“Oh, no.”
“Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr Pilkington.”
“What!”
“Well, when I say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The human giraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which he legged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takes nourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had a conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr Goble told him in no uncertain words—in the whole course of my experience I have never heard words less uncertain—that his damned rotten high-brow false-alarm of a show—I am quoting Mr Goble—would have to be rewritten by alien hands. And these are them! On the right, alien right hand. On the left, alien left hand. Yes, I am the instrument selected for the murder of Pilkington’s artistic aspirations. I’m going to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritten the first act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency and told me to get busy two weeks ago, and I’ve been working hard ever since. We shall start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open in Baltimore next Monday with practically a different piece. And it’s going to be a pippin, believe me, said our hero modestly. A gang of composers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chucking out nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. It means a lot of work for you, I’m afraid. All the business of the numbers will have to be re-arranged.”
“I like work,” said Jill. “But I’m sorry for Mr Pilkington.”
“He’s all right. He owns seventy per cent of the show. He may make a fortune. He’s certain to make a comfortable sum. That is, if he doesn’t sell out his interest in pique—or dudgeon, if you prefer it. From what he said at the close of the proceedings, I fancy he would sell out to anybody who asked him. At least, he said that he washed his hands of the piece. He’s going back to New York this afternoon,—won’t even wait for the opening. Of course, I’m sorry for the poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellent central idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. Oh, by the way!”
“Yes?”
“Another tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He’s out!”
“Oh, no!”
“Out!” repeated Wally firmly.
“But didn’t you think he was good last night?”
“He was awful! But that isn’t why. Goble wanted his part rewritten as a Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hit last season in ‘Hoots, Mon!’ That sort of thing is always happening in musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good people happen to be available at the moment. When you’ve had one or two experiences of changing your Italian count to a Jewish millionaire—invariably against time: they always want the script on Thursday next at noon—and then changing him again to a Russian Bolshevik, you begin to realize what is meant by the words ‘Death, where is thy sting?’ My heart bleeds for Freddie, but what can one do? At any rate he isn’t so badly off as a fellow was in one of my shows. In the second act he was supposed to have escaped from an asylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted that he should shave his head. The day after he shaved it, they heard that a superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It’s a ruthless business.”
“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 seashore 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.”