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

fitting sleeve and speaking across him to young Mr Pilkington, “I do congratulate you, dear. It’s perfectly delightful! I don’t know when I have enjoyed a musical piece so much. Don’t you think it’s perfectly darling, Major Selby?”

“Capital!” agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored as near extinction as makes no matter. “Congratulate you, my boy!”

“You clever, clever thing!” said Mrs Peagrim, skittishly striking her nephew on the knee with her fan. “I’m proud to be your aunt! Aren’t you proud to know him, Mr Rooke?”

The fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species of stupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of the McWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had been other dark moments in Freddie’s life. Once, back in London, Parker had sent him out into the heart of the West End without his spats and he had not discovered their absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On another occasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, he had discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-school champion. He had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-off of the engagement between Jill Mariner and Derek Underhill, and sad when it had been brought to his notice that London was giving Derek the cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career had he experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him that evening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder the part that should have been his. And the audience, confound them, had roared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said!

“Eh?” he replied. “Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!”

“We’re all proud of you, Otie darling,” proceeded Mrs Peagrim. “The piece is a wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it. And just think, Major Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear boy out of putting it on! I thought it was so rash to risk his money in a theatrical venture. But then,” said Mrs Peagrim in extenuation, “I had only seen the piece when it was done at my house at Newport, and of course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! I might have known that you would change it a great deal before you put it on in New York. As I always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten! Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, Otie! I wouldn’t know it was the same play!”

She slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of the gashes she was inflicting. Poor Mr Pilkington was suffering twin torments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of the unsuccessful artist. It would have been bad enough to have to sit and watch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedy which Wally Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire: but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself with the sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going to make a lot of money out of it. Now, even this material balm was denied him. He had sold out, and he was feeling like the man who parts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine, only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has been located. Into each life some rain must fall. Quite a shower was falling now into young Mr. Pilkington’s.

“Of course,” went on Mrs Peagrim, “when the play was done at my house, it was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! The cast tonight is perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is the most killing creature! Don’t you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?”

We may say what we will against the upper strata of Society, but it cannot be denied that breeding tells. Only by falling back for support on the traditions of his class and the solid support of a gentle upbringing was the Last of the Rookes able to crush down the words that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politely conventional agreement. If Mr Pilkington was feeling like a too impulsive seller of gold-mines, Freddie’s emotions were akin to those of the Spartan boy with the fox under his vest. Nothing but Winchester and Magdalen could have produced the smile which, though twisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto his face and off again at his hostess’ question.

“Oh, rather! Priceless!”

“Wasn’t that part an Englishman before?” asked Mrs Peagrim. “I thought so. Well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. This Scotchman is too funny for words. And such an artist!”

Freddie rose shakily. One can stand just so much.

“Think,” he mumbled, “I’ll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette.”

He groped his way to the door.

“I’ll come with you, Freddie my boy,” said Uncle Chris, who felt an imperative need of five minutes’ respite from Mrs Peagrim. “Let’s get out into the air for a moment. Uncommonly warm it is here.”

Freddie assented. Air was what he felt he wanted most.

Left alone in the box with her nephew, Mrs Peagrim continued for some moments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the open wound. It struck her from time to time that darling Otie was perhaps a shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous strain inseparable from a first night of a young author’s first play.

“Why,” she concluded, “you will make thousands and thousands of dollars out of this piece. I am sure it is going to be another ‘Merry Widow.’”

“You can’t tell from a first night audience,” said Mr Pilkington sombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up at rehearsals.

“Oh, but you can. It’s so easy to distinguish polite applause from the real thing. No doubt many of the people down here have friends in the company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but look how the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! You can’t tell me that that was not genuine. They love it. How hard,” she proceeded commiseratingly, “you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour on the road to improve the piece so much! I never liked to say so before, but even you must agree with me now that that original version of yours, which was done down at Newport, was the most terrible nonsense! And how hard the company must have worked, too! Otie,” cried Mrs Peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea, “I will tell you what you must really do. You must give a supper and dance to the whole company on the stage tomorrow night after the performance.”

“What!” cried Otis Pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by this appalling suggestion. Was he, the man who, after planking down thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents for “props” and “frames” and “rehl,” had sold out for a paltry ten thousand, to be still further victimized?

“They do deserve it, don’t they, after working so hard?”

“It’s impossible,” said Otis Pilkington vehemently. “Out of the question.”

“But, Otie darling, I was talking to Mr Mason, when he came down to Newport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that the management nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially if they have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do.”

“Well, let Goble give them a supper if he wants to.”

“But you know that Mr Goble, though he has his name on the programme as the manager, has really nothing to do with it. You own the piece, don’t you?”

For a moment Mr Pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, but refrained. He knew his Aunt Olive too well. If she found out that he had parted at a heavy loss with this valuable property, her whole attitude towards him would change,—or, rather, it would revert to her normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe nurse to a weak-minded child. Even in his agony there had been a certain faint consolation, due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in the voice with which she had addressed him since the fall of the curtain. He shrank from forfeiting this respect, unentitled though he was to it.

“Yes,” he said in his precise voice. “That, of course, is so.”

“Well, then!” said Mrs Peagrim.

“But it seems so unnecessary! And think what it would cost.”

This was a false step. Some of the reverence left Mrs Peagrim’s voice, and she spoke a little coldly. A gay and gallant spender herself, she had often had occasion to rebuke a tendency to over-parsimony in her nephew.

“We must not be mean, Otie!” she said.

Mr Pilkington keenly resented her choice of pronouns. “We” indeed! Who was going to foot the bill? Both of them, hand in hand, or he alone, the chump, the boob, the easy mark who got this sort of thing wished on him!

“I don’t think it would be possible to get the stage for a supper-party,” he pleaded, shifting his ground. “Goble wouldn’t give it to us.”

“As if Mr Goble would refuse you anything after you have written a wonderful success for his theatre! And isn’t he getting his share of the profits? Directly after the performance, you must go round and ask him. Of course he will be delighted to give you the stage. I will be hostess,” said Mrs. Peagrim radiantly. “And now, let me see, whom shall we invite?”

Mr Pilkington stared gloomily at the floor, too bowed down now by his weight of cares to resent the “we,” which had plainly come to stay. He was trying to estimate the size of the gash which this preposterous entertainment would cleave in the Pilkington bank-roll. He doubted if it was possible to go through with it under five hundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, Mrs Peagrim took the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get into four figures.

“Major Selby, of course,” said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooing note in her voice. Long since had that polished man of affairs made a deep impression upon her. “Of course Major Selby, for one. And Mr Rooke. Then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt if they were left out. How about Mr Mason? Isn’t he a friend of yours?”

Mr Pilkington snorted. He had endured much and was prepared to endure more, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man who had sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped its precious person into little bits.

“He is not a friend of mine,” he said stiffly, “and I do not wish him to be invited!”

Having attained her main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yield minor points.

“Very well, if you do not like him,” she said. “But I thought he was quite an intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him to Newport last summer.”

“Much,” said Mr Pilkington coldly, “has happened since last summer.”

“Oh, very well,” said Mrs Peagrim again. “Then we will not include Mr Mason. Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop right round and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want.”

§ 2.

It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other. Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet, at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which Mr Goble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis. Since the end of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mental upheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble was in the position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mine and now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feeling the truth of the poet’s dictum that of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these—“It might have been.” The electric success of “The Rose of America” had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as he did, that he might have bought Otis Pilkington’s share dirt cheap at almost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad half hour with himself. The only ray in the darkness which brooded on his indomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, by getting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices appeared and shaking his head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which young authors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception and impressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive your expert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioning gloomily that he