The Little Warrior by P. G. Wodehouse

With most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges of conscience, pass as quickly as they come, and they go back to coining money with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. But Otis Pilkington, happening along with the script of “The Rose of America” and the cash to back it, had caught Mr Goble in the full grip of an attack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latter emerged from the influence. He now regretted his rash act.

“Say, listen,” he said to Wally, his gaze on the stage, his words proceeding from the corner of his mouth, “you’ve got to stick around with this show after it opens on the road. We’ll talk terms later. But we’ve got to get it right, don’t care what it costs. See?”

“You think it will need fixing?”

Mr Goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now going through a particularly arid stretch of dialogue.

“Fixing! It’s all wrong! It don’t add up right! You’ll have to rewrite it from end to end.”

“Well, I’ve got some ideas about it. I saw it played by amateurs last summer, you know. I could make a quick job of it, if you want me to. But will the author stand for it?”

Mr Goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and twisted it round in Wally’s direction.

“Say, listen! He’ll stand for anything I say. I’m the little guy that gives orders round here. I’m the big noise!”

As if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. The effect was magical. The refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been shot. The assistant stage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had now been turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script.

“Take that over again!” shouted Mr Goble. “Yes, that speech about life being like a water-melon. It don’t sound to me as though it meant anything.” He cocked his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. He clapped his hands. The action stopped again. “Cut it!” said Mr Goble tersely.

“Cut the speech, Mr Goble?” queried the obsequious assistant stage-director.

“Yes. Cut it. It don’t mean nothing!”

Down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, shimmered Mr Pilkington, wounded to the quick.

“Mr Goble! Mr Goble!”

“Well?”

“That is the best epigram in the play.”

“The best what?”

“Epigram. The best epigram in the play.”

Mr. Goble knocked the ash off his cigar. “The public don’t want epigrams. The public don’t like epigrams. I’ve been in the show business fifteen years, and I’m telling you! Epigrams give them a pain under the vest. All right, get on.”

Mr Pilkington fluttered agitatedly. This was his first experience of Mr Goble in the capacity of stage-director. It was the latter’s custom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did what Mr Goble called the breaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in person, undo most of the other’s work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their lines, and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr Goble’s hobby. He imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and it was useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which he might have come. He regarded those who did not agree with him with the lofty contempt of an Eastern despot.

Of this Mr Pilkington was not yet aware.

“But, Mr Goble — !”

The potentate swung irritably round on him.

“What is it? What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“That epigram —”

“It’s out!”

“But — !”

“It’s out!”

“Surely,” protested Mr Pilkington almost tearfully, “I have a voice —”

“Sure you have a voice,” retorted Mr Goble, “and you can use it any old place you want, except in my theatre. Have all the voice you like! Go round the corner and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath! But don’t come using it here, because I’m the little guy that does all the talking in this theatre! That fellow gets my goat,” he added complainingly to Wally, as Mr Pilkington withdrew like a foiled python. “He don’t know nothing about the show business, and he keeps butting in and making fool suggestions. He ought to be darned glad he’s getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me how to direct it.” He clapped his hands imperiously. The assistant stage-manager bent over the footlights. “What was that that guy said? Lord Finchley’s last speech. Take it again.”

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