked Nat, as he made his way out of the post-card
store, “if you were to send one of these particularly bright red ones to
Tavia at Dalton she would send one back on the next mail, wishing you a
merry Christmas, for all your trouble. What do you suppose she would say
if she knew of the merry chase that had been going on after her, and all
the places you have been looking for her? And all the while she was as
safe as little Bo-peep.”
“But I don’t intend to send her any cards until she writes me first,”
answered Dorothy. “She owes me an apology for not writing to me.”
“Same here,” said Nat. “I’ll treat her the same way. The saucy little
thing,” he added facetiously, “not to answer our nice long letters. She
ought to be slapped.”
Dorothy laughed at her cousin’s good humor. It was better that he should
take this view of the case than that he should suspect the real facts.
Dorothy glanced at some of the cards as they hurried along back to the
hotel.
“Now there’s one,” pointed out Nat, “that would just suit the
circumstances. A girl doing a song and a smile—that’s the ‘turn’ Tavia
has been doing to you, Doro. We must save that one for her.”
“Yes,” answered Dorothy abstractedly, taking the card in her hand. It was
the picture of a girl in chorus costume, and was enscribed with an
appropriate verse.
“Don’t you see,” explained Nat, “they’ve got everything down to a
post-card basis now. That one is intended to be used in place of making a
party call when a gentleman has blown a girl to a theatrical good time.
She just sends this card back and that suffices for formal thanks.
“Of course it might not just suit our set,” he conceded, “but for those
in the post-card clientele it’s a cinch, as the poet says. I tell you
after a while we will be able to carry on all our business correspondence
with picture postals and not be under the necessity of writing a word.
Great scheme, Nat (patting himself on the left shoulder with his right
hand), get a patent on your new post-card.”
They had now reached the hotel. The veranda was deserted as the hour for
dinner was almost at hand and the guests were dressing. Nat left Dorothy
at the elevator, with a warning to be ready early in the morning. Then he
hurried to where he and Ned were staying.