Bambi (Cooke)/Chapter 10
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NO LETTER from Mr. Strong arrived in the morning’s mail, so Bambi induced Jarvis to go over to the Cubist show, by himself, on the plea that she had a headache. He went, most willingly, anywhere, except Broadway.
The minute he was out of the way her languid, headachey manner changed to one of brisk energy. She donned her smartest frock and hat. She was more earnest in her effort to allure the eye than she was on the day of her own conquest. “You must look your best, you little old Bambi, you, and see what you can do for big Jarvis!”
After the last nod of approval at her reflected self, she tucked Jarvis’s manuscript under her arm, and started forth. She had made a close study of all the theatrical columns of the papers and magazines since their arrival in New York, so she was beginning to have a formal bowing acquaintance with the names of the leading managers.
In spite of her cheerful acceptance of Jarvis’s mood of despair, the day before, she was really deeply touched by it, and appealed to by his helplessness to cope with the situation. She remembered her words to her father, “He cannot accommodate himself to the commercial standards of the times.” It was so true. And was she right in submitting him to them so ruthlessly? Was she blunting something fine in him by this ugly picture she was holding up for him to see, of a thoroughly commercialized drama, the laws and restrictions of which he must know and conquer, or be silenced? All the mother in her hated to have him hurt, but the sensible helpmeet part of her knew that it must be done. Of course he could not be expected to know how to approach managers, all at once. He was probably very tactless. He admitted that he had called the enemy of yesterday a “pig.” Naturally that was no way to help his cause. Perhaps, after this experience, and his new cognizance of conditions, it would be better for him to write in quiet and solitude, while she acted as salesman.
“I’m just plain adventuress enough to love the fight of it,” she admitted to herself as she approached the office she had selected for her first try. She tripped in, confidently, and addressed the office boy.
“Mr. Claghorn in?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Oh, any time. He’s in and out.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Probably won’t be back until after lunch.”
A railing shut off the hall where she stood from the office proper, where the boy was on guard. Doors opened off this central room into the private offices. There were no chairs in this hall, and the boy made no move to open the railing.
“Is that large armchair in there rented for the day?” Bambi inquired.
“Not so far as I know,” he grinned.
“Does this thing open, or do I have to jump it?” she smiled.
“Where are you goin’?"
“To the large armchair.”
“Welcome to our city,” said he, as he lifted the rail. “Nobody allowed in here except by appointment.”
“That’s all right. I understand that,” she said nonchalantly, and sank into the haven of the chair.
All the details of the office, which bored Jarvis, or which he entirely failed to see, fascinated Bambi. She set herself to the subjection of the office boy, by a request for the baseball score.
“Say, are you a fan?” he asked.
“Can’t you see it in my eye?”
He was launched. He gave her a minute biographical sketch of every player on the team, his past and future possibilities. He went over all the games of the past season, while Bambi turned an enraptured face upon him.
He was frequently interrupted by actors and actresses who came by appointment, or otherwise, and he gave her all the racy details concerning them at his disposal. By indirection she obtained a description of Claghorn, so that he might not escape her if he came in.
All the actors looked at her with interest, the actresses with disdain. One whispered to the boy, who shook his head.
“Say, what you wid?” he asked her later.
“I don’t understand you.”
His look became suspicious. “What show you with?”
“With ‘Success,’” she answered hastily, patting the manuscript.
“Roadshow?”
“No.”
“Playing New York?”
“Not yet.”
“Gimme two pasteboards when you come to town. I’d like to see you.”
“All right. What’s your name?”
“Robert Mantell Moses. I’m going on, in comic opera, some day.”
“So?” said Bambi.
“Song and dance. Are you a dancer?”
“I am.”
“Toe or Tango?”
“I beg pardon.”
“Toe dancer, or Tango artist?”
“Oh, I do them both.”
“Do you do the Kitchen Sink? And the Wash Tub?”
Bambi thought fast. “Yes. And the One-legged Smelt. Also the Jabberwock Jig.”
He inspected her suspiciously.
“Say, those are new ones on me.”
“Really?”
She was thoroughly enjoying herself when the brazen-mouthed clock twanged twelve.
“Goodness! Is it as late as that? Claghorn’s ins are mostly outs.”
“Give me that again.”
“You said he was in and out.”
“Nix on the rough stuff.”
“What a lovely phrase! I must tell that to Jarvis.”
“Who’s Jarvis? Your steady?”
“No. He’s a—relative by marriage.”
“Nix on the ‘in-laws’ for me.”
He suddenly straightened up to attention as a big, fierce-looking man plunged in, nearly demolished the railing in passage, and made for a door marked “Private.”
“Any mail?” he shouted.
“No. Lady to see you, sir,” the boy replied.
Bambi rose to meet the foe, who never glanced at her. He jerked open the door, but he was not quick enough for the originator of the Jabberwock Jig. Her small foot was slid into the space between the door and the threshold. It was at the risk of losing a valuable member, but she was so angry at being ignored that she never thought of it. When the gentleman found that the door would not close, he stuck his head out, and nearly kissed Bambi, whose smiling countenance happened to be in the way.
“Well?” he ejaculated.
“Quite well, thank you,” she replied as she slid in the crack. He looked her over.
“Where did you come from?” he demanded.
“I was out there when you swept the horizon with your eye, but you must have missed me. I didn’t run up a flag.”
She was so little and so saucy that he had to smile.
“What do you want?” he asked directly.
“I want to talk with you, for about three minutes.”
“I don’t engage people for the shows.”
“I don’t want a job.”
“Well, what do you want? Talk fast. My time is precious.”
“I have here a very fine play, called ‘Success,’ which would be a good investment for you.”
“Who wrote it?”
“My husband.”
He glanced at her.
“I thought child marriage was prohibited in this state.”
She dimpled back at him, deliciously.
“It is modern, dramatic.”
“Comedy?”
“No.”
“Nothing else has much chance. Leave it, and I will read it.”
“When?” ,_p.149.jpg)
“TELL YOUR HUSBAND TO PUT YOU IN A PLAY, AND I'LL PUT IT ON.” “MUCH OBLIGED, I'LL TELL HIM. GOOD MORNING.”
“But we have to go home next Thursday.”
“You don’t expect me to read it before then?”
“Couldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t read Pinero’s latest before then.”
“How soon would you read it?”
“I’ve got nine productions to look after. I only read on trains. I’m going to Buffalo to-night.”
“Then you could take it along to-night?” she cried happily.
“Say, who let you in here, anyhow?”
“You did.”
“I’ve got no time to talk to anybody.”
“I’m not anybody. I’m I. Just promise me you’ll read it to-night and I’ll go.”
“Is this it? Name and address on it?”
She nodded.
“All right. To-night. Now get out!”
“Thanks. I’ve had such a nice call.” As she reached the door he spoke.
“Tell your husband to put you in a play and I’ll put it on.”
“Much obliged. I’ll tell him. Good morning.”
She made her farewells to Robert Mantell Moses, went out and down the street. It was definitely settled in her mind that she was to market Jarvis’s wares. She had a gift for it, a desperate courage in a crisis, that made her do anything to win her point and get what she came for. Jarvis would, no doubt, be sitting, still. He was waiting for her at the club.
“I was getting anxious about you. Did you go to a doctor?”
“Doctor?”
“For your head?”
“Oh, my head. I’d forgotten all about it. After you left, I felt so much better that I decided to go out.”
“Looking for more adventures?”
“I never look for them. They—flock to my standard. No, I took the play and stormed a manager’s office. I saw him, in spite of himself, and got him to promise to read the play to-night on the way to Buffalo.”
“Who was he?”
“Claghorn.”
“How did you get to him?”
“He ran through the big office into his private one, and was just about to pull up the drawbridge, when I sprang in after him.”
“Just tell it to me in plain English, Bambi.”
She described her entrance, with the subjection of the office boy, the ruse by which she got into the inner office, her interview with Claghorn, and his subsequent promise.
“You are a wonder!” he exclaimed. “I never could have thought of it.”
“I should say you wouldn’t. You’d have been sitting there yet.”
“Did you tell him about the play?”
“In three minutes? I should say not! I had to cram my words in, like loading a rapid-fire gun. Pouf! Pouf! And out!”
“Did he seem intelligent?”
“Yes, rather. I have decided to see managers after this, Jarvis. It will be Jocelyn & Co. You do the work and I’ll sell it. It’s fun.”
“It’s wonderful how the gods look after me,” he said.
“Gods nothing! It’s wonderful how I look after you. You can burn incense to me.”
“I do.”
The play came back shortly, with a brief note from Claghorn. It had some good points, but it was too serious. Not dramatic enough. The third act was weak.
“All the silly asses want me to make them laugh,” raged Jarvis.
“I am disappointed in my new friend, but the letter to Belasco is here now, so we’ll have a talk with him. Will you go, or shall I?”
“I think I’d like to talk with him, and tell him my views,” Jarvis said.
They sent in the letter, with a request for an interview. In the course of a few days a reply came saying that Mr. Belasco had gone West to see a new production, but if Mr. Jocelyn would send his play to the office it would receive the earliest possible attention. It was a blow to their hopes, but there was nothing else to do, so they dispatched it by messenger.
“I think, maybe, we had better plan to go back home to-morrow, and wait the decision there. The money is vanishing, and I am getting anxious about the Professor. He forgets to write anything of importance.”
“All right. I’ll be glad to go back.”
“Let’s go shop this afternoon, and take the morning train to-morrow.”
“Good. Suits me.”
“What shall I take the Professor? I’ve thought and thought. He’s so hard to shop for.”
“Get him an adding machine!”
Bambi withered him.
“He would disinherit me on the spot. That’s like sending Paderewski a pianola.”
“We must get something for Ardelia, too.”
“I got her a red dress, a red hat, a salmon-pink waist, and handkerchiefs with a coloured border.”
Once their thoughts turned toward the little house, and the arithmetical garden, they were anxious to get back. Their shopping tour was a gay affair, because it was their last outing.
“Don’t you feel differently about New York?” she asked him as they walked back. “It seems to me like a fascinating new friend I have made. I am sorry to leave it.”
“I’m not. I’m not made for cities. People interest me for a while, then I forget them, and they are always under foot, in places like this. I trip over them, and they interrupt my thoughts.”
“I’m so glad you are true to type,” she smiled up at him.
“I’m deeply grateful and appreciative of your bringing me here,” he added awkwardly.
“That was out of character, Jarvis. A month ago you would have taken it as your right.”
“I’m beginning to realize that others may have rights, that even you may have some, Miss Mite.”
“Never fear. I’ll protect mine,” she boasted.
On the morrow they turned their faces toward home and the Professor.