IN THE GREEN-ROOM
Time: Three months later.
"Half hour! Half hour!"
The resonant cry of the call-boy, making the rounds of the
dressing-rooms of the Globe Theater, penetrated to the great empty
green-room, immediately adjoining the star's dressing-room. Downstairs,
from the musicians' room, came the sounds of the scraping of violin bows
across the strings, the occasional toot of the French horn or the
preliminary notes from a flute. Through the green-baize doors leading to
the stage came the sounds of shifting scenery as the stage hands set the
first act of "The Village Maid." A curtain was half drawn across the
entrance to the adjoining star's room, behind which the faithful Lizzie
of the boarding-house, now transformed into a real maid for an actress,
was busily engaged preparing the toilette articles and the costumes of
Miss Martha Farnum, actress.
Messenger boy 735, his diminutive figure almost hidden beneath a
gigantic box of flowers, was escorted through the baize doors by old
Pete, the back-door watchman.
"Put 'em down there, sonny," directed Pete, pointing toward a couch in
the green-room. "And then vamoose quick. I got to watch the door, 'cause
Miss Farnum ain't come in yet."
Number 735 deposited the flowers as directed, carefully cut the strings,
opened the box, and was in the act of breaking off a fine American
Beauty when Lizzie fortunately caught sight of him from the
dressing-room.
"Here, you thief. Don't you dare," she cried.
"I only wanted one, lady," replied 735. "Gee, if I was an actress with
all them blooms, I'd be glad to slip one of them to a kid who's going to
sit up in the gallery and applaud your old show."
"Are you going to see the play?" asked Lizzie.
"Betcher life. A man give me a ticket and four bits to sit in the
gallery and clap everything."
"What--everything?" queried Lizzie.
"Well, everything our leader does. There's forty of us kids, all got
gallery tickets free and fifty cents on the side. And say, when Miss
Farnum comes on the stage, you bet she'll hear us yell. We got orders to
raise de roof den."
"You awful boy," cried Lizzie, genuinely shocked. "Here, take the rose,
but don't tell any one about your free tickets. Miss Farnum won't care
to have any one know the audience is paid to clap her."
"Aw, quit kidding me," responded 735, moving toward the stage. "Why, we
sees 'most all the New York shows that way for nothing. We get paid to
clap, even if the show's rotten. Don't try to kid me, baby."
"It's wonderful what you learn when you go on the stage," murmured the
horrified Lizzie, after she had chased 735 into the darker regions of
the stage. "I wonder what's keeping Miss Farnum?" she added
thoughtfully, as she returned to the dressing-room.
Weldon, clad in immaculate evening clothes, and accompanied by an
unobtrusive young chap wearing a dinner coat, a gray vest, a gray tie
and a small derby, strolled back behind the scenes to make sure
everything was all right for the opening. This was really Weldon's most
ambitious attempt. For years he had served in a business capacity with
many stars, and occasionally he had produced things on his own account,
but never before had his bank-roll assumed proportions which would
justify him in leasing the exclusive Globe Theater. If the new
production made good it would be the making of him as a manager as well.
Consequently he was in delightful spirits.
His companion was a trifle more subdued, for upon his somewhat boyish
face there was a cloud of anxiety. He was keen, alert, almost
deferential in his attitude toward the manager, but a certain
experienced air suggested that behind his youthful appearance there was
dynamic energy and a fund of vitality which might burst forth at any
moment. He was Phil Hummer, the press agent of the Globe Theater, a
former newspaper man who, as he often expressed it, "quit writing for
the papers because he found he could make more money as a press agent."
For weeks he had been assiduously informing the public, through such
newspaper mediums as he could persuade to print his effusions, of the
importance of Miss Martha Farnum's approaching stellar debut--for in
the new play, be it known, Martha was being "starred."
A Broadway star! How often have you read of the wonderful luck of some
obscure chorus girl, called upon in an emergency to play the leading
role, and next day proclaimed a star! Pretty fiction it is. Once in a
while it happens in real life, but very seldom. It is the alluring tales
of the sudden elevation of choristers which attract and fascinate the
beginner. The oft-told story of how Edna May rose from the ranks and
became a Casino star over-night, has served as the guiding beacon in the
life story of many a chorus girl seeking for fame; alas! too often in
vain.
"Ready to-night for the stellar debut of Miss Martha Farnum," cried
Weldon, enthusiastically. "To-night is the night that wins or loses
all."
In clear defiance of the printed rules of the Fire Department young Mr.
Hummer carefully lighted a cigarette and observed carelessly: "Can't
see how any one loses unless it's Miss Farnum."
"Not lose?" repeated Weldon. "Why, man, haven't I rented the theater for
six weeks on a guarantee, to say nothing of engaging the company and
paying for the most expensive scenic production of the season? With a
new Paris gown for every act? If Miss Farnum doesn't make good, where am
I?"
"Exactly where you were three months ago," said Hummer.
"Nothing of the sort--" began Weldon, when Hummer, with a warning
gesture, held his finger to his lips and nodded toward the dressing-room
where Lizzie was preparing for the coming of her mistress.
"Cut it, Weldon," he whispered meaningly. "I know it's not your money,
so what's the use?"
"Not my money? Don't I pay you your salary?"
"Certainly; but I know, and every one else in the company guesses, that
you are only the figurehead."
"The idea!" sputtered Weldon, pompously. "Don't the bills read: 'Victor
Weldon presents Miss Farnum'?--_presents_, mind you."
Hummer stepped closer a bit, puffed at his cigarette, and motioned
toward the dressing-room.
"She's the meal ticket," he added.
"You mean Miss Farnum?"
"Exactly. She found the angel, not you. If he withdrew his support
to-night, you couldn't keep this thing going thirty minutes."
Weldon dropped into a chair and asked weakly:
"How did you find out?"
"The day you engaged me to incite public interest in your star, I found
out who the angel was. I hadn't been hanging around the Casino for
nothing. Half a dozen of the newspaper boys know all about his
infatuation for her."
Victor Weldon smiled weakly. "Every one said you were good at guessing
things," he remarked. "But listen, Phil. Not a word of this to any one.
Even Miss Farnum doesn't know how things really stand."
Hummer whistled.
"She don't know Gordon is putting up the money?"
Weldon shook his head.
"And she thinks it is honest recognition of real merit?"
Weldon said nothing.
"My word, what a good story, and I can't print it," ejaculated Hummer,
turning toward the door that led behind the boxes to the front of the
house. Just as he was about to open it, Gordon pushed it ajar with one
quick stroke of his powerful arm, and strode into the green-room.
"Where's Miss Farnum?" he asked brusquely. "Oh, I thought you were
Weldon," he added, turning abruptly from Hummer.
"This is Mr. Hummer, our press representative," explained Weldon, coming
forward eagerly.
"Ah, the press agent? Very good," responded Gordon, carelessly turning
his back on Hummer.
"Let us say, rather, inciter of public interest," explained Hummer.
"Paid to get fiction into the papers, and to suppress facts."
Gordon turned toward him curiously. "Indeed! And what do you suppress?"
he asked.
"Well," drawled Hummer, "who is furnishing the money for Miss Farnum's
starring venture, for one thing, especially as she doesn't know
herself." And with a light laugh Hummer went "in front" by the passage
leading behind the boxes.
"See here, Weldon," said Gordon, decisively, "it is now almost eight
o'clock. When do you ring up the curtain?"
"At twenty minutes past," replied Weldon.
"Then understand me thoroughly. You will not ring up that curtain until
I say so. Understand me--_until I say so_."
Gordon's tone clearly indicated something unusual. "What do you mean?"
asked Weldon.
"Unless things go my way first, that curtain will never go up on this
production," said Gordon, tensely. "Oh, don't worry," as he saw the
other's face wrinkle. "I'll see that you personally don't lose anything
by it. But if I am to pay the piper for this crazy starring scheme, I
want some return for my money. Have the orchestra ring in as usual and
play the overture. Have all the people ready in their costumes, and
then, just before Martha Farnum steps upon that stage, I want to see her
here. Do you understand?"
"I didn't before," answered Weldon, meaningly, "but I am just beginning
to now."
Alone, Gordon clenched his hands nervously.
"I've given her everything she has wanted for the past three months," he
murmured, "even this latest plaything--a theater and a company of her
own--but I think we'll have a settlement to-night, my dear Martha; a
little clearer understanding before the curtain rises on my latest
folly."