“This one will want all the reviving you can give it. Better use a pulmotor.”
“But that long boob, that Pilkington — he would never stand for my handing you one and a half per cent.”
“I thought you were the little guy who arranged things round here.”
“But he’s got money in the show.”
“Well, if he wants to get any out, he’d better call in somebody to rewrite it. You don’t have to engage me if you don’t want to. But I know I could make a good job of it. There’s just one little twist the thing needs and you would have quite a different piece.”
“What’s that?” enquired Mr Goble casually.
“Oh, just a little — what shall I say?— a little touch of what-d’you-call-it and a bit of thingummy. You know the sort of thing! That’s all it wants.”
Mr Goble gnawed his cigar, baffled.
“You think so, eh?” he said at length.
“And perhaps a suspicion of je-ne-sais-quoi,” added Wally.
Mr Goble worried his cigar, and essayed a new form of attack.
“You’ve done a lot of work for me,” he said. “Good work!”
“Glad you liked it,” said Wally.
“You’re a good kid! I like having you around. I was half thinking of giving you a show to do this Fall. Corking book. French farce. Ran two years in Paris. But what’s the good, if you want the earth?”
“Always useful, the earth. Good thing to have.”
“See here, if you’ll fix up this show for half of one per cent, I’ll give you the other to do.”
“You shouldn’t slur your words so. For a moment I thought you said ‘half of one per cent.’ One and a half of course you really said.”
“If you won’t take half, you don’t get the other.”
“All right,” said Wally. “There are lots of other managers in New York. Haven’t you seen them popping about? Rich, enterprising men, and all of them love me like a son.”
“Make it one per cent,” said Mr Goble, “and I’ll see if I can fix it with Pilkington.”
“One and a half.”
“Oh, damn it, one and a half, then,” said Mr Goble morosely. “What’s the good of splitting straws?”
“Forgotten Sports of the Past—Splitting the Straw. All right. If you drop me a line to that effect, legibly signed with your name, I’ll wear it next my heart. I shall have to go now. I have a date. Good-bye. Glad everything’s settled and everybody’s happy.”
For some moments after Wally had left, Mr Goble sat hunched up in his orchestra-chair, smoking sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever. Living in a little world of sycophants, he was galled by the off-hand way in which Wally always treated him. There was something in the latter’s manner which seemed to him sometimes almost contemptuous. He regretted the necessity of having to employ him. There was, of course, no real necessity why he should have employed Wally. New York was full of librettists who would have done the work equally well for half the money, but, like most managers, Mr Goble had the mental processes of a sheep. “Follow the Girl” was the last outstanding musical success in New York theatrical history: Wally had written it: therefore nobody but Wally was capable of rewriting “The Rose of America.” The thing had for Mr Goble the inevitability of Fate. Except for deciding mentally that Wally had swelled head, there was nothing to be done.
Having decided that Wally had swelled head and not feeling much better, Mr Goble concentrated his attention on the stage. A good deal of action had taken place there during recently concluded business talk, and the unfortunate Finchley was back again, playing another of his scenes. Mr Goble glared at Lord Finchley. He did not like him, and he did not like the way he was speaking his lines.
The part of Lord Finchley was a non-singing role. It was a type part. Otis Pilkington had gone to the straight stage to find an artist, and had secured the not uncelebrated Wentworth Hill, who had come over from London to play in an English comedy which had just closed. The newspapers had called the play thin, but had thought that Wentworth Hill was an excellent comedian. Mr Hill thought so too, and it was consequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellow from the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speeches and a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong.