Such were the meditations of Mr Goble, and, on the final fall of the curtain amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, he had despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to find Mr Pilkington and conduct him to the presence. Meanwhile, he waited impatiently on the empty stage.
The sudden advent of Wally Mason, who appeared at this moment, upset Mr Goble terribly. Wally was a factor in the situation which ho had not considered. An infernal, tactless fellow, always trying to make mischief and upset honest merchants, Wally, if present at the interview with Otis Pilkington, would probably try to act in restraint of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about the prospects of the piece. Not for the first time, Mr Goble wished Wally a sudden stroke of apoplexy.
“Went well, eh?” said Wally amiably. He did not like Mr Goble, but on the first night of a successful piece personal antipathies may be sunk. Such was his effervescent good-humor at the moment that he was prepared to treat Mr Goble as a man and a brother.
“H’m!” replied Mr Goble doubtfully, paving the way.
“What are you h’ming about?” demanded Wally, astonished. “The thing’s a riot.”
“You never know,” responded Mr Goble in the minor key.
“Well!” Wally stared. “I don’t know what more you want. The audience sat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn’t they?”
“I’ve an idea,” said Mr Goble, raising his voice as the long form of Mr Pilkington crossed the stage towards them, “that the critics will roast it. If you ask me,” he went on loudly, “it’s just the sort of show the critics will pan the life out of. I’ve been fifteen years in the —”
“Critics!” cried Wally. “Well, I’ve just been talking to Alexander of the Times, and he said it was the best musical piece he had ever seen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same.”
Mr Goble turned a distorted face to Mr Pilkington. He wished that Wally would go. But Wally, he reflected bitterly, was one of those men who never go. He faced Mr Pilkington and did the best he could.
“Of course it’s got a chance,” he said gloomily. “Any show has got a chance! But I don’t know — I don’t know —”
Mr Pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of “The Rose of America.” He had a favor to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have it refused if possible, and get away. It occurred to him that, by substituting for the asking of a favor a peremptory demand, he might save himself a thousand dollars.
“I want the stage after the performance tomorrow night, for a supper to the company,” he said brusquely.
He was shocked to find Mr Goble immediately complaisant.
“Why, sure,” said Mr Goble readily. “Go as far as you like!” He took Mr Pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voice to a confidential undertone. “And now, listen,” he said, “I’ve something I want to talk to you about. Between you and I and the lamp-post, I don’t think this show will last a month in New York. It don’t add up right! There’s something all wrong about it.”
Mr Pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. “I quite agree with you! If you had kept it the way it was originally —”
“Too late for that!” sighed Mr Goble, realizing that his star was in the ascendant. He had forgotten for the moment that Mr Pilkington was an author. “We must make the best of a bad job! Now, you’re a good kid and I wouldn’t like you to go around town saying that I had let you in. It isn’t business, maybe, but, just because I don’t want you to have any kick coming, I’m ready to buy your share of the thing and call it a deal. After all, it may get money on the road. It ain’t likely, but there’s a chance, and I’m willing to take it. Well, listen, I’m probably robbing myself, but I’ll give you fifteen thousand, if you want to sell.”