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

“I will leave you to turn the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as you think best. How is your insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino? Capital! There’s nothing like it. It did wonders for me! Good-night, good-night!”

Otis Pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with an interval for sleep, ever since. And the more he thought of it, the better the scheme appeared to him. He winced a little at the thought of the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and had been brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected, the money would be merely a loan. Once the company found its feet, it would be returned to him a hundred-fold. And there was no doubt that this would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of Jill, as far as his Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his—young Brewster Philmore—had married a movie-star only two years ago, and nobody had made the slightest objection. Brewster was to be seen with his bride frequently beneath Mrs Peagrim’s roof. Against the higher strata of Bohemia Mrs Peagrim had no prejudice at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. She liked the society of those whose names were often in the papers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to Otis Pilkington, in short, that Love had found a way. He sipped his tea with relish, and when the Japanese valet brought in the toast all burned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one may hope, touched the latter’s Oriental heart and inspired him with a desire to serve this best of employers more efficiently.

At half-past ten, Otis Pilkington removed his dressing-gown and began to put on his clothes to visit the theatre. There was a rehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. As he dressed, his mood was as sunny as the day itself.

And the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever Spring day had been in a country where Spring comes early and does its best from the very start. The blue sky beamed down on a happy city. To and fro the citizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather. Everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of the Gotham Theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the main event, had been called by Johnson Miller in order to iron some of the kinks out of the “My Heart and I” number, which, with the assistance of the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one.

On the stage of the Gotham gloom reigned—literally, because the stage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electric light: and figuratively, because things were going even worse than usual with the “My Heart and I” number, and Johnson Miller, always of an emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by the incompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. At about the moment when Otis Pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown and reached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill), Johnson Miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit and the first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutching his white locks with the other, his voice raised the while in agonized protest.

“Gentlemen, you silly idiots,” complained Mr Miller loudly, “you’ve had three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and you haven’t done a damn thing right! You’re all over the place! You don’t seem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot of Keystone Kops! What’s the matter with you? You’re not doing the movements I showed you; you’re doing some you have invented yourselves, and they are rotten! I’ve no doubt you think you can arrange a number better than I can, but Mr Goble engaged me to be the director, so kindly do exactly as I tell you. Don’t try to use your own intelligence, because you haven’t any. I’m not blaming you for it. It wasn’t your fault that your nurses dropped you on your heads when you were babies. But it handicaps you when you try to think.”

Of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, six looked wounded by this tirade. They had the air of good men wrongfully accused. They appeared to be silently calling on Heaven to see justice done between Mr. Miller and themselves. The seventh, a long-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of English cut, seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It was this youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spoke in a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner.

“I say!”

Mr Miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat. He had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwrought way up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his india rubber form moving in convulsive jerks. Only when he had turned and retraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to take his share in the conversation.

“What?” he shouted. “Can’t hear you!”

“I say, you know, it’s my fault, really.”

“What?”

“I mean to say, you know …”

“What? Speak up, can’t you?”

Mr Saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing a melody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that the services of an interpreter were needed. He obligingly left the music-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box. He placed his arm about Mr Miller’s shoulders and his lips to Mr Miller’s left ear, and drew a deep breath.

“He says it is his fault!”

Mr Miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment.

“I know they’re not worth their salt!” he replied.

Mr Saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath.

“This young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!”

“Tell him I only signed on this morning, laddie,” urged the tweed-clad young man.

“He only joined the company this morning!”

This puzzled Mr Miller.

“How do you mean, warning?” he asked.

Mr Saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort.

“This young man is new,” he bellowed carefully, keeping to words of one syllable. “He does not yet know the steps. He says this is his first day here, so he does not yet know the steps. When he has been here some more time he will know the steps. But now he does not know the steps.”

“What he means,” explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, “is that I don’t know the steps.”

“He does not know the steps!” roared Mr Saltzburg.

“I know he doesn’t know the steps,” said Mr Miller. “Why doesn’t he know the steps? He’s had long enough to learn them.”

“He is new!”

“Hugh?”

“New!”

“Oh, new?”

“Yes, new!”

“Why the devil is he new?” cried Mr Miller, awaking suddenly to the truth and filled with a sense of outrage. “Why didn’t he join with the rest of the company? How can I put on chorus numbers if I am saddled every day with new people to teach? Who engaged him?”

“Who engaged you?” enquired Mr Saltzburg of the culprit.

“Mr Pilkington.”

“Mr Pilkington,” shouted Mr Saltzburg.

“When?”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night.”

Mr Miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round, darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. “What can I do?” he wailed. “My hands are tied! I am hampered! I am handicapped! We open in two weeks, and every day I find somebody new in the company to upset everything I have done. I shall go to Mr Goble and ask to be released from my contract. I shall … Come along, come along, come along now!” he broke off suddenly. “Why are we wasting time? The whole number once more. The whole number once more from the beginning!”

The young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running a finger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. He was not used to this sort of thing. In a large experience of amateur theatricals he had never encountered anything like it. In the breathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse and refrain by the lady who played the heroine of “The Rose of America,” he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.

“I say! Is he always like this?”

“Who? Johnny?”

“The sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. The barker on the skyline. Does he often get the wind up like this?”

His colleague smiled tolerantly.

“Why, that’s nothing!” he replied. “Wait till you see him really cut loose! That was just a gentle whisper!”

“My God!” said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leading lady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of the ensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly down towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on his nearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. A clapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated—inappropriately—that he had failed to do so. Mr Miller could be perceived—dimly—with all his fingers entwined in his hair.

“Clear the stage!” yelled Mr Miller. “Not you!” he shouted, as the latest addition to the company began to drift off with the others. “You stay!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or we shall get nowhere. Go on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg. Now, when the refrain begins, come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!”

The young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully. And it was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant, entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o’clock approached, saw him.

“Whoever is that?” said Nelly.

“New man,” replied one of the chorus gentlemen. “Came this morning.”

Nelly turned to Jill.

“He looks just like Mr Rooke!” she exclaimed.

“He is Mr Rooke!” said Jill.

“He can’t be!”

“He is!”

“But what is he doing here?”

Jill bit her lip.

“That’s just what I’m going to ask him myself,” she said.

§ 2.

The opportunity for a private conversation with Freddie did not occur immediately. For ten minutes he remained alone on the stage, absorbing abusive tuition from Mr Miller: and at the end of that period a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of the number with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When, finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of Mr Goble and at the same time indicated Mr Goble’s desire that the stage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of recognition and a faint “What ho!” was all that Freddie was able to bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the ensemble, they had to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It was only when this had been run through four times and the stage left vacant for two of the principals to play a scene that Jill was able to draw the Last of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the question.

“Freddie, what are you doing here?”

Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller’s idea of an opening chorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, the ensemble were supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, and Mr Miller’s conception of the gathering suggested that he supposed house-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victims of St Vitus’ dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, and exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.

“Eh?” he said feebly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, ah, yes! I see what you mean! I suppose you’re surprised to find me in New York, what?”

“I’m not surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over. But I am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by Mr Miller.”

“I say,” said Freddie in an awed voice. “He’s a bit of a nut, that lad, what! He reminds me of the troops of Midian in the hymn. The chappies who prowled and prowled around. I’ll bet he’s worn a groove in the carpet. Like a jolly old tiger at the Zoo at feeding time. Wouldn’t be surprised at any moment to look down and find him biting a piece out of my leg!”

Jill seized his arm and shook it.

“Don’t ramble, Freddie! Tell me how you got here.”

“Oh, that was pretty simple. I had a letter of introduction to this chappie Pilkington who’s running this show, and, we having got tolerably pally in the last few days, I went to him and asked him to let me join the merry throng. I said I didn’t want any money and the little bit of work I would do wouldn’t make any difference, so he said ‘Right