The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse (accelerated reader books .TXT) đź“–
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
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“For heaven’s sake!” Nelly had the musical comedy performer’s horror of the older-established form of entertainment. “Why, comic opera died in the year one!”
“Well, these guys are going to dig it up. That’s the way it looks to me.” He lowered his voice. “Say, I saw Clarice last night,” he said in a confidential undertone. “It’s all right.”
“It is?”
“We’ve made it up. It was like this …”
His conversation took an intimate turn. He expounded for Nelly’s benefit the inner history, with all its ramifications, of a recent unfortunate rift between himself and “the best little girl in Flatbush,”—what he had said, what she had said, what her sister had said, and how it all come right in the end. Jill might have felt a little excluded, but for the fact that a sudden and exciting idea had come to her. She sat back, thinking. … After all, what else was she to do? She must do something. …
She bent forward and interrupted Mr Brown in his description of a brisk passage of arms between himself and the best little girl’s sister, who seemed to be an unpleasant sort of person in every way.
“Mr Brown.”
“Hello?”
“Do you think there would be any chance for me if I asked for work at Goble and Cohn’s?”
“You’re joking!” cried Nelly.
“I’m not at all.”
“But what do you want with work?”
“I’ve got to find some. And right away, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jill hesitated. She disliked discussing her private affairs, but there was obviously no way of avoiding it. Nelly was round-eyed and mystified, and Mr Brown had manifestly no intention whatever of withdrawing tactfully. He wanted to hear all.
“I’ve lost my money,” said Jill.
“Lost your money! Do you mean … ?”
“I’ve lost it all. Every penny I had in the world.”
“Tough!” interpolated Mr Brown judicially. “I was broke once way out in a tank-town in Oklahoma. The manager skipped with our salaries. Last we saw of him he was doing the trip to Canada in nothing flat.”
“But how?” gasped Nelly.
“It happened about the time we met in London. Do you remember Freddie Rooke, who was at our house that after-noon?”
A dreamy look came into Nelly’s eyes. There had not been an hour since their parting when she had not thought of that immaculate sportsman. It would have amazed Freddie, could he have known, but to Nelly Bryant he was the one perfect man in an imperfect world.
“Do I!” she sighed ecstatically.
Mr Brown shot a keen glance at her.
“Aha!” he cried facetiously. “Who is he, Nelly? Who is this blue-eyed boy?”
“If you want to know,” said Nelly, defiance in her tone, “he’s the fellow who gave me fifty pounds, with no strings tied to it,—get that!—when I was broke in London! If it hadn’t been for him, I’d be there still.”
“Did he?” cried Jill. “Freddie!”
“Yes. Oh, Gee!” Nelly sighed once more. “I suppose I’ll never see him again in this world.”
“Introduce me to him, if you do,” said Mr Brown. “He sounds just the sort of little pal I’d like to have!”
“You remember hearing Freddie say something about losing money in a slump on the Stock Exchange,” proceeded Jill. “Well, that was how I lost mine. It’s a long story, and it’s not worth talking about, but that’s how things stand, and I’ve got to find work of some sort, and it looks to me as if I should have a better chance of finding it on the stage than anywhere else.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
“Oh, it’s all right. How much would these people Goble and Cohn give me if I got an engagement?”
“Only forty a week.”
“Forty dollars a week! It’s wealth! Where are they?”
“Over at the Gotham Theatre in Forty-second Street.”
“I’ll go there at once.”
“But you’ll hate it. You don’t realize what it’s like. You wait hours and hours and nobody sees you.”
“Why shouldn’t I walk straight in and say that I’ve come for work?”
Nelly’s big eyes grew bigger.
“But you couldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“Why, you couldn’t!”
“I don’t see why.”
Mr Brown intervened with decision.
“You’re dead right,” he said to Jill approvingly. “If you ask me, that’s the only sensible thing to do. Where’s the sense of hanging around and getting stalled? Managers are human guys, some of ’em. Probably, if you were to try it, they’d appreciate a bit of gall. It would show ’em you’d got pep. You go down there and try walking straight in. They can’t eat you. It makes me sick when I see all those poor devils hanging about outside these offices, waiting to get noticed and nobody ever paying any attention to them. You push the office-boy in the face if he tries to stop you, and go in and make ’em take notice. And, whatever you do, don’t leave your name and address! That’s the old, moth-eaten gag they’re sure to try to pull on you. Tell ’em there’s nothing doing. Say you’re out for a quick decision! Stand ’em on their heads!”
Jill got up, fired by this eloquence. She called for her check.
“Good-bye,” she said. “I’m going to do exactly as you say. Where can I find you afterwards?” she said to Nelly.
“You aren’t really going?”
“I am!”
Nelly scribbled on a piece of paper.
“Here’s my address. I’ll be in all evening.”
“I’ll come and see you. Good-bye, Mr Brown. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome!” said Mr Brown.
Nelly watched Jill depart with wide eyes.
“Why did you tell her to do that?” she said.
“Why not?” said Mr Brown. “I started something, didn’t I? Well, I guess I’ll have to be leaving, too. Got to get back to rehearsal. Say, I like that friend of yours, Nelly. There’s no yellow streak about her! I wish her luck!”
THE offices of Messrs Goble and Cohn were situated, like everything else in New York that appertains to the drama, in the neighborhood of Times Square. They occupied the fifth floor of the Gotham Theatre on West Forty-second Street. As there was no elevator in the building except the small private one used by the two members of the firm, Jill walked up the stairs, and found signs of a thriving business beginning to present themselves as early as the third floor, where half a dozen patient persons of either sex had draped themselves like roosting fowls upon the banisters. There were more on the fourth floor, and the landing of the fifth, which served the firm as a waiting-room, was quite full. It is the custom of theatrical managers—the lowest order of intelligence, with the possible exception of the limax maximus or garden slug, known to science—to omit from their calculations the fact that they are likely every day to receive a large number of visitors, whom they will be obliged to keep waiting; and that these people will require somewhere to wait. Such considerations never occur to them. Messrs Goble and Cohn had provided for those who called to see them one small bench on the landing, conveniently situated at the intersecting point of three draughts, and had let it go at that.
Nobody, except perhaps the night-watchman, had ever seen this bench empty. At whatever hour of the day you happened to call, you would always find three wistful individuals seated side by side with their eyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the office-boy, the telephone-girl, and Mr Goble’s stenographer. Beyond this was the door marked “Private,” through which, as it opened to admit some careless, debonair, thousand-dollar-a-week comedian who sauntered in with a jaunty “Hello, Ike!” or some furred and scented female star, the rank and file of the profession were greeted, like Moses on Pisgah, with a fleeting glimpse of the promised land, consisting of a large desk and a section of a very fat man with spectacles and a bald head or a younger man with fair hair and a double chin.
The keynote of the mass meeting on the landing was one of determined, almost aggressive smartness. The men wore bright overcoats with bands round the waist, the women those imitation furs which to the uninitiated eye appear so much more expensive than the real thing. Everybody looked very dashing and very young, except about the eyes. Most of the eyes that glanced at Jill were weary. The women were nearly all blondes, blondness having been decided upon in the theatre as the color that brings the best results. The men were all so much alike that they seemed to be members of one large family,—an illusion which was heightened by the scraps of conversation, studded with “dears,” “old mans,” and “honeys,” which came to Jill’s ears. A stern fight for supremacy was being waged by a score or so of lively and powerful young scents.
For a moment Jill was somewhat daunted by the spectacle, but she recovered almost immediately. The exhilarating and heady influence of New York still wrought within her. The Berserk spirit was upon her, and she remembered the stimulating words of Mr Brown, of Brown and Widgeon, the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circuit. “Walk straight in!” had been the burden of his inspiring address. She pushed her way through the crowd until she came to the small ante-room.
In the ante-room were the outposts, the pickets of the enemy. In one corner a girl was hammering energetically and with great speed on a typewriter: a second girl, seated at a switchboard, was having an argument with Central which was already warm and threatened to descend shortly to personalities: on a chair tilted back so that it rested against the wall, a small boy sat eating candy and reading the comic page of an evening newspaper. All three were enclosed, like zoological specimens, in a cage formed by a high counter terminating in brass bars.
Beyond these watchers on the threshold was the door marked “Private.” Through it, as Jill reached the outer defences, filtered the sound of a piano.
Those who have studied the subject have come to the conclusion that the boorishness of theatrical managers’ office-boys cannot be the product of mere chance. Somewhere, in some sinister den in the criminal districts of the town, there is a school where small boys are trained for these positions, where their finer instincts are rigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated by competent professors. Of this school the candy-eating Cerberus of Messrs Goble and Cohn had been the star scholar. Quickly seeing his natural gifts, his teachers had given him special attention. When he had graduated, it had been amidst the cordial good wishes of the entire faculty. They had taught him all they knew, and they were proud of him. They felt that he would do them credit.
This boy raised a pair of pink-rimmed eyes to Jill, sniffed—for like all theatrical managers’ office-boys he had a permanent cold in the head—bit his thumb-nail, and spoke. He was a snub-nosed boy. His ears and hair were vermilion. His name was Ralph. He had seven hundred and forty-three pimples.
“Woddyerwant?” enquired Ralph, coming within an ace of condensing the question into a word of one syllable.
“I want to see Mr Goble.”
“Zout!” said the Pimple King, and returned to his paper.
There will, no doubt, always be class distinctions. Sparta had her kings and her helots, King Arthur’s Round Table its knights and its scullions, America her Simon Legree and her Uncle Tom. But in no nation and at no period of history has any one ever been so brutally superior to any one else as is the Broadway theatrical office-boy to the caller who wishes to see the manager. Thomas Jefferson held these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Theatrical office-boys do not see eye to eye with Thomas. From their pinnacle they look down on the common herd, the canaille, and despise them. They coldly question their right to live.
Jill turned pink. Mr Brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing this situation, had, she remembered, recommended “pushing the office-boy in the face”: and for a moment she felt like following his advice. Prudence, or the fact that he was out of reach behind the brass bars, restrained her. Without further delay she made for the door of the inner room. That was her objective, and she did not intend to be diverted from it. Her fingers were on the handle before any of those present divined her intention. Then the stenographer stopped typing and sat with raised fingers, aghast. The girl at the telephone broke off in mid-sentence and stared round over her shoulder. Ralph, the office-boy, outraged, dropped his paper and constituted himself the spokesman of the invaded force.
“Hey!”
Jill stopped and eyed the lad militantly.
“Were you speaking to me?”
“Yes, I was speaking to you!”
“Don’t do it again with your mouth full,” said
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