A HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL
Martha walked home from the theater. It was after the matinee, in early
winter, the period of the year when upper Broadway is the most wonderful
street in all the world. Crowds of smartly dressed women and
well-groomed men surged to and fro; taxicabs and private limousines
darted in every direction; the clanging of the gongs of the street-cars
and the shrill cries of newsboys added to the general confusion; and the
lights of a thousand electric signs glared brilliantly in the
semi-darkness of early nightfall. Shop windows tempted the passer-by
most alluringly, and Martha gazed longingly into many of them, but shook
her head resolutely at the mere notion of purchasing anything. This was
New York. This was life. At last she, Martha Farnum, an insignificant
atom from a remote country town, was on Broadway, actually a part of
Broadway life, for she was the second girl from the end in the new
Casino production, "The Pet of Paris," and for more than four months now
had been thrilled, fascinated and enthralled by the lure of the stage.
During all these weeks, she had lived quietly and regularly at Mrs.
Anderson's boarding-house. Clayton had met her at the Grand Central
Station when she arrived in New York and had taken her to the place,
introducing her to Mrs. Anderson in words which she had resented, though
she had realized at the time that he was quite justified in his demands.
"Miss Farnum will be in your charge," he had explained. "It is
understood that she is to do exactly as you direct in all things. She is
not to accept dinner invitations from any one, she is to come straight
home after each performance, and she is to go nowhere unless you
accompany her."
These galling restrictions were now, however, beginning to prove
irksome. Youth cannot be chained too tightly without tugging at its
bonds. So it was with Martha after four months of the free-and-easy
associations behind the scenes, where even the best behaved girl will
talk of the little supper at which she was a guest the night before. In
fact, the hard work of rehearsals and the unusual hours which the stage
requires its people to adopt, often made Martha wish that she, too,
could have the freedom and the privileges which the other girls in "The
Pet of Paris" enjoyed.
Consequently, when she arrived home this particular afternoon and threw
herself into a large easy-chair, utterly tired, and just a little
regretful that she had to dine in the somewhat gloomy, old-fashioned
house, it was not with the greatest pleasure in the world that she
prepared to answer to the usual cross-examination of well-meaning but
sharp-tongued Aunt Jane.
"Did you come straight home after the matinee?" inquired the latter.
"Of course," answered Martha, sleepily. "There was such a crowded house.
And so many encores, I am dead tired."
"You seem much later than usual?"
"Now, Aunt Jane, don't ask so many questions. It's Martha this and
Martha that and 'Martha, where have you been?' all day long, until I am
beginning to get sick and tired of it."
"It is all for your own good, and you know whose instructions I am
carrying out."
"I know," pouted Martha, regretfully. "But don't you think he is a
little unreasonable? How could a bit of supper after the show hurt any
one? Other girls go."
"Has your 'unknown admirer' been asking you to dine with him?" inquired
Mrs. Anderson, sharply.
"My 'unknown admirer'?" repeated Martha, blankly. "Whom do you mean?"
"The one who sent you these flowers," cried Aunt Jane, bringing the box
to Martha, who gazed in surprise at the splendid roses.
"More flowers, and from a man I have never spoken to," exclaimed Martha,
reading the note.
At this moment Lizzie opened the door from the hall and entered.
"If you please, ma'am, that messenger boy is here again," she said. "He
wants to see Miss Farnum herself."
"It's the boy who brought the flowers," explained Aunt Jane. "He has a
note he won't give to any one but you."
"How exciting," cried Martha. "Do have him in."
Messenger No. 109 winked his eye maliciously at Mrs. Anderson, and
tipped his cap respectfully to Martha, whom, from the directions
regarding his note, he evidently deemed a person of some importance.
Martha opened the envelope, and a yellow-backed bill fluttered to the
floor. Mrs. Anderson gasped, Lizzie stared, and the messenger boy
politely picked it up and returned it to Martha. It was a hundred-dollar
bill.
"Is dere any answer, lady?" inquired 109 stolidly.
Martha hesitated. She looked at the envelope again, then looked at the
piece of paper which had enclosed the hundred-dollar bill.
"No," she said simply. "Yes--wait a second."
The boy paused at the door, and Martha whispered a few words into his
ear. "Do you understand?" she asked.
"Betcher life," cried 109. "I'm on, lady, I'm on." And with a merry
whistle and another wink at the excited Aunt Jane, 109 made a dignified
and breezy exit, followed by the surprised Lizzie.
[Illustration: "MORE FLOWERS AND FROM A MAN I HAVE NEVER SPOKEN TO."]
"Well," said Mrs. Anderson, grimly, sitting with her arms folded, "I'm
waiting."
"Waiting for what, Aunt Jane?" inquired Martha.
"For an explanation of this extraordinary scene. Who sent you that
money, and what do you intend to do with it?"
Martha half laughed at her earnestness.
"I can't tell you just now, Aunt Jane," she said.
"But I must know. When Mr. Clayton brought you to me, he asked me to
look out for you, and I mean to do so."
"And so you have. You've been everything that you could be, dear and
thoughtful, but it's got so I'm the laughing-stock of the entire
company. I daren't take a step out of this house but you must be fully
informed about everything I do and everywhere I go."
"Mr. Clayton wishes to know."
"If Mr. Clayton wishes to know, why doesn't he come and ask me? He
hasn't been here more than twice in the past four months. Am I to blame
if I wish some innocent amusement? He never thinks of me, and when some
one else does seem to take an interest in my affairs, and show me a
little attention, am I to blame if I like it?"
"You are to blame for accepting hundred-dollar bills."
"But I haven't accepted them yet. I haven't been able to return them
before this--"
"What? There were others?"
"For the past six weeks a messenger boy has brought me a note every
Saturday. Each letter contained a hundred-dollar bill."
"Great heavens!" Aunt Jane collapsed on the sofa. "And wasn't there any
name signed to the letters?"
"Only the words 'From your unknown admirer.' I could not return the
money, for I didn't know his name--until now. This letter I have just
received gives his name."
"Who is it, dearie?" inquired Aunt Jane, confidentially, coming to
Martha's side. "Perhaps I know him."
"His name is--but there, it doesn't matter." Martha turned away and put
both letter and hundred-dollar bill into her handbag.
"It does matter," cried Aunt Jane, indignation and curiosity battling
for supremacy. "This is a very serious thing. If a strange man sends a
young girl hundreds of dollars, why, he must be crazy about you. Did he
send you anything else?"
"A few trifles--some jewelry."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
"What nonsense," laughed Martha. "He has only asked me to dinner."
"You must not go, Martha," said Aunt Jane, decisively. "You know Mr.
Clayton wouldn't like you to take dinner with other gentlemen."
"Then why doesn't Mr. Clayton take me to dinner himself?" she cried
passionately.
"Mr. Clayton has other things to do."
"Then he must not blame me if I dine with some one else."
"I refuse to let you go, Martha."
"And how will you keep me, please?" demanded Martha, petulantly, not
because she really desired to break her covenant with her self-appointed
backer, but merely to see what steps he might take if she gave evidence
of breaking her parole. "Will you lock all the doors and keep me a
prisoner?"
"Never mind," replied Aunt Jane. "Is this unknown admirer coming here to
see you, or did you send him word to meet you on the street corner?"
"I sent him word to come here," replied Martha, indignantly. "I have no
need to meet him elsewhere. I have nothing to be ashamed of."
[Illustration: "I REFUSE TO LET YOU GO MARTHA."]
"Very well, then," retorted Aunt Jane, going toward the library, as the
back parlor was ambitiously named. "I'll telephone Mr. Clayton and say I
wash my hands of you. If he wants to keep an eye on you, he will have to
do it himself after to-night. I'll send for him at once."
"You'll send for him?" cried Martha, gladly.
"I'll telephone him to come as fast as a taxi can bring him," declared
Mrs. Anderson. "I guess that will bring you to your senses."
"I hope it does," murmured Martha, softly, burying her face in the
fragrant flowers. And to herself she added: "I wonder if he'll come?"
"Come right in, Mr. Zinsheimer," cried the shrill voice of Pinkie
Lexington in the outer hall. "I saw you clear across the street and
hurried down the back way," she continued, leading him into the parlor.
"Flossie has just gone out, but maybe, if you wait, she'll come back
soon."
"Well, I don't mind if I do," declared Marcus Zinsheimer, shedding his
great fur coat and peering curiously at Martha, who busied herself with
her flowers by the piano. "Who's that?" he added softly.
"That's Martha Farnum," whispered Pinkie. "She's at the Casino and that
haughty--but I'm going to be friends with her."
"As though two chorus girls could be friends," interrupted the knowing
"Marky."
"I'm _not_ a chorus girl," corrected Pinkie. "And anyhow, she has a very
wealthy admirer who might star her, and if he does I'd like to be in her
company. See?"
"Oho! That's the racket, eh?" laughed "Marky." "You may be right. A ton
of money, an ounce of sense, a pretty girl and a love-sick angel have
made many a star in the theatrical firmament."
"And while it lasts, I might just as well be in the push," added Pinkie,
wisely. "Gawd knows I need the money."
"Marky" surveyed Pinkie carefully.
"Why is it you are always so hard up, Pinkie?" he inquired. "You ought
to be able to get a good engagement, but I say, there ain't much style
about the way you dress. What I like is style--real flashy style--lots
of color and ginger."
"I'm sorry I'm so poor," sobbed Pinkie, plaintively. "But I can't help
it, Mr. Zinsheimer. You know the company stranded and I haven't had
anything to do since. It's very kind of you to be so considerate, Mr.
Zinsheimer. Would you mind if I call you 'Feathers'? That's what I
always call you to Flossie."
"Well, if you call me 'Feathers,' I won't call you _down_," replied
"Marky," laughing laboriously at his own joke. "But now I'll tell you
what we'll do. Flossie's out and won't know anything about it, so let's
you and me jump into a taxicab and go down to some of the shops. We can
just make it before six o'clock, and I'll buy you a lot of fancy things.
Eh, what?"
"Eh, what?" almost shouted Pinkie. "Do you mean it?"
"Do I mean it?" insisted "Marky." "Sure. I've got a taxi waiting
outside. Will you come?"
Pinkie rose majestically to the occasion. Drying her eyes, and looking
anxiously at the parlor clock for fear that it might already be time for
Flossie to return before she could get into the taxicab, she grabbed her
coat, without even waiting to get a hat, seized "Marky" by the arm and
dragged him toward the hallway.
"Will I?" she repeated. "Watch me, kid."
[Illustration: "I'M SORRY I'M SO POOR" SOBBED PINKIE.]