The young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running a finger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. He was not used to this sort of thing. In a large experience of amateur theatricals he had never encountered anything like it. In the breathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse and refrain by the lady who played the heroine of “The Rose of America,” he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.
“I say! Is he always like this?”
“Who? Johnny?”
“The sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. The barker on the skyline. Does he often get the wind up like this?”
His colleague smiled tolerantly.
“Why, that’s nothing!” he replied. “Wait till you see him really cut loose! That was just a gentle whisper!”
“My God!” said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leading lady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of the ensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly down towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on his nearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. A clapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated—inappropriately— that he had failed to do so. Mr Miller could be perceived—dimly— with all his fingers entwined in his hair.
“Clear the stage!” yelled Mr Miller. “Not you!” he shouted, as the latest addition to the company began to drift off with the others. “You stay!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or we shall get nowhere. Go on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg. Now, when the refrain begins, come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!”
The young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully. And it was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant, entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o’clock approached, saw him.
“Whoever is that?” said Nelly.
“New man,” replied one of the chorus gentlemen. “Came this morning.”
Nelly turned to Jill.
“He looks just like Mr Rooke!” she exclaimed.
“He is Mr Rooke!” said Jill.
“He can’t be!”
“He is!”
“But what is he doing here?”
Jill bit her lip.
“That’s just what I’m going to ask him myself,” she said.
2.
The opportunity for a private conversation with Freddie did not occur immediately. For ten minutes he remained alone on the stage, absorbing abusive tuition from Mr Miller: and at the end of that period a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of the number with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When, finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of Mr Goble and at the same time indicated Mr Goble’s desire that the stage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of recognition and a faint “What ho!” was all that Freddie was able to bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the ensemble, they had to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It was only when this had been run through four times and the stage left vacant for two of the principals to play a scene that Jill was able to draw the Last of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the question.
“Freddie, what are you doing here?”
Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller’s idea of an opening chorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, the ensemble were supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, and Mr Miller’s conception of the gathering suggested that he supposed house-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victims of St Vitus’ dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, and. exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.
“Eh?” he said feebly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, ah, yes! I see what you mean! I suppose you’re surprised to find me in New York, what?”
“I’m not surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over. But I am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by Mr Miller.”