The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse (top 50 books to read txt) 📗
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Book online «The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse (top 50 books to read txt) 📗». Author P. G. Wodehouse
“I thought you were the little guy who arranged things round here.”
“But he’s got money in the show.”
“Well, if he wants to get any out, he’d better call in somebody to rewrite it. You don’t have to engage me if you don’t want to. But I know I could make a good job of it. There’s just one little twist the thing needs and you would have quite a different piece.”
“What’s that?” enquired Mr Goble casually.
“Oh, just a little … what shall I say?… a little touch of what-d’you-call-it and a bit of thingummy. You know the sort of thing! That’s all it wants.”
Mr Goble gnawed his cigar, baffled.
“You think so, eh?” he said at length.
“And perhaps a suspicion of je-ne-sais-quoi,” added Wally.
Mr Goble worried his cigar, and essayed a new form of attack.
“You’ve done a lot of work for me,” he said. “Good work!”
“Glad you liked it,” said Wally.
“You’re a good kid! I like having you around. I was half thinking of giving you a show to do this Fall. Corking book. French farce. Ran two years in Paris. But what’s the good, if you want the earth?”
“Always useful, the earth. Good thing to have.”
“See here, if you’ll fix up this show for half of one per cent, I’ll give you the other to do.”
“You shouldn’t slur your words so. For a moment I thought you said ‘half of one per cent.’ One and a half of course you really said.”
“If you won’t take half, you don’t get the other.”
“All right,” said Wally. “There are lots of other managers in New York. Haven’t you seen them popping about? Rich, enterprising men, and all of them love me like a son.”
“Make it one per cent,” said Mr Goble, “and I’ll see if I can fix it with Pilkington.”
“One and a half.”
“Oh, damn it, one and a half, then,” said Mr Goble morosely. “What’s the good of splitting straws?”
“Forgotten Sports of the Past—Splitting the Straw. All right. If you drop me a line to that effect, legibly signed with your name, I’ll wear it next my heart. I shall have to go now. I have a date. Good-bye. Glad everything’s settled and everybody’s happy.”
For some moments after Wally had left, Mr Goble sat hunched up in his orchestra-chair, smoking sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever. Living in a little world of sycophants, he was galled by the off-hand way in which Wally always treated him. There was something in the latter’s manner which seemed to him sometimes almost contemptuous. He regretted the necessity of having to employ him. There was, of course, no real necessity why he should have employed Wally. New York was full of librettists who would have done the work equally well for half the money, but, like most managers, Mr Goble had the mental processes of a sheep. “Follow the Girl” was the last outstanding musical success in New York theatrical history: Wally had written it: therefore nobody but Wally was capable of rewriting “The Rose of America.” The thing had for Mr Goble the inevitability of Fate. Except for deciding mentally that Wally had swelled head, there was nothing to be done.
Having decided that Wally had swelled head and not feeling much better, Mr Goble concentrated his attention on the stage. A good deal of action had taken place there during recently concluded business talk, and the unfortunate Finchley was back again, playing another of his scenes. Mr Goble glared at Lord Finchley. He did not like him, and he did not like the way he was speaking his lines.
The part of Lord Finchley was a non-singing role. It was a type part. Otis Pilkington had gone to the straight stage to find an artist, and had secured the not uncelebrated Wentworth Hill, who had come over from London to play in an English comedy which had just closed. The newspapers had called the play thin, but had thought that Wentworth Hill was an excellent comedian. Mr Hill thought so too, and it was consequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellow from the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speeches and a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Hill, quietly but dangerously, stepping to the footlights.
“All wrong!” repeated Mr Goble.
“Really?” Wentworth Hill, who a few years earlier had spent several terms at Oxford University before being sent down for aggravated disorderliness, had brought little away with him from that seat of learning except the Oxford manner. This he now employed upon Mr Goble with an icy severity which put the last touch to the manager’s fermenting state of mind. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me just how you think that part should be played?”
Mr Goble marched down the aisle.
“Speak out to the audience,” he said, stationing himself by the orchestra pit. “You’re turning your head away all the darned time.”
“I may be wrong,” said Mr Hill, “but I have played a certain amount, don’t you know, in pretty good companies, and I was always under the impression that one should address one’s remarks to the person one was speaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. I was taught that that was the legitimate method.”
The word touched off all the dynamite in Mr Goble. Of all things in the theatre he detested most the “legitimate method.” His idea of producing was to instruct the cast to come down to the footlights and hand it to ’em. These people who looked up stage and talked to the audience through the backs of their necks revolted him.
“Legitimate! That’s a hell of a thing to be! Where do you get that legitimate stuff? You aren’t playing Ibsen!”
“Nor am I playing a knockabout vaudeville sketch.”
“Don’t talk back at me!”
“Kindly don’t shout at me! Your voice is unpleasant enough without your raising it.”
Open defiance was a thing which Mr Goble had never encountered before, and for a moment it deprived him of breath. He recovered it, however, almost immediately.
“You’re fired!”
“On the contrary,” said Mr Hill, “I’m resigning.” He drew a green-covered script from his pocket and handed it with an air to the pallid assistant stage-director. Then, more gracefully than ever Freddie Rooke had managed to move downstage under the tuition of Johnson Miller, he moved upstage to the exit. “I trust that you will be able to find someone who will play the part according to your ideas!”
“I’ll find,” bellowed Mr Goble at his vanishing back, “a chorus-man who’ll play it a damned sight better than you!” He waved to the assistant stage-director. “Send the chorus-men on the stage!”
“All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!” shrilled the assistant stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever.
“Mr Goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!”
There was a moment, when the seven male members of “The Rose of America” ensemble lined up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes, when Mr Goble repented of his brave words. An uncomfortable feeling passed across his mind that Fate had called his bluff and that he would not be able to make good. All chorus-men are exactly alike, and they are like nothing else on earth. Even Mr Goble, anxious as he was to overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that in their ranks stood even an adequate Lord Finchley. And then, just as a cold reaction from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceived that Providence had been good to him. There, at the extreme end of the line, stood a young man who, as far as appearance went, was the ideal Lord Finchley,—as far as appearance went, a far better Lord Finchley than the late Mr Hill. He beckoned imperiously.
“You at the end!”
“Me?” said the young man.
“Yes, you. What’s your name?”
“Rooke. Frederick Rooke, don’t you know.”
“You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Eh? Oh, yes, absolutely!”
“Ever played a part before?”
“Part? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, in amateur theatricals, you know, and all that sort of rot.”
His words were music to Mr Goble’s ears. He felt that his Napoleonic action had justified itself by success. His fury left him. If he had been capable of beaming, one would have said that he beamed at Freddie.
“Well, you play the part of Lord Finchley from now on. Come to my office this afternoon for your contract. Clear the stage. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Five minutes later, in the wings, Freddie, receiving congratulations from Nelly Bryant, asserted himself.
“Not the Automat today, I think, what! Now that I’m a jolly old star and all that sort of thing, it can’t be done. Directly this is over we’ll roll round to the Cosmopolis. A slight celebration is indicated, what? Right ho! Rally round, dear heart, rally round!”
The lobby of the Hotel Cosmopolis is the exact center of New York, the spot where at certain hours one is sure of meeting everybody one knows. The first person that Nelly and Freddie saw, as they passed through the swing doors, was Jill. She was seated on the chair by the big pillar in the middle of the hall.
“What ho!” said Freddie. “Waiting for someone?”
“Hullo, Freddie. Yes, I’m waiting for Wally Mason. I got a note from him this morning, asking me to meet him here. I’m a little early. I haven’t congratulated you yet. You’re wonderful!”
“Thanks, old girl. Our young hero is making pretty hefty strides in his chosen profesh, what! Mr Rooke, who appears quite simple and unspoiled by success, replied to our representative’s enquiry as to his future plans that he proposed to stagger into the grill-room and imbibe about eighteen dollars’ worth of lunch. Yes, it is a bit of all right, taking it by and large, isn’t it? I mean to say, the salary, the jolly old salary, you know … quite a help when a fellow’s lost all his money!”
Jill was surprised to observe that the Last of the Rookes was contorting his face in an unsightly manner that seemed to be an attempt at a wink, pregnant with hidden meaning. She took her cue dutifully, though without understanding.
“Oh, yes,” she replied.
Freddie seemed grateful. With a cordial “Cheerio!” he led Nelly off to the grill-room.
“I didn’t know Jill knew Mr Mason,” said Nelly, as they sat down at their table.
“No?” said Freddie absently, running an experienced eye over the bill-of-fare. He gave an elaborate order. “What was that? Oh, absolutely! Jill and I and Wally were children together.”
“How funny you should all be together again like this.”
“Yes. Oh, good Lord!”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing. I meant to send a cable to a pal of mine in England. I’ll send it after lunch.”
Freddie took out his handkerchief, and tied a knot in it. He was slightly ashamed of the necessity of taking such a precaution, but it was better to be on the safe side. His interview with Jill at the theatre had left him with the conviction that there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to cable poor old Derek to forget impending elections and all the rest of it and pop over to America at once. He knew that he would never have the courage to re-open the matter with Jill himself. As an ambassador he was a spent force. If Jill was to be wooed from her mood of intractability, Derek was the only man to do it. Freddie was convinced that, seeing him in person, she would melt and fall into his arms. Too dashed absurd, Freddie felt, two loving hearts being separated like this and all that sort of thing. He replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, relieved, and concentrated himself on the entertainment of Nelly. A simple task, for, the longer he was with this girl, the easier did it seem to talk to her.
Jill, left alone in the lobby, was finding the moments pass quite pleasantly. She liked watching the people as they came in. One or two of the girls of the company fluttered in like birds, were swooped upon by their cavaliers, and fluttered off to the grill-room. The red-headed Babe passed her with a genial nod, and, shortly after, Lois Denham, the willowy recipient of sunbursts from her friend Izzy of the hat-checks, came by in company with a sallow, hawk-faced young man with a furtive eye, whom Jill took—correctly—to be Izzy himself. Lois was looking pale and proud, and from the few words which came to Jill’s ears as they neared her, seemed to be annoyed at having been kept waiting.
It was immediately after this that the swing-doors revolved rather more violently than usual, and Mr Goble burst into view.
There was a
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