THE UNDERGROUND WIRES
The sign on the door of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building
bore the legend, in plain black letters:
VICTOR WELDON
Theatrical Manager
Suite 1239 was really two small rooms, an outer and an inner office. The
outer office, overlooking busy Broadway, which seethed and simmered its
hurrying crowds far below, was divided into two parts by a railing. On
one side two long benches served as havens of rest for weary stage-folk
in search of engagements. Ever and anon one, two, or even three
players, perhaps chorus girls, perhaps actors, perhaps character women,
would enter timidly, look around the office as though expecting the
imperial Jove to hurl thunderbolts at them for their presumption in thus
invading the sacred precincts, and then tremblingly ask the red-haired
stenographer on the other side of the rail:
"Is Mr. Weldon engaging any one?"
And the red-haired stenographer, invariably without looking up from her
machine, would reply:
"Nothing doing to-day."
Sometimes this routine would vary a trifle, in case Mr. Weldon, for
reasons of his own, wished to have his office appear like a busy mart.
Then the stenographer would say:
"Mr. Weldon is very busy now, but if you want to wait, perhaps you can
see him."
This left-handed invitation, containing only the slightest ray of hope
that perhaps the great manager would engage some one for something, was
invariably pounced upon eagerly, for actors undergoing that sad daily
routine known as "making the rounds," knew to their sorrow that
invitations even to sit down and wait were few and far between. The
"Call to-morrow" slogan was the more usual excuse in getting rid of
applicants. In a profession as overcrowded as the theatrical business
there are thirty applicants for every possible position, but still the
unsuccessful ones keep on "making the rounds" on the chance that sooner
or later they will be engaged.
Mr. Weldon's private reasons for wishing his outer office to be filled
at certain times possibly had something to do with the fact that on
these occasions certain smartly dressed, prosperous men called on
business and were instantly admitted to the inner office. Then the
stenographer, having had her cues, would drop some casual remark about
"The backer of the new show," whereupon the professionals would become
more alert at the prospect of "Something doing." Of course, conversely,
the mysterious "backers" were impressed by the stage setting of an outer
office of players looking for engagements from the great Mr. Weldon.
Contrary to the popular idea, based mainly on the comic weeklies,
theatrical backers or "angels" are comparatively rare. Therefore, Victor
Weldon's line of procedure since Mrs. Dainton had abruptly closed her
American tour because of the illness of her Pomeranian pup, had been
exceedingly uncertain. He had planned various productions on his own
account, and he had endeavored unsuccessfully to interest certain
financial gentlemen of the Wall Street district in the merits of two or
three plays he had read. One of them in particular, a simple little
comedy of peasant life in Germany, with two or three songs, had greatly
impressed him. It was of Viennese origin, skillfully translated and
adapted, but preserving the Viennese atmosphere and characters. Entitled
"The Village Girl," the central role was that of a peasant girl who fell
in love with a prince when the latter was hunting in disguise as a mere
woodsman. Afterwards, meeting him at the state ball face to face in his
gorgeous uniform, she, by renouncing her love for him because of his
rank and title, ultimately led the old Emperor to relent and give his
consent to their marriage.
"Good plot," murmured Weldon, after reading it in his private office.
"The old stuff like this always goes with the public. There's a plot
that must succeed, because it has never been known to fail. I can
produce this play and make a barrel of money if I can only find a
backer. I wonder if I couldn't rope Gordon in on this?"
Which explains why Sanford Gordon had already heard of the play at the
time he renewed his acquaintance with Martha, and further explains the
fact that three days later he was closeted with Weldon in the inner
private office of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building.
"It will cost about twenty thousand cold, before we ring up the
curtain," explained Weldon, skillfully calculating with the aid of a
pencil and a pad of paper. "It will take about seven thousand for the
production, including costumes and uniforms. Everything is Viennese this
season, so we must get the correct atmosphere. Advertising and printing
may take up two or three thousand more, and then we'll probably have to
guarantee at least twenty-five hundred to the theater we select. I'd
like to get a classy theater like the Globe, where they have ushers in
English military uniforms, and society people always go there because
some one tipped them off that it was _the_ society theater of New York.
But it might take a little more money to get the Globe."
"Get the Globe by all means," said Gordon. "A few thousand more or less
mean nothing if the thing is a hit, and if it is a failure, I guess I
can stand the loss quite as well."
Victor Weldon sprang to his feet excitedly. The "roping in" had been
easier than he anticipated, for Sanford Gordon, in spite of his
propensity for squandering wealth in certain directions, belonged to the
category of "wise people." No one ever wasted postage to send him
green-goods catalogues, and Weldon had been extremely doubtful of his
ability to get Gordon as a backer, although, of course, he had enjoyed
unlimited opportunities to win his confidence while acting as Mrs.
Dainton's manager.
"It's the chance of a lifetime," Weldon thought to himself as he clasped
Gordon's hand to bind the bargain.
"I'll have the necessary legal papers drawn up by my lawyer," explained
Gordon. "The money will be deposited with the Commercial Trust Company
to-morrow morning. You will handle this production exactly as though it
is your own--with one exception, my dear Weldon."
"What is that?" asked Weldon, apprehensively.
"You will engage for the leading role a young lady I will designate--"
"Ah, now I understand--" began Weldon, smiling.
"--who will have no inkling whatever of the fact that I am the backer of
this show. In fact, no one must know that I am furnishing the money.
Furthermore, at any time I see fit--if, for instance, the young lady
cannot, in my judgment, play the part satisfactorily--I reserve the
right to stop the whole production _instantly_, merely paying the
necessary bills. Do you understand?"
"But you wouldn't close the show if it's a hit, would you?" demanded
Weldon.
"I'm not likely to close the show at all," he laughed. "But I have
reasons of my own for reserving that right. Otherwise, however, you are
the manager, owner, producer and director. Do as you please, my dear
Weldon, but remember the terms of our compact."
"I am not likely to forget them," cried Weldon, enthusiastically. "But,"
he added nervously, "can the young lady you wish me to engage really act
the part?"
"I don't know and I don't care," responded Gordon. "The fact remains
that she is going to play the part, and if she doesn't know how to act,
teach her. That's all."
Weldon shook his head sadly.
"I had hoped, after my experience, Mr. Gordon, that I was through with
those bloomers where they try to force an unknown on the public," he
sighed. "But I know you too well to try and argue that a well-known
actress of reputation would help the piece and perhaps make it a hit."
Gordon picked up his silk hat and balanced it with one hand while he
took his cane and gloves from the desk.
"It is immaterial to me, Weldon, whether the piece is a hit or not," he
said carelessly. "Of course, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that it
proves a success. But I won't shed any tears if it isn't. Like the
respected founders of the New Theater, I am not producing this play to
make money. I am simply endeavoring to give a certain young lady a
chance to play a star part in a Broadway theater. If she has the merit
to succeed, so much the better, for her sake and for yours. But
personally I don't give a damn--so long as I pull the strings."