The Little Warrior

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!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1.

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.