She was not popular with librettists, because by the time she had completed a number it was necessary to start plot exposition all over. Her voice was pitched low and was “husky,” the sort of voice that metropolitan show-goers rave about and which a doctor would consider curable by the frequent use (externally) of silver nitrate and a year’s total abstinence from liquor and cigarettes.
On this occasion she dawdled through a number called “Lonely Nights,” which left most of her female auditors helpless, and then, by unanimous request, did the familiar “Where Is My Man Gone?” at a pace that would have permitted her personal pianist to go out and wash his hands between chords.
Miss Moore did not disappear into her dressing room. She first sat down at a table with two men, one a tall, powerful-looking fellow who was evidently the Cozy Club’s manager.
She had two drinks there, then moved to other tables and drank with the customers, many of whom she seemed to know well and a few of whom introduced themselves to her.
The big manager strolled around the room, stopping now and then to speak to an acquaintance or to ask patrons if they were receiving proper attention. He came to the Spaldings’ table.
“Well,” he said to Henry, “everything all right?”
“Fine,” said Henry. “This is my wife, Mr.—”
“Schwartz.”
“Mr. Schwartz,” said Henry. “My name is Travers.”
“Glad to welcome you, Mr. Travers. And Mrs. Travers. How do you like our show?”
“Miss Moore had me almost in tears,” said Mrs. Spalding, now Travers.
“She gets them all, men and women alike,” said Mr. Schwartz. “Well, Mr. Travers, let me know if everything ain’t satisfactory.”
“I wonder,” said Henry, “if we could meet Miss Moore.”
“Sure!” said Mr. Schwartz. “You’ll find her one of the most charming girls you’ve ever come acrost. And democratic. To hear her talk, you’d think she was just one of us. She ain’t left her success go to her head. I’ll bring her over.”
It was after three o’clock when Mr. Schwartz escorted Miss Moore to the Spaldings’ table.
“Marian,” he said, “this is Mrs. Travers and Mr. Travers. They just wanted to meet you before they went home.”
“That’s mighty sweet!” said Miss Moore.
“The pleasure is ours,” replied Henry.
“Of course you have to say that, but it’s mighty sweet just the same. What about a little drink?”
“I was just going to order another bottle of rye.”
“Well, that’s mighty sweet, but if you don’t mind, you drink the rye yourself and Joe’ll get me a special drink out of my own private locker. I bet you didn’t know I’ve got a private locker. A locker for liquor. A liquor locker. Joe gave it to me and he’s mighty sweet.”
Joe (Mr. Schwartz) went out to procure the special drink while a waiter brought Henry his fourth pint of rye.
“Do you live here in New York?” asked Marian.
“We’re from Toledo.”
“Toledo! Well, that’s all right, too. People has to come from somewheres. But Toledo! It’s hard to believe.”
“Were you ever there?”
“Was I ever where? Listen, Mrs. Who’s-this, your sweetie’s asking me was I ever there! What does that mean?”
Mrs. Spalding had dozed off and could not explain.
“Look! Your wife’s asleep!”
“She’s worn out. She’s had a long day.”
“I’d think she’d be used to long days in Toledo.”
“Were you ever there?”
“You’re asking that again. Here comes Joe with my bottle. We’ll find out from him.”
Mr. Schwartz poured Marian a drink.
“Look at this, Mr. Toledo! It’s hundred-year-old rum; that’s all; a hundred years old. Prewar. I won’t let you taste it because you asked me was I ever in Toledo. And your wife can’t have any because she’s went to sleep on us. When it’s bedtime in Toledo, it’s only Thursday here. Joe, was I ever in Toledo?”
“How do I know?”
“You ought to know everything about me. You think you do, anyway. But I’ve foxed you this time. I was in Toledo in vaudeville with Bill Abbott. What’s your name again?”
“Travers,” said Henry.
“Well, Travers or not, I was with Bill Abbott in Toledo. But I didn’t meet no Travers. Or no Mrs. Travers, if she really is your wife.”
“Don’t be funny, Marian!” said Mr. Schwartz.
“That ain’t funny. What’s funny is for a man to come all the way from Toledo and bring his own wife to my club. And she thinks it’s a hotel. That’s the funniest part of it. Bill Abbott would see how funny that is even if you don’t.”
“I’ll tell you what let’s do, Marian. You have one more drink and then get a taxi and go home.”
“Do you think I’m going home alone? Well, listen! Mr. Travers will escort me home and you stay here and give Travers’ baby a bottle when she wakes up.”
“Wake up, Edith!” cried Henry.
Mrs. Spalding opened her eyes. “I went to sleep.”
“Take a sip of my hundred-year-old prewar rum,” said Marian. “It’ll wake you up.”
“I don’t want anything more to drink.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I’m ready to go home.”
“So are the rest of us, Mrs. Travers,” said the manager.
“Isn’t it funny, I was just asleep a second, but I dreamed about my children!”
“Children!” said Marian, and in another moment was sobbing on Mrs. Spalding’s breast.
“She’s had a little too much,” said Mr. Schwartz. “If you folks will be good enough to leave now, I’ll take care of her.”
Henry paid his check, a small matter of seventy-three dollars, and he and Mrs. Spalding took a taxi to their hotel.
“She was pretty fresh at first. She got me sore,” said Henry. “But when you mentioned children and she broke down, I couldn’t help from feeling sorry for her.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy! She was ready to
