LITMIR.BIZ

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taste. John L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation. Drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his progress.

      “Well, sir,” said Hurstwood, “I was wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town again.”

      Drouet laughed.

      “If you don’t report more regularly we’ll have to cut you off the list.”

      “Couldn’t help it,” said the drummer, “I’ve been busy.”

      They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company of notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in as many minutes.

      “I hear your lodge is going to give a performance,” observed Hurstwood, in the most offhand manner.

      “Yes, who told you?”

      “No one,” said Hurstwood. “They just sent me a couple of tickets, which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?”

      “I don’t know,” replied the drummer. “They’ve been trying to get me to get some woman to take a part.”

      “I wasn’t intending to go,” said the manager easily. “I’ll subscribe, of course. How are things over there?”

      “All right. They’re going to fit things up out of the proceeds.”

      “Well,” said the manager, “I hope they make a success of it. Have another?”

      He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion.

      “I think the girl is going to take a part in it,” he said abruptly, after thinking it over.

      “You don’t say so! How did that happen?”

      “Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told Carrie, and she seems to want to try.”

      “Good for her,” said the manager. “It’ll be a real nice affair. Do her good, too. Has she ever had any experience?”

      “Not a bit.”

      “Oh, well, it isn’t anything very serious.”

      “She’s clever, though,” said Drouet, casting off any imputation against Carrie’s ability. “She picks up her part quick enough.”

      “You don’t say so!” said the manager.

      “Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she didn’t.”

      “We must give her a nice little send-off,” said the manager. “I’ll look after the flowers.”

      Drouet smiled at his good-nature.

      “After the show you must come with me and we’ll have a little supper.”

      “I think she’ll do all right,” said Drouet.

      “I want to see her. She’s got to do all right. We’ll make her,” and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compound of good-nature and shrewdness.

      Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he came very near being rude — failing to remember, as he did, that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not salaried underlings.

      “Now, Miss Madenda,” he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one part uncertain as to what move to make, “you don’t want to stand like that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over the intrusion of the stranger. Walk so,” and he struck out across the Avery stage in almost drooping manner.

      Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. She walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that there was something strangely lacking.

      “Now, Mrs. Morgan,” said the director to one young married woman who was to take the part of Pearl, “you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you stand here, so. Now, what is it you say?”

      “Explain,” said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura’s lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth.

      “How is that — what does your text say?”

      “Explain,” repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.

      “Yes, but it also says,” the director remarked, “that you are to look shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can’t look shocked.”

      “Explain!” demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.

      “No, no, that won’t do! Say it this way — EXPLAIN.”

      “Explain,” said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.

      “That’s better. Now go on.”

      “One night,” resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, “father and mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms — ”

      “Hold on,” said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. “Put more feeling into what you are saying.”

      Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eye lightened with resentment.

      “Remember, Mrs. Morgan,” he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying his manner, “that you’re detailing a pathetic story. You are now supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires feeling, repression, thus: ‘The usual crowd of children accosted them for alms.’”

      “All right,” said Mrs. Morgan.

      “Now, go on.”

      “As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse.”

      “Very good,” interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly.

      “A pickpocket! Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines that here fell to him.

      “No, no, Mr. Bamberger,” said the director, approaching, “not that way. ‘A pickpocket — well?’ so. That’s the idea.”

      “Don’t you think,” said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let alone the details of expression, “that it would be better if we just went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up some points.”

      “A very good idea, Miss Madenda,” said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the director did not heed.

      “All right,” said the latter, somewhat abashed, “it might be well to do it.” Then brightening, with a show of authority, “Suppose we run right through, putting in as much expression as we can.”

      “Good,” said Mr. Quincel.

      “This hand,” resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down at her book, as the lines proceeded, “my mother grasped in her own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl.”

      “Very good,” observed the director, now hopelessly idle.

      “The thief!” exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.

      “Louder,”

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