Meanwhile Emmy Pinkard, with enough money for crackers and milk, and a friend who took her out to dinner, was being happy. Her friend, Easton Hughes from Delaney, was studying at Columbia to be a dentist. He sometimes brought along other lonesome young men studying to be dentists, and at the price, if it can be called that, of a few casual kisses in taxicabs, Emmy dined when hungry. One afternoon she introduced Easton to Bill McChesney at the stage door, and afterward Bill made his facetious jealousy the basis of their relationship.
“I see that dental number has been slipping it over on me again. Well, don’t let him give you any laughing gas is my advice.”
Though their encounters were few, they always looked at each other. When Bill looked at her he stared for an instant as if he had not seen her before, and then remembered suddenly that she was to be teased. When she looked at him she saw many things—a bright day outside, with great crowds of people hurrying through the streets; a very good new limousine that waited at the curb for two people with very good new clothes, who got in and went somewhere that was just like New York, only away, and more fun there. Many times she had wished she had kissed him, but just as many times she was glad she hadn’t; since, as the weeks passed, he grew less romantic, tied up, like the rest of them, to the play’s laborious evolution.
They were opening in Atlantic City. A sudden moodiness apparent to everyone, came over Bill. He was short with the director and sarcastic with the actors. This, it was rumored, was because Irene Rikker had come down with Frank Llewellen on a different train. Sitting beside the author on the night of the dress rehearsal, he was an almost sinister figure in the twilight of the auditorium; but he said nothing until the end of the second act, when, with Llewellen and Irene Rikker on the stage alone, he suddenly called:
“We’ll go over that again—and cut out the mush!”
Llewellen came down to the footlights.
“What do you mean—cut out the mush?” he inquired. “Those are the lines, aren’t they?”
“You know what I mean—stick to business.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Bill stood up. “I mean all that damn whispering.”
“There wasn’t any whispering. I simply asked—”
“That’ll do—take it over.”
Llewellen turned away furiously and was about to proceed, when Bill added audibly: “Even a ham has got to do his stuff.”
Llewellen whipped about. “I don’t have to stand that kind of talk, Mr. McChesney.”
“Why not? You’re a ham, aren’t you? When did you get ashamed of being a ham? I’m putting on this play and I want you to stick to your stuff.” Bill got up and walked down the aisle. “And when you don’t do it, I’m going to call you just like anybody else.”
“Well, you watch out for your tone of voice—”
“What’ll you do about it?”
Llewellen jumped down into the orchestra pit.
“I’m not taking anything from you!” he shouted.
Irene Rikker called to them from the stage, “For heaven’s sake, are you two crazy?” And then Llewellen swung at him, one short, mighty blow. Bill pitched back across a row of seats, fell through one, splintering it, and lay wedged there. There was a moment’s wild confusion, then people holding Llewellen, then the author, with a white face, pulling Bill up, and the stage manager crying: “Shall I kill him, chief? Shall I break his fat face?” and Llewellen panting and Irene Rikker frightened.
“Get back there!” Bill cried, holding a handkerchief to his face and teetering in the author’s supporting arms. “Everybody get back! Take that scene again, and no talk! Get back, Llewellen!”
Before they realized it they were all back on the stage, Irene pulling Llewellen’s arm and talking to him fast. Someone put on the auditorium lights full and then dimmed them again hurriedly. When Emmy came out presently for her scene, she saw in a quick glance that Bill was sitting with a whole mask of handkerchiefs over his bleeding face. She hated Llewellen and was afraid that presently they would break up and go back to New York. But Bill had saved the show from his own folly, since for Llewellen to take the further initiative of quitting would hurt his professional standing. The act ended and the next one began without an interval. When it was over, Bill was gone.
Next night, during the performance, he sat on a chair in the wings in view of everyone coming on or off. His face was swollen and bruised, but he neglected to seem conscious of the fact and there were no comments. Once he went around in front, and when he returned, word leaked out that two of the New York agencies were making big buys. He had a hit—they all had a hit.
At the sight of him to whom Emmy felt they all owed so much, a great wave of gratitude swept over her. She went up and thanked him.
“I’m a good picker, red-head,” he agreed grimly.
“Thank you for picking me.”
And suddenly Emmy was moved to a rash remark.
“You’ve hurt your face so badly!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I think it was so brave of you not to let everything go to pieces last night.”
He looked at her hard for a moment and then an ironic smile tried unsuccessfully to settle on his swollen face.
“Do you admire me, baby?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I fell in the seats, did you admire me?”
“You got control of everything so quick.”
“That’s loyalty for you. You found something to admire in that fool mess.”
And her happiness bubbled up into, “Anyhow, you behaved just wonderfully.” She looked so fresh and young that Bill, who had had a wretched day, wanted to rest his swollen cheek against her cheek.
He took both the bruise and the desire with him to New York next morning; the bruise faded, but the desire remained. And when they opened in the city, no sooner did he see other men begin to crowd around her beauty than she became this play for him, this success, the thing that he came to see when he came to the theater. After a good run it closed just as he was drinking too much and needed someone on the gray days of reaction. They were married suddenly in Connecticut, early in June.
III
Two men sat in the Savoy Grill in London, waiting for the Fourth of July. It was already late in May.
“Is he a nice guy?” asked Hubbel.
“Very nice,” answered Brancusi; “very nice, very handsome, very popular.” After a moment, he added: “I want to get him to come home.”
“That’s what I don’t get about him,” said Hubbel. “Show business over here is nothing compared to home. What does he want to stay here for?”
“He goes around with a lot of dukes and ladies.”
“Oh?”
“Last week when I met him he was with three ladies—Lady this, Lady that, Lady the other thing.”
“I thought he was married.”
“Married three years,” said Brancusi, “got a fine child, going to have another.”
He broke off as McChesney came in, his very American face staring about boldly over the collar of a box-shouldered topcoat.
“Hello, Mac; meet my friend Mr. Hubbel.”
“J’doo,” said Bill. He sat down, continuing to stare around the bar to see who was present. After a few minutes Hubbel left, and Bill asked:
“Who’s that bird?”
“He’s only been here a month. He ain’t got a title yet. You been here six months, remember.”
Bill grinned.
“You think I’m high-hat, don’t you? Well, I’m not kidding myself anyhow. I like it; it gets me. I’d like to be the Marquis of McChesney.”
“Maybe you can drink yourself into it,” suggested Brancusi.
“Shut your trap. Who said I was drinking? Is that what they say now? Look here; if you can tell me any American manager in the history of the theater who’s had the success that I’ve had in London in less than eight months, I’ll go back to America with you tomorrow. If you’ll just tell me—”
“It was with your old shows. You had two flops in New York.”
Bill stood up, his face hardening.
“Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “Did you come over here to talk to me like that?”
“Don’t get sore now, Bill. I just want you to come back. I’d say anything for that. Put over three seasons like you had in ’22 and ’23, and you’re fixed for life.”
“New York makes me sick,” said Bill moodily. “One minute you’re a king; then you have two flops, they go around saying you’re on the toboggan.”
Brancusi shook his head.
“That wasn’t why they said it. It was because you had that quarrel with Aronstael, your best friend.”
“Friend hell!”
“Your best friend in business anyhow. Then—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He looked at his watch. “Look here; Emmy’s feeling bad so I’m afraid I can’t have dinner with you tonight. Come around to the office before you sail.”
Five minutes later, standing by the cigar counter, Brancusi saw Bill enter the Savoy again and descend the steps that led to the tea room.
“Grown to be a great diplomat,” thought Brancusi; “he used to just say when he had a date. Going with these dukes and ladies is polishing him up even more.”
Perhaps he was a little hurt, though it was not typical of
