The Little Warrior Part 60

"The girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed."

"Oh, I shouldn't think that's likely."

"I hope not."

"So do I. What are we stopping for?" Jill had halted in front of a shabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which spring up overnight at seash.o.r.e resorts and start to decay the moment the builders have left them.

"I live here."

"Here!" Wally looked at her in consternation. "But ..."

Jill smiled.

"We working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quite comfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."

She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry in and go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind you go and get a good breakfast."

2.

When Jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorus rehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. No steps had apparently been taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in the cast preyed on Mr. Goble's superst.i.tious mind. But she found her colleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "Wait!"

was the gloomy watchword of "The Rose of America" chorus.

The rehearsal pa.s.sed off without event. It lasted until six o'clock, when Jill, the Cherub, and two or three of the other girls went to s.n.a.t.c.h a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. It was not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in after the overexertion of the previous night, and it was too early for first-night excitement to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whose spirits seldom failed her, was depressed, and the idea of an overhanging doom had grown. It seemed now to be merely a question of speculating on the victim, and the conversation gave Jill, as the last addition to the company and so the cause of swelling the ranks of the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was glad when it was time to go back to the theatre.

The moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it was made clear to them that the doom had fallen. In a chair in the corner, all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood of tears, sat the unhappy d.u.c.h.ess, the center of a group of girls anxious to console but limited in their ideas of consolation to an occasional pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief.

"It's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as Jill came in.

Somebody else said it was fierce, and a third girl declared it to be the limit. A fourth girl, well-meaning but less helpful than she would have liked to be, was advising the victim not to worry.

The story of the disaster was brief and easily told. The d.u.c.h.ess, sailing in at the stage-door, had paused at the letter-box to see if Cuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman, had sent her a good-luck telegram. He had, but his good wishes were unfortunately neutralized by the fact that the very next letter in the box was one from the management, crisp and to the point, informing the d.u.c.h.ess that her services would not be required that night or thereafter. It was the subtle meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "The Rose of America" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had been timed.

"Poor Mae, if she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her two weeks' notice or her salary. But they can fire her without a cent just because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!"

The d.u.c.h.ess burst into fresh flood of tears.

"Don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who would have been in her element looking in on Job with Bildad the Shuhite and his friends. "Don't you worry!"

"It's tough!" said the girl, who had adopted that form of verbal consolation.

"It's fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective.

The other girl, with an air of saying something new, repeated her statement that it was the limit. The d.u.c.h.ess cried forlornly throughout. She had needed this engagement badly. Chorus salaries are not stupendous, but it is possible to save money by means of them during a New York run, especially if you have spent three years in a milliner's shop and can make your own clothes, as the d.u.c.h.ess, in spite of her air of being turned out by Fifth Avenue modistes, could and did. She had been looking forward, now that this absurd piece was to be rewritten by someone who knew his business and had a good chance of success, to putting by just those few dollars that make all the difference when you are embarking on married life. Cuthbert, for all his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of the establishment unsupported for at least another eighteen months; and this disaster meant that the wedding would have to be postponed again. So the d.u.c.h.ess, abandoning that aristocratic manner criticized by some of her colleagues as "up-stage" and by others as "Ritz-y,"

sat in her chair and consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as they were offered to her.

Jill had been the only girl in the room who had spoken no word of consolation. This was not because she was not sorry for the d.u.c.h.ess.

She had never been sorrier for any one in her life. The pathos of that swift descent from haughtiness to misery had bitten deep into her sensitive heart. But she revolted at the idea of echoing the ba.n.a.l words of the others. Words were no good, she thought, as she set her little teeth and glared at an absent management,--a management just about now presumably distending itself with a luxurious dinner at one of the big hotels. Deeds were what she demanded. All her life she had been a girl of impulsive action, and she wanted to act impulsively now. She was in much the same Berserk mood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of Bill the parrot on the occasion of his dispute with Henry of London. The fighting spirit which had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had come back in full measure.

"What are you going to _do?_" she cried. "Aren't you going to _do_ something?"

Do? The members of "The Rose of America" ensemble looked doubtfully at one another. Do? It had not occurred to them that there was anything to be done. These things happened, and you regretted them, but as for doing anything, well, what _could_ you do?

Jill's face was white and her eyes were flaming. She dominated the roomful of girls like a little Napoleon. The change in her startled them. Hitherto they had always looked on her as rather an unusually quiet girl. She had always made herself un.o.btrusively pleasant to them all. They all liked her. But they had never suspected her of possessing this militant quality. n.o.body spoke, but there was a general stir. She had flung a new idea broadcast, and it was beginning to take root. Do something? Well, if it came to that, why not?

"We ought all to refuse to go on tonight unless they let her go on!"

Jill declared.

The stir became a movement. Enthusiasm is catching, and every girl is at heart a rebel. And the idea was appealing to the imagination.

Refuse to give a show on the opening night! Had a chorus ever done such a thing? They trembled on the verge of making history.

"Strike?" quavered somebody at the back.

"Yes, strike!" cried Jill.

"Hooray! That's the thtuff!" shouted the Cherub, and turned the scale. She was a popular girl, and her adherence to the Cause confirmed the doubters. "Thtrike!"

"Strike! Strike!"

Jill turned to the d.u.c.h.ess, who had been gaping amazedly at the demonstration. She no longer wept, but she seemed in a dream.

"Dress and get ready to go on," Jill commanded. "We'll all dress and get ready to go on. Then I'll go and find Mr Goble and tell him what we mean to do. And, if he doesn't give in, we'll stay here in this room, and there won't be a performance!"

3.

Mr Goble, with a Derby hat on the back of his head and an unlighted cigar in the corner of his mouth, was superintending the erection of the first act set when Jill found him. He was standing with his back to the safety-curtain glowering at a blue canvas, supposed to represent one of those picturesque summer skies which you get at the best places on Long Island. Jill, coming down stage from the staircase that led to the dressing-room, interrupted his line of vision.

"Get out of the light!" bellowed Mr Goble, always a man of direct speech, adding "d.a.m.n you!" for good measure.

"Please move to one side," interpreted the stage-director. "Mr Goble is looking at the set."

The head carpenter, who completed the little group, said nothing.

Stage carpenters always say nothing. Long a.s.sociation with fussy directors has taught them that the only policy to pursue on opening nights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap themselves up in it, and not emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone off to worry somebody else.

"It don't look right!" said Mr Goble, c.o.c.king his head on one side.

"I see what you mean, Mr Goble," a.s.sented the stage-director obsequiously. "It has perhaps a little too much--er--not quite enough--yes, I see what you mean!"

"It's too--d.a.m.n--BLUE!" rasped Mr Goble, impatient of this vacillating criticism. "That's what's the matter with it."

The head carpenter abandoned the silent policy of a lifetime. He felt impelled to utter. He was a man who, when not at the theatre, spent most of his time in bed, reading all-fiction magazines: but it so happened that once, last summer, he had actually seen the sky; and he considered that this ent.i.tled him to speak almost as a specialist on the subject.

"The sky _is_ blue!" he observed huskily. "Yessir! I seen it!"

He pa.s.sed into the silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse, stopped up his mouth with a piece of chewing-gum.

Mr Goble regarded the silver-tongued orator wrathfully. He was not accustomed to chatter-boxes arguing with him like this. He would probably have said something momentous and crus.h.i.+ng, but at this point Jill intervened.

"Mr Goble."