The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

Spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smoked upon the roof, floated graciously upon New York two mornings later. The city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard times over and good times to come. In a million homes, a million young men thought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million young women of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. In his apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle air from the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his Morning Telegraph with a resolve to walk to the theatre for rehearsal: a resolve which had also come to Jill and Nelly Bryant, eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the Forties. On the summit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swedish exercises to the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upper windows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous and optimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And it was of Jill, too, that young Mr Pilkington thought, as he propped his long form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea. He had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself, but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, had spoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling on the carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside. For the first time in several days a certain moodiness which had affected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.

The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily due to the improvement in the weather. It had its source in a conversation which had taken place between himself and Jill’s Uncle Chris on the previous night. Exactly how it had come about, Mr Pilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fully aware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby’s sympathetic ears the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other’s kindly receptiveness, he had told him all—his love for Jill, his hopes that some day it might be returned, the difficulties complicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel of musical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby had listened with keen attention, and finally had made one of those luminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate only from your man of the world. It was Jill’s girlish ambition, it seemed from Major Selby’s statement, to become a force in the motion-picture world. The movies were her objective. When she had told him of this, said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests, to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company of some good musical play, where she could learn from the best masters so much of the technique of the business. That done, she could go about her life-work, fortified and competent.

What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?

Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderful in the movies.

There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.

Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.

“Look at Mary Pickford!” said Uncle Chris. “Millions a year!”

Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. He instanced other stars—lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with her thousands a week. There was no doubt about it—a girl’s best friend was the movies.

“Observe,” proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding his chest as he spread his legs before the fire, “how it would simplify the whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist and win fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonable doubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance and her charm … Which of these women whose names you see all along Broadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started, with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. And then. … Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as I know nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferent to you … what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announce that you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is a momentary pause. ‘Not the Jill Mariner?’ falters Mrs Peagrim. ‘Yes, the famous Miss Mariner!’ you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can you see her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I can see no flaw in the project whatsoever.” Here Uncle Chris, as he had pictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. “Of course, there would be the preliminaries.”

“The preliminaries?”

Uncle Chris’ voice became a melodious coo. He beamed upon Mr Pilkington.

“Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be done without money. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her time and her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting years for a chance that might never come. There is plenty of room at the top, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place to start. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a special company must be formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, a star, from the beginning. That is why I have advised her to accept her present position temporarily, in order that she may gain experience. She must learn to walk before she runs. She must study before she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take the step, she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether,” said Uncle Chris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, “you would wish to take shares in the company yourself …”

“Oo … !”

“… is a matter,” proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring the interruption, “for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have other claims on your purse. Possibly this musical play of yours has taken all the cash you are prepared to lock up. Possibly you may consider the venture too speculative. Possibly … there are a hundred reasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men—I can go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men—who will be glad to advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that I personally shall not hesitate to risk—if one can call it risking—any loose cash which I may have lying idle at my banker’s.”

He rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in his trouser-pocket—fifteen cents in all—and stopped to flick a piece of fluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was thus enabled to insert a word.

“How much would you want?” he enquired.

“That,” said Uncle Chris meditatively, “is a little hard to say. I should have to look into the matter more closely in order to give you the exact figures. But let us say for the sake of argument that you put up—what shall we say?—a hundred thousand? fifty thousand?… no, we will be conservative. Perhaps you had better not begin with more than ten thousand. You can always buy more shares later. I don’t suppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand myself.”

“I could manage ten thousand all right.”

“Excellent. We make progress, we make progress. Very well, then. I go to my Wall Street friends—I would give you their names, only for the present, till something definite has been done, that would hardly be politic—I go to my Wall Street friends, and tell them about the scheme, and say ‘Here is ten thousand dollars! What is your contribution?’ It puts the affair on a business-like basis, you understand. Then we really get to work. But use your own judgment my boy, you know. Use your own judgment. I would not think of persuading you to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. Think it over. Sleep on it. And, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a word about it to Jill. It would be cruel to raise her hopes until we are certain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. And, of course, not a word to Mrs Peagrim.”

“Of course.”

“Very well, then, my boy.” said Uncle Chris affably.