_ The only real happiness, we are told, is to be obtained by bringing
happiness to others. Bugs Butler's mood, accordingly, when some thirty
hours after the painful episode recorded in the last chapter he awoke
from a state of coma in the ring at Jersey City to discover that Mr. Lew
Lucas had knocked him out in the middle of the third round, should have
been one of quiet contentment. His inability to block a short left-hook
followed by a right to the point of the jaw had ameliorated quite a
number of existences.
Mr. Lew Lucas, for one, was noticeably pleased. So were Mr. Lucas's
seconds, one of whom went so far as to kiss him. And most of the crowd,
who had betted heavily on the champion, were delighted. Yet Bugs Butler
did not rejoice. It is not too much to say that his peevish bearing
struck a jarring note in the general gaiety. A heavy frown disfigured
his face as he slouched from the ring.
But the happiness which he had spread went on spreading. The two Wise
Guys, who had been unable to attend the fight in person, received the
result on the ticker and exuberantly proclaimed themselves the richer by
five hundred dollars. The pimpled office-boy at the Fillmore Nicholas
Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. caused remark in the Subway by whooping
gleefully when he read the news in his morning paper, for he, too, had
been rendered wealthier by the brittleness of Mr. Butler's chin. And it
was with fierce satisfaction that Sally, breakfasting in her little
apartment, informed herself through the sporting page of the details of
the contender's downfall. She was not a girl who disliked many people,
but she had acquired a lively distaste for Bugs Butler.
Lew Lucas seemed a man after her own heart. If he had been a personal
friend of Ginger's he could not, considering the brief time at his
disposal, have avenged him with more thoroughness. In round one he had
done all sorts of diverting things to Mr. Butler's left eye: in round
two he had continued the good work on that gentleman's body; and in
round three he had knocked him out. Could anyone have done more? Sally
thought not, and she drank Lew Lucas's health in a cup of coffee and
hoped his old mother was proud of him.
The telephone bell rang at her elbow. She unhooked the receiver.
"Hullo?"
"Oh, hullo," said a voice.
"Ginger!" cried Sally delightedly.
"I say, I'm awfully glad you're back. I only got your letter this
morning. Found it at the boarding-house. I happened to look in there
and..."
"Ginger," interrupted Sally, "your voice is music, but I want to see
you. Where are you?"
"I'm at a chemist's shop across the street. I was wondering if..."
"Come here at once!"
"I say, may I? I was just going to ask."
"You miserable creature, why haven't you been round to see me before?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I haven't been going about much for the last
day. You see..."
"I know. Of course." Quick sympathy came into Sally's voice. She gave
a sidelong glance of approval and gratitude at the large picture of Lew
Lucas which beamed up at her from the morning paper. "You poor thing!
How are you?"
"Oh, all right, thanks."
"Well, hurry."
There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.
"I say."
"Well?"
"I'm not much to look at, you know."
"You never were. Stop talking and hurry over."
"I mean to say..."
Sally hung up the receiver firmly. She waited eagerly for some minutes,
and then footsteps came along the passage. They stopped at her door and
the bell rang. Sally ran to the door, flung it open, and recoiled in
consternation.
"Oh, Ginger!"
He had stated the facts accurately when he had said that he was not much
to look at. He gazed at her devotedly out of an unblemished right eye,
but the other was hidden altogether by a puffy swelling of dull purple.
A great bruise marred his left cheek-bone, and he spoke with some
difficulty through swollen lips.
"It's all right, you know," he assured her.
"It isn't. It's awful! Oh, you poor darling!" She clenched her teeth
viciously. "I wish he had killed him!"
"Eh?"
"I wish Lew Lucas or whatever his name is had murdered him. Brute!"
"Oh, I don't know, you know." Ginger's sense of fairness compelled him
to defend his late employer against these harsh sentiments. "He isn't a
bad sort of chap, really. Bugs Butler, I mean."
"Do you seriously mean to stand there and tell me you don't loathe the
creature?"
"Oh, he's all right. See his point of view and all that. Can't blame
him, if you come to think of it, for getting the wind up a bit in the
circs. Bit thick, I mean to say, a sparring-partner going at him like
that. Naturally he didn't think it much of a wheeze. It was my fault
right along. Oughtn't to have done it, of course, but somehow, when he
started making an ass of me and I knew you were looking on... well, it
seemed a good idea to have a dash at doing something on my own. No right
to, of course. A sparring-partner isn't supposed..."
"Sit down," said Sally.
Ginger sat down.
"Ginger," said Sally, "you're too good to live."
"Oh, I say!"
"I believe if someone sandbagged you and stole your watch and chain
you'd say there were faults on both sides or something. I'm just a cat,
and I say I wish your beast of a Bugs Butler had perished miserably. I'd
have gone and danced on his grave... But whatever made you go in for
that sort of thing?"
"Well, it seemed the only job that was going at the moment. I've always
done a goodish bit of boxing and I was very fit and so on, and it looked
to me rather an opening. Gave me something to get along with. You get
paid quite fairly decently, you know, and it's rather a jolly life..."
"Jolly? Being hammered about like that?"
"Oh, you don't notice it much. I've always enjoyed scrapping rather.
And, you see, when your brother gave me the push..."
Sally uttered an exclamation.
"What an extraordinary thing it is--I went all the way out to White
Plains that afternoon to find Fillmore and tackle him about that and I
didn't say a word about it. And I haven't seen or been able to get hold
of him since."
"No? Busy sort of cove, your brother."
"Why did Fillmore let you go?"
"Let me go? Oh, you mean... well, there was a sort of mix-up. A kind of
misunderstanding."
"What happened?"
"Oh, it was nothing. Just a..."
"What happened?"
Ginger's disfigured countenance betrayed embarrassment. He looked
awkwardly about the room.
"It's not worth talking about."
"It is worth talking about. I've a right to know. It was I who sent
you to Fillmore..."
"Now that," said Ginger, "was jolly decent of you."
"Don't interrupt! I sent you to Fillmore, and he had no business to let
you go without saying a word to me. What happened?"
Ginger twiddled his fingers unhappily.
"Well, it was rather unfortunate. You see, his wife--I don't know if
you know her?..."
"Of course I know her."
"Why, yes, you would, wouldn't you? Your brother's wife, I mean," said
Ginger acutely. "Though, as a matter of fact, you often find
sisters-in-law who won't have anything to do with one another. I know a
fellow..."
"Ginger," said Sally, "it's no good your thinking you can get out of
telling me by rambling off on other subjects. I'm grim and resolute and
relentless, and I mean to get this story out of you if I have to use a
corkscrew. Fillmore's wife, you were saying..."
Ginger came back reluctantly to the main theme.
"Well, she came into the office one morning, and we started fooling
about..."
"Fooling about?"
"Well, kind of chivvying each other."
"Chivvying?"
"At least I was."
"You were what?"
"Sort of chasing her a bit, you know."
Sally regarded this apostle of frivolity with amazement.
"What do you mean?"
Ginger's embarrassment increased.
"The thing was, you see, she happened to trickle in rather quietly when
I happened to be looking at something, and I didn't know she was there
till she suddenly grabbed it..."
"Grabbed what?"
"The thing. The thing I happened to be looking at. She bagged it...
collared it... took it away from me, you know, and wouldn't give it back
and generally started to rot about a bit, so I rather began to chivvy
her to some extent, and I'd just caught her when your brother happened
to roll in. I suppose," said Ginger, putting two and two together, "he
had really come with her to the office and had happened to hang back for
a minute or two, to talk to somebody or something... well, of course,
he was considerably fed to see me apparently doing jiu-jitsu with his
wife. Enough to rattle any man, if you come to think of it," said
Ginger, ever fair-minded. "Well, he didn't say anything at the time, but
a bit later in the day he called me in and administered the push."
Sally shook her head.
"It sounds the craziest story to me. What was it that Mrs. Fillmore
took from you?"
"Oh, just something."
Sally rapped the table imperiously.
"Ginger!"
"Well, as a matter of fact," said her goaded visitor, "It was a
photograph."
"Who of? Or, if you're particular, of whom?"
"Well... you, to be absolutely accurate."
"Me?" Sally stared. "But I've never given you a photograph of myself."
Ginger's face was a study in scarlet and purple.
"You didn't exactly give it to me," he mumbled. "When I say give, I
mean..."
"Good gracious!" Sudden enlightenment came upon Sally. "That photograph
we were hunting for when I first came here! Had you stolen it all the
time?"
"Why, yes, I did sort of pinch it..."
"You fraud! You humbug! And you pretended to help me look for it." She
gazed at him almost with respect. "I never knew you were so deep and
snaky. I'm discovering all sorts of new things about you."
There was a brief silence. Ginger, confession over, seemed a trifle
happier.
"I hope you're not frightfully sick about it?" he said at length. "It
was lying about, you know, and I rather felt I must have it. Hadn't the
cheek to ask you for it, so..."
"Don't apologize," said Sally cordially. "Great compliment. So I have
caused your downfall again, have I? I'm certainly your evil genius,
Ginger. I'm beginning to feel like a regular rag and a bone and a hank
of hair. First I egged you on to insult your family--oh, by the way, I
want to thank you about that. Now that I've met your Uncle Donald I can
see how public-spirited you were. I ruined your prospects there, and now
my fatal beauty--cabinet size--has led to your destruction once more.
It's certainly up to me to find you another job, I can see that."
"No, really, I say, you mustn't bother. I shall be all right."
"It's my duty. Now what is there that you really can do? Burglary, of
course, but it's not respectable. You've tried being a waiter and a
prize-fighter and a right-hand man, and none of those seems to be just
right. Can't you suggest anything?"
Ginger shook his head.
"I shall wangle something, I expect." '
"Yes, but what? It must be something good this time. I don't want to be
walking along Broadway and come on you suddenly as a street-cleaner. I
don't want to send for an express-man and find you popping up. My idea
would be to go to my bank to arrange an overdraft and be told the
president could give me two minutes and crawl in humbly and find you
prezzing away to beat the band in a big chair. Isn't there anything in
the world that you can do that's solid and substantial and will keep you
out of the poor-house in your old age? Think!"
"Of course, if I had a bit of capital..."
"Ah! The business man! And what," inquired Sally, "would you do, Mr.
Morgan, if you had a bit of capital?"
"Run a dog-thingummy," said Ginger promptly.
"What's a dog-thingummy?"
"Why, a thingamajig. For dogs, you know."
Sally nodded.
"Oh, a thingamajig for dogs? Now I understand. You will put things so
obscurely at first. Ginger, you poor fish, what are you raving about?
What on earth is a thingamajig for dogs?"
"I mean a sort of place like fellows have. Breeding dogs, you know, and
selling them and winning prizes and all that. There are lots of them
about."
"Oh, a kennels?"
"Yes, a kennels."
"What a weird mind you have, Ginger. You couldn't say kennels at first,
could you? That wouldn't have made it difficult enough. I suppose, if
anyone asked you where you had your lunch, you would say, 'Oh, at a
thingamajig for mutton chops'... Ginger, my lad, there is something in
this. I believe for the first time in our acquaintance you have spoken
something very nearly resembling a mouthful. You're wonderful with dogs,
aren't you?"
"I'm dashed keen on them, and I've studied them a bit. As a matter of
fact, though it seems rather like swanking, there isn't much about dogs
that I don't know."
"Of course. I believe you're a sort of honorary dog yourself. I could
tell it by the way you stopped that fight at Roville. You plunged into a
howling mass of about a million hounds of all species and just whispered
in their ears and they stopped at once. Why, the more one examines this,
the better it looks. I do believe it's the one thing you couldn't help
making a success of. It's very paying, isn't it?"
"Works out at about a hundred per cent on the original outlay, I've been
told."
"A hundred per cent? That sounds too much like something of Fillmore's
for comfort. Let's say ninety-nine and be conservative. Ginger, you have
hit it. Say no more. You shall be the Dog King, the biggest
thingamajigger for dogs in the country. But how do you start?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, while I was up at White Plains, I ran into a
cove who had a place of the sort and wanted to sell out. That was what
made me think of it."
"You must start to-day. Or early to-morrow."
"Yes," said Ginger doubtfully. "Of course, there's the catch, you
know."
"What catch?"
"The capital. You've got to have that. This fellow wouldn't sell out
under five thousand dollars."
"I'll lend you five thousand dollars."
"No!" said Ginger.
Sally looked at him with exasperation. "Ginger, I'd like to slap you,"
she said. It was maddening, this intrusion of sentiment into business
affairs. Why, simply because he was a man and she was a woman, should
she be restrained from investing money in a sound commercial
undertaking? If Columbus had taken up this bone-headed stand towards
Queen Isabella, America would never have been discovered.
"I can't take five thousand dollars off you," said Ginger firmly.
"Who's talking of taking it off me, as you call it?" stormed Sally.
"Can't you forget your burglarious career for a second? This isn't the
same thing as going about stealing defenceless girls' photographs. This
is business. I think you would make an enormous success of a dog-place,
and you admit you're good, so why make frivolous objections? Why
shouldn't I put money into a good thing? Don't you want me to get rich,
or what is it?"
Ginger was becoming confused. Argument had never been his strong point.
"But it's such a lot of money."
"To you, perhaps. Not to me. I'm a plutocrat. Five thousand dollars!
What's five thousand dollars? I feed it to the birds."
Ginger pondered woodenly for a while. His was a literal mind, and he
knew nothing of Sally's finances beyond the fact that when he had first
met her she had come into a legacy of some kind. Moreover, he had been
hugely impressed by Fillmore's magnificence. It seemed plain enough
that the Nicholases were a wealthy family.
"I don't like it, you know," he said.
"You don't have to like it," said Sally. "You just do it."
A consoling thought flashed upon Ginger.
"You'd have to let me pay you interest."
"Let you? My lad, you'll have to pay me interest. What do you think
this is--a round game? It's a cold business deal."
"Topping!" said Ginger relieved. "How about twenty-five per cent."
"Don't be silly," said Sally quickly. "I want three."
"No, that's all rot," protested Ginger. "I mean to say--three. I
don't," he went on, making a concession, "mind saying twenty."
"If you insist, I'll make it five. Not more."
"Well, ten, then?"
"Five!"
"Suppose," said Ginger insinuatingly, "I said seven?"
"I never saw anyone like you for haggling," said Sally with disapproval.
"Listen! Six. And that's my last word."
"Six?"
"Six."
Ginger did sums in his head.
"But that would only work out at three hundred dollars a year. It isn't
enough."
"What do you know about it? As if I hadn't been handling this sort of
deal in my life. Six! Do you agree?"
"I suppose so."
"Then that's settled. Is this man you talk about in New York?"
"No, he's down on Long Island at a place on the south shore."
"I mean, can you get him on the 'phone and clinch the thing?"
"Oh, yes. I know his address, and I suppose his number's in the book."
"Then go off at once and settle with him before somebody else snaps him
up. Don't waste a minute."
Ginger paused at the door.
"I say, you're absolutely sure about this?'''
"Of course."
"I mean to say..."
"Get on," said Sally.
The window of Sally's sitting-room looked out on to a street which,
while not one of the city's important arteries, was capable,
nevertheless, of affording a certain amount of entertainment to the
observer: and after Ginger had left, she carried the morning paper to
the window-sill and proceeded to divide her attention between a third
reading of the fight-report and a lazy survey of the outer world. It was
a beautiful day, and the outer world was looking its best.
She had not been at her post for many minutes when a taxi-cab stopped at
the apartment-house, and she was surprised and interested to see her
brother Fillmore heave himself out of the interior. He paid the driver,
and the cab moved off, leaving him on the sidewalk casting a large
shadow in the sunshine. Sally was on the point of calling to him, when
his behaviour became so odd that astonishment checked her.
From where she sat Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practising
the steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would do
next kept Sally watching in silence. First, he moved in a resolute sort
of way towards the front door; then, suddenly stopping, scuttled back.
This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thought
before making another dash for the door, which, like the others, came to
an abrupt end as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And,
finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street and was lost
to view.
Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble to
come in a taxi-cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned the
idea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mystery
when the telephone-bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily in
her ear.
"Sally?"
"Hullo, Fill. What are you going to call it?"
"What am I... Call what?"
"The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your own
invention, isn't it?"
"Did you see me?" said Fillmore, upset.
"Of course I saw you. I was fascinated."
"I--er--I was coming to have a talk with you. Sally..."
Fillmore's voice trailed off.
"Well, why didn't you?"
There was a pause--on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of at his voice
correctly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something was
plainly vexing Fillmore's great mind.
"Sally," he said at last, and coughed hollowly into the receiver.
"Yes."
"I--that is to say, I have asked Gladys... Gladys will be coming to see
you very shortly. Will you be in?"
"I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again."
"She is very well. A trifle--a little upset."
"Upset? What about?"
"She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been 'phoning to her.
She is coming at once." There was another pause. "I'm afraid she has bad
news."
"What news?"
There was silence at the other end of the wire.
"What news?" repeated Sally, a little sharply. She hated mysteries.
But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully.
She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gained
by worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen and
tried to divert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the door-bell
brought her out, to find her sister-in-law.
Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position of
partnership with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected no
noticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she was
the same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscular
manner and went on in the sitting-room.
"Well, it's great seeing you again," she said. "I began to think you
were never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to England
like that?"
Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure.
"I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt."
"Who's Mr. Faucitt?"
"Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at the
boarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dressmaking
establishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what to
do about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country."
"Well, the trip's done you good," said Mrs. Fillmore. "You're prettier
than ever."
There was a pause. Already, in these trivial opening exchanges, Sally
had sensed a suggestion of unwonted gravity in her companion. She missed
that careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic of
Miss Gladys Winch and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. Fillmore
Nicholas. At their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had not noticed
this, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on her
companion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled.
"What's the bad news?" asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end the
suspense. "Fillmore was telling me over the 'phone that you had some bad
news for me."
Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of her
parasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to the
question.
"Sally, who's this man Carmyle over in England?"
"Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him?"
"He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy about
you and had asked you to marry him, and that you had turned him down."
Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, have
expected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife.
"Yes," she said. "That's true."
"You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind?"
Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intensely
independent, resentful of interference with her private concerns.
"I suppose I could if I had--but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you to
try to talk me round?"
"Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round," said Mrs. Fillmore quickly.
"Goodness knows, I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone into
marrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too many
marriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doland."
Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched.
"Elsa?" she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook.
"Has--has her marriage gone wrong?"
"Gone all to bits," said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. "You remember she
married Gerald Foster, the man who wrote 'The Primrose Way'?"
Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.
"Yes, I remember," she said.
"Well, it's all gone bloo-ey. I'll tell you about that in a minute.
Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it... I
mean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man or
not... When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass,
and now he's just the whole shooting-match... But that's not what I
wanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one's own
mind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow... and
Fillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world..."
Sally stopped her.
"No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmyle."
"That's that, then," said Mrs. Fillmore. "It's a pity, though."
"Why are you taking it so much to heart?" said Sally with a nervous
laugh.
"Well..." Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must,
she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if it
had the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in her
talk. "You see..." went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. "Gee! I'm
hating this!" she murmured.
"What is it? I don't understand."
"You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through," said
Mrs. Fillmore mournfully. "If I'm going to explain this thing, I guess
I'd best start at the beginning. You remember that revue of
Fillmore's--the one we both begged him not to put on. It flopped!"
"Oh!"
"Yes. It flopped on the road and died there. Never got to New York at
all. Ike Schumann wouldn't let Fillmore have a theatre. The book wanted
fixing and the numbers wanted fixing and the scenery wasn't right: and
while they were tinkering with all that there was trouble about the cast
and the Actors Equity closed the show. Best thing that could have
happened, really, and I was glad at the time, because going on with it
would only have meant wasting more money, and it had cost a fortune
already. After that Fillmore put on a play of Gerald Foster's and that
was a frost, too. It ran a week at the Booth. I hear the new piece he's
got in rehearsal now is no good either. It's called 'The Wild Rose,' or
something. But Fillmore's got nothing to do with that."
"But..." Sally tried to speak, but Mrs. Fillmore went on.
"Don't talk just yet, or I shall never get this thing straight. Well,
you know Fillmore, poor darling. Anyone else would have pulled in his
horns and gone slow for a spell, but he's one of those fellows whose
horse is always going to win the next race. The big killing is always
just round the corner with him. Funny how you can see what a chump a man
is and yet love him to death... I remember saying something like that to
you before... He thought he could get it all back by staging this fight
of his that came off in Jersey City last night. And if everything had
gone right he might have got afloat again. But it seems as if he can't
touch anything without it turning to mud. On the very day before the
fight was to come off, the poor mutt who was going against the champion
goes and lets a sparring-partner of his own knock him down and fool
around with him. With all the newspaper men there too! You probably saw
about it in the papers. It made a great story for them. Well, that
killed the whole thing. The public had never been any too sure that this
fellow Bugs Butler had a chance of putting up a scrap with the champion
that would be worth paying to see; and, when they read that he couldn't
even stop his sparring-partners slamming him all around the place they
simply decided to stay away. Poor old Fill! It was a finisher for him.
The house wasn't a quarter full, and after he'd paid these two
pluguglies their guarantees, which they insisted on having before they'd
so much as go into the ring, he was just about cleaned out. So there you
are!"
Sally had listened with dismay to this catalogue of misfortunes.
"Oh, poor Fill!" she cried. "How dreadful!"
"Pretty tough."
"But 'The Primrose Way' is a big success, isn't it?" said Sally, anxious
to discover something of brightness in the situation.
"It was." Mrs. Fillmore flushed again. "This is the part I hate having
to tell you."
"It was? Do you mean it isn't still? I thought Elsa had made such a
tremendous hit. I read about it when I was over in London. It was even
in one of the English papers."
"Yes, she made a hit all right," said Mrs. Fillmore drily. "She made
such a hit that all the other managements in New York were after her
right away, and Fillmore had hardly sailed when she handed in her notice
and signed up with Goble and Cohn for a new piece they are starring her
in."
"Ah, she couldn't!" cried Sally.
"My dear, she did! She's out on the road with it now. I had to break
the news to poor old Fillmore at the dock when he landed. It was rather
a blow. I must say it wasn't what I would call playing the game. I know
there isn't supposed to be any sentiment in business, but after all we
had given Elsa her big chance. But Fillmore wouldn't put her name up
over the theatre in electrics, and Goble and Cohn made it a clause in
her contract that they would, so nothing else mattered. People are like
that."
"But Elsa... She used not to be like that."
"They all get that way. They must grab success if it's to be grabbed.
I suppose you can't blame them. You might just as well expect a cat to
keep off catnip. Still, she might have waited to the end of the New York
run." Mrs. Fillmore put out her hand and touched Sally's. "Well, I've
got it out now," she said, "and, believe me, it was one rotten job. You
don't know how sorry I am. Sally. I wouldn't have had it happen for a
million dollars. Nor would Fillmore. I'm not sure that I blame him for
getting cold feet and backing out of telling you himself. He just hadn't
the nerve to come and confess that he had fooled away your money. He was
hoping all along that this fight would pan out big and that he'd be able
to pay you back what you had loaned him, but things didn't happen
right."
Sally was silent. She was thinking how strange it was that this room in
which she had hoped to be so happy had been from the first moment of her
occupancy a storm centre of bad news and miserable disillusionment. In
this first shock of the tidings, it was the disillusionment that hurt
most. She had always been so fond of Elsa, and Elsa had always seemed so
fond of her. She remembered that letter of Elsa's with all its
protestations of gratitude... It wasn't straight. It was horrible.
Callous, selfish, altogether horrible...
"It's..." She choked, as a rush of indignation brought the tears to her
eyes. "It's... beastly! I'm... I'm not thinking about my money. That's
just bad luck. But Elsa..."
Mrs. Fillmore shrugged her square shoulders.
"Well, it's happening all the time in the show business," she said.
"And in every other business, too, I guess, if one only knew enough
about them to be able to say. Of course, it hits you hard because Elsa
was a pal of yours, and you're thinking she might have considered you
after all you've done for her. I can't say I'm much surprised myself."
Mrs. Fillmore was talking rapidly, and dimly Sally understood that she
was talking so that talk would carry her over this bad moment. Silence
now would have been unendurable. "I was in the company with her, and it
sometimes seems to me as if you can't get to know a person right through
till you've been in the same company with them. Elsa's all right, but
she's two people really, like these dual identity cases you read about.
She's awfully fond of you. I know she is. She was always saying so, and
it was quite genuine. If it didn't interfere with business there's
nothing she wouldn't do for you. But when it's a case of her career you
don't count. Nobody counts. Not even her husband. Now that's funny. If
you think that sort of thing funny. Personally, it gives me the
willies."
"What's funny?" asked Sally, dully.
"Well, you weren't there, so you didn't see it, but I was on the spot
all the time, and I know as well as I know anything that he simply
married her because he thought she could get him on in the game. He
hardly paid any attention to her at all till she was such a riot in
Chicago, and then he was all over her. And now he's got stung. She
throws down his show and goes off to another fellow's. It's like
marrying for money and finding the girl hasn't any. And she's got stung,
too, in a way, because I'm pretty sure she married him mostly because
she thought he was going to be the next big man in the play-writing
business and could boost her up the ladder. And now it doesn't look as
though he had another success in him. The result is they're at outs. I
hear he's drinking. Somebody who'd seen him told me he had gone all to
pieces. You haven't seen him, I suppose?"
"No."
"I thought maybe you might have run into him. He lives right opposite."
Sally clutched at the arm of her chair.
"Lives right opposite? Gerald Foster? What do you mean?"
"Across the passage there," said Mrs. Fillmore, jerking her thumb at the
door. "Didn't you know? That's right, I suppose you didn't. They moved
in after you had beaten it for England. Elsa wanted to be near you, and
she was tickled to death when she found there was an apartment to be had
right across from you. Now, that just proves what I was saying a while
ago about Elsa. If she wasn't fond of you, would she go out of her way
to camp next door? And yet, though she's so fond of you, she doesn't
hesitate about wrecking your property by quitting the show when she
sees a chance of doing herself a bit of good. It's funny, isn't it?"
The telephone-bell, tinkling sharply, rescued Sally from the necessity
of a reply. She forced herself across the room to answer it.
"Hullo?"
Ginger's voice spoke jubilantly.
"Hullo. Are you there? I say, it's all right, about that binge, you
know."
"Oh, yes?"
"That dog fellow, you know," said Ginger, with a slight diminution of
exuberance. His sensitive ear had seemed to detect a lack of animation
in her voice. "I've just been talking to him over the 'phone, and it's
all settled. If," he added, with a touch of doubt, "you still feel like
going into it, I mean."
There was an instant in which Sally hesitated, but it was only an
instant.
"Why, of course," she said, steadily. "Why should you think I had
changed my mind?"
"Well, I thought... that is to say, you seemed... oh, I don't know."
"You imagine things. I was a little worried about something when you
called me up, and my mind wasn't working properly. Of course, go ahead
with it. Ginger. I'm delighted."
"I say, I'm awfully sorry you're worried."
"Oh. it's all right."
"Something bad?"
"Nothing that'll kill me. I'm young and strong."
Ginger was silent for a moment.
"I say, I don't want to butt in, but can I do anything?"
"No, really, Ginger, I know you would do anything you could, but this is
just something I must worry through by myself. When do you go down to
this place?"
"I was thinking of popping down this afternoon, just to take a look
round."
"Let me know what train you're making and I'll come and see you off."
"That's ripping of you. Right ho. Well, so long."
"So long," said Sally.
Mrs. Fillmore, who had been sitting in that state of suspended
animation which comes upon people who are present at a telephone
conversation which has nothing to do with themselves, came to life as
Sally replaced the receiver.
"Sally," she said, "I think we ought to have a talk now about what
you're going to do."
Sally was not feeling equal to any discussion of the future. All she
asked of the world at the moment was to be left alone.
"Oh, that's all right. I shall manage. You ought to be worrying about
Fillmore."
"Fillmore's got me to look after him," said Gladys, with quiet
determination. "You're the one that's on my mind. I lay awake all last
night thinking about you. As far as I can make out from Fillmore, you've
still a few thousand dollars left. Well, as it happens, I can put you on
to a really good thing. I know a girl..."
"I'm afraid," interrupted Sally, "all the rest of my money, what there
is of it, is tied up."
"You can't get hold of it?"
"No."
"But listen," said Mrs. Fillmore, urgently. "This is a really good
thing. This girl I know started an interior decorating business some
time ago and is pulling in the money in handfuls. But she wants more
capital, and she's willing to let go of a third of the business to
anyone who'll put in a few thousand. She won't have any difficulty
getting it, but I 'phoned her this morning to hold off till I'd heard
from you. Honestly, Sally, it's the chance of a lifetime. It would put
you right on easy street. Isn't there really any way you could get your
money out of this other thing and take on this deal?"
"There really isn't. I'm awfully obliged to you, Gladys dear, but it's
impossible."
"Well," said Mrs. Fillmore, prodding the carpet energetically with her
parasol, "I don't know what you've gone into, but, unless they've given
you a share in the Mint or something, you'll be losing by not making
the switch. You're sure you can't do it?"
"I really can't."
Mrs. Fillmore rose, plainly disappointed.
"Well, you know best, of course. Gosh! What a muddle everything is.
Sally," she said, suddenly stopping at the door, "you're not going to
hate poor old Fillmore over this, are you?"
"Why, of course not. The whole thing was just bad luck."
"He's worried stiff about it."
"Well, give him my love, and tell him not to be so silly."
Mrs. Fillmore crossed the room and kissed Sally impulsively.
"You're an angel," she said. "I wish there were more like you. But I
guess they've lost the pattern. Well, I'll go back and tell Fillmore
that. It'll relieve him."
The door closed, and Sally sat down with her chin in her hands to think.
Mr. Isadore Abrahams, the founder and proprietor of that deservedly
popular dancing resort poetically named "The Flower Garden," leaned back
in his chair with a contented sigh and laid down the knife and fork with
which he had been assailing a plateful of succulent goulash. He was
dining, as was his admirable custom, in the bosom of his family at his
residence at Far Rockaway. Across the table, his wife, Rebecca, beamed
at him over her comfortable plinth of chins, and round the table his
children, David, Jacob, Morris and Saide, would have beamed at him if
they had not been too busy at the moment ingurgitating goulash. A
genial, honest, domestic man was Mr. Abrahams, a credit to the
community.
"Mother," he said.
"Pa?" said Mrs. Abrahams.
"Knew there was something I'd meant to tell you," said Mr. Abrahams,
absently chasing a piece of bread round his plate with a stout finger.
"You remember that girl I told you about some time back--girl working at
the Garden--girl called Nicholas, who came into a bit of money and
threw up her job..."
"I remember. You liked her. Jakie, dear, don't gobble."
"Ain't gobbling," said Master Abrahams.
"Everybody liked her," said Mr. Abrahams. "The nicest girl I ever
hired, and I don't hire none but nice girls, because the Garden's a nice
place, and I like to run it nice. I wouldn't give you a nickel for any
of your tough joints where you get nothing but low-lifes and scare away
all the real folks. Everybody liked Sally Nicholas. Always pleasant and
always smiling, and never anything but the lady. It was a treat to have
her around. Well, what do you think?"
"Dead?" inquired Mrs. Abrahams, apprehensively. The story had sounded
to her as though it were heading that way. "Wipe your mouth, Jakie
dear."
"No, not dead," said Mr. Abrahams, conscious for the first time that the
remainder of his narrative might be considered by a critic something of
an anti-climax and lacking in drama. "But she was in to see me this
afternoon and wants her job back."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Abrahams, rather tonelessly. An ardent supporter of the
local motion-picture palace, she had hoped for a slightly more gingery
denouement, something with a bit more punch.
"Yes, but don't it show you?" continued Mr. Abrahams, gallantly trying
to work up the interest. "There's this girl, goes out of my place not
more'n a year ago, with a good bank-roll in her pocket, and here she is,
back again, all of it spent. Don't it show you what a tragedy life is,
if you see what I mean, and how careful one ought to be about money?
It's what I call a human document. Goodness knows how she's been and
gone and spent it all. I'd never have thought she was the sort of girl
to go gadding around. Always seemed to me to be kind of sensible."
"What's gadding, Pop?" asked Master Jakie, the goulash having ceased to
chain his interest.
"Well, she wanted her job back and I gave it to her, and glad to get her
back again. There's class to that girl. She's the sort of girl I want in
the place. Don't seem quite to have so much get-up in her as she used
to... seems kind of quieted down... but she's got class, and I'm glad
she's back. I hope she'll stay. But don't it show you?"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Abrahams, with more enthusiasm than before. It had not
worked out such a bad story after all. In its essentials it was not
unlike the film she had seen the previous evening--Gloria Gooch in "A
Girl against the World."
"Pop!" said Master Abrahams.
"Yes, Jakie?"
"When I'm grown up, I won't never lose no money. I'll put it in the
bank and save it."
The slight depression caused by the contemplation of Sally's troubles
left Mr. Abrahams as mist melts beneath a sunbeam.
"That's a good boy, Jakie," he said.
He felt in his waistcoat pocket, found a dime, put it back again, and
bent forward and patted Master Abrahams on the head. _