“You mustn’t feel that away, ma. I’m doin’ it to help you.”
“I do’ want no sich help. I’d ruther starve.”
Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner.
“Kit,” her mother went on, “dey’s somep’n I ain’t nevah tol’ you dat I’m goin’ to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis’ Jones’s lots to see me befo’ we moved hyeah, an’ he’s been talkin’ ’bout a good many things to me.” She hesitated. “He say dat I ain’t noways ma’ied to my po’ husban’, dat a pen’tentiary sentence is de same as a divo’ce, an’ if Be’y should live to git out, we’d have to ma’y ag’in. I wouldn’t min’ dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be’y’s age dey ain’t much chanst of his livin’ to git out, an’ hyeah I’ll live all dis time alone, an’ den have no one to tek keer o’ me w’en I git ol’. He wants me to ma’y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo’ fathah; he’s my only one. But Joe, he’s gone, an’ ef yo go, befo’ Gawd I’ll tell Tawm Gibson yes.”
The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. “Why, it’ll be splendid. He’s such a nice man, an’ racehorse men ’most always have money. Why don’t you marry him, ma? Then I’d feel that you was safe an’ settled, an’ that you wouldn’t be lonesome when the show was out of town.”
“You want me to ma’y him an’ desert yo’ po’ pa?”
“I guess what he says is right, ma. I don’t reckon we’ll ever see pa again an’ you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now.”
Her mother dropped her head in her hands. “All right,” she said, “I’ll do it; I’ll ma’y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen’s gone. Po’ Be’y, po’ Be’y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he’p you to baih what you’ll fin’.” And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her.
Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. “Poor ma,” she said, “an’ poor pa. But I know, an’ I know it’s for the best.”
On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of “Martin’s Blackbirds.”
When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness.
“I’m glad you came early, Kitty,” she remarked, “for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He’ll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don’t see him before then, wait, and don’t get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite.”
When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with everyone else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important.
“Mornin’, Mr. Smith, mornin’, Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?”
He shot every word out of his mouth as if the aftertaste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit.
Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her.
“Who’s that?” he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone.
“Well, don’t snap her head off. It’s a girlfriend of mine that wants a place,” said Hattie. She was the only one who would brave Martin.
“Humph. Let her wait. I ain’t got no time to hear anyone now. Get yourselves in line, you all who are on to that first chorus, while I’m getting into my sweatshirt.”
He disappeared behind a screen, whence he emerged arrayed, or only half arrayed, in a thick absorbing shirt and a thin pair of woollen trousers. Then the work began. The man was indefatigable. He was like the spirit of energy. He was in every place about the stage at once, leading the chorus, showing them steps, twisting some awkward girl into shape, shouting, gesticulating, abusing the pianist.
“Now, now,” he would shout, “the left foot on that beat. Bah, bah, stop! You walk like a lot of tin soldiers. Are your joints rusty? Do you want oil? Look here, Taylor, if I didn’t know you, I’d take you for a truck. Pick up your feet, open your mouths, and move, move, move! Oh!” and he would drop his head in despair. “And to think that I’ve got to do something with these things in two weeks—two weeks!” Then he would turn to them again with a sudden reaccession of eagerness. “Now, at it again, at it again! Hold that note, hold it! Now whirl, and on the left foot. Stop that music, stop it! Miss Coster, you’ll learn that step in about a thousand years, and I’ve got nine hundred and ninety-nine years and fifty weeks less
