Part 52 (1/2)
”You know,” he said, stammering a little, for he found a sudden difficulty in controlling his voice. ”You're a dashed good sort!”
”I'm awfully glad you think so.”
There was a silence--as far, at least, as he and she were concerned.
In the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelter they stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to be happening. Some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. The rasping voice of Mr. Goble was making itself heard from the unseen auditorium. These things they sensed vaguely, but they were too occupied with each other to ascertain details.
”What was the name of that place again?” asked Freddie. ”The what-ho-something?”
”The Automat?”
”That's the little chap! We'll go there, shall we?”
”The food's quite good. You go and help yourself out of slot-machines, you know.”
”My favourite indoor sport!” said Freddie with enthusiasm. ”Hullo!
What's up? It sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!”
The voice of the a.s.sistant stage-manager was calling, sharply excited, agitation in every syllable.
”All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! Mr. Goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!”
”Well, cheerio for the present,” said Freddie. ”I suppose I'd better look into this.”
He made his way on to the stage.
III
There is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal of a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connected with it. Softened by the gentle beauty of the Spring weather, Mr. Goble had come to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an excellent temper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day. Five minutes of ”The Rose of America” had sent him back to the normal; and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul. When Wally Mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him a cigar. And when a New York theatrical manager does that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst.
One may find excuses for Mr. Goble. ”The Rose of America” would have tested the equanimity of a far more amiable man: and on Mr. Goble what Otis Pilkington had called its delicate whimsicality jarred profoundly. He had been brought up in the lower-browed school of musical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the opening number and filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the girls in a variety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists to get the laughs. Mr. Goble's idea of a musical piece was something embracing trained seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilled buck-and-wing dancers, with nothing on the stage, from a tree to a lamp-shade, which could not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. The austere legitimateness of ”The Rose of America” gave him a pain in the neck. He loathed plot, and ”The Rose of America” was all plot.
Why, then, had the earthy Mr. Goble consented to a.s.sociate himself with the production of this intellectual play? Because he was subject, like all other New York managers, to intermittent spasms of the idea that the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera. Sometimes, lunching in his favourite corner in the Cosmopolis grill-room, he would lean across the table and beg some other manager to take it from him that the time was ripe for a revival of comic opera--or, more cautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. And the other manager would nod his head and thoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sure as G.o.d made little apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. And then they would stuff themselves with rich food and light big cigars and brood meditatively.
With most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges of conscience, pa.s.s as quickly as they come, and they go back to coining money with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. But Otis Pilkington, happening along with the script of ”The Rose of America”
and the cash to back it, had caught Mr. Goble in the full grip of an attack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latter emerged from the influence. He now regretted his rash act.
”Say, listen,” he said to Wally, his gaze on the stage, his words proceeding from the corner of his mouth, ”you've got to stick around with this show after it opens on the road. We'll talk terms later. But we've got to get it right, don't care what it costs. See?”
”You think it will need fixing?”
Mr. Goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now going through a particularly arid stretch of dialogue.
”Fixing! It's all wrong! It don't add up right! You'll have to rewrite it from end to end.”
”Well, I've got some idea about it. I saw it played by amateurs last summer, you know. I could make a quick job of it, if you want me to.
But will the author stand for it?”
Mr. Goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and twisted it round in Wally's direction.