THE UNDERGROUND WIRES
The sign on the door of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building bore the legend, in plain black letters:
Victor Weldon
Theatrical Manager
Suite 1239 was really two small rooms, an outer and an inner office. The outer office, overlooking busy Broadway, which seethed and simmered its hurrying crowds far below, was divided into two parts by a railing. On one side two long benches served as havens of rest for weary stage-folk in search of engagements. Ever and anon one, two, or even three players, perhaps chorus girls, perhaps actors, perhaps character women, would enter timidly, look around the office as though expecting the imperial Jove to hurl thunderbolts at them for their presumption in thus invading the sacred precincts, and then tremblingly ask the red-haired stenographer on the other side of the rail:
"Is Mr. Weldon engaging any one?"
And the red-haired stenographer, invariably without looking up from her machine, would reply:
"Nothing doing to-day."
Sometimes this routine would vary a trifle, in case Mr. Weldon, for reasons of his own, wished to have his office appear like a busy mart. Then the stenographer would say:
"Mr. Weldon is very busy now, but if you want to wait, perhaps you can see him."
This left-handed invitation, containing only the slightest ray of hope that perhaps the great manager would engage some one for something, was invariably pounced upon eagerly, for actors undergoing that sad daily routine known as "making the rounds," knew to their sorrow that invitations even to sit down and wait were few and far between. The "Call to-morrow" slogan was the more usual excuse in getting rid of applicants. In a profession as overcrowded as the theatrical business there are thirty applicants for every possible position, but still the unsuccessful ones keep on "making the rounds" on the chance that sooner or later they will be engaged.
Mr. Weldon's private reasons for wishing his outer office to be filled at certain times possibly had something to do with the fact that on these occasions certain smartly dressed, prosperous men called on business and were instantly admitted to the inner office. Then the stenographer, having had her cues, would drop some casual remark about "The backer of the new show," whereupon the professionals would become more alert at the prospect of "Something doing." Of course, conversely, the mysterious "backers" were impressed by the stage setting of an outer office of players looking for engagements from the great Mr. Weldon.
Contrary to the popular idea, based mainly on the comic weeklies, theatrical backers or "angels" are comparatively rare. Therefore, Victor Weldon's line of procedure since Mrs. Dainton had abruptly closed her American tour because of the illness of her Pomeranian pup, had been exceedingly uncertain. He had planned various productions on his own account, and he had endeavored unsuccessfully to interest certain financial gentlemen of the Wall Street district in the merits of two or three plays he had read. One of them in particular, a simple little comedy of peasant life in Germany, with two or three songs, had greatly impressed him. It was of Viennese origin, skillfully translated and adapted, but preserving the Viennese atmosphere and characters. Entitled "The Village Girl," the central rôle was that of a peasant girl who fell in love with a prince when the latter was hunting in disguise as a mere woodsman. Afterwards, meeting him at the state ball face to face in his gorgeous uniform, she, by renouncing her love for him because of his rank and title, ultimately led the old Emperor to relent and give his consent to their marriage.
"Good plot," murmured Weldon, after reading it in his private office. "The old stuff like this always goes with the public. There's a plot that must succeed, because it has never been known to fail. I can produce this play and make a barrel of money if I can only find a backer. I wonder if I couldn't rope Gordon in on this?"
Which explains why Sanford Gordon had already heard of the play at the time he renewed his acquaintance with Martha, and further explains the fact that three days later he was closeted with Weldon in the inner private office of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building.
"It will cost about twenty thousand cold, before we ring up the curtain," explained Weldon, skillfully calculating with the aid of a pencil and a pad of paper. "It will take about seven thousand for the production, including costumes and uniforms. Everything is Viennese this season, so we must get the correct atmosphere. Advertising and printing may take up two or three thousand more, and then we'll probably have to guarantee at least twenty-five hundred to the theater we select. I'd like to get a classy theater like the Globe, where they have ushers in English military uniforms, and society people always go there because some one tipped them off that it was the society theater of New York. But it might take a little more money to get the Globe."
"Get the Globe by all means," said Gordon. "A few thousand more or less mean nothing if the thing is a hit, and if it is a failure, I guess I can stand the loss quite as well."
Victor Weldon sprang to his feet excitedly. The "roping in" had been easier than he anticipated, for Sanford Gordon, in spite of his propensity for squandering wealth in certain directions, belonged to the category of "wise people." No one ever wasted postage to send him green-goods catalogues, and Weldon had been extremely doubtful of his ability to get Gordon as a backer, although, of course, he had enjoyed unlimited opportunities to win his confidence while acting as Mrs. Dainton's manager.
"It's the chance of a lifetime," Weldon thought to himself as he clasped Gordon's hand to bind the bargain.
"I'll have the necessary legal papers drawn up by my lawyer," explained Gordon. "The money will be deposited with the Commercial Trust Company to-morrow morning. You will handle this production exactly as though it is your own—with one exception, my dear Weldon."
"What is that?" asked Weldon, apprehensively.
"You will engage for the leading rôle a young lady I will designate—"
"Ah, now I understand—" began Weldon, smiling.
"—who will have no inkling whatever of the fact that I am the backer of this show. In fact, no one must know that I am furnishing the money. Furthermore, at any time I see fit—if, for instance, the young lady cannot, in my judgment, play the part satisfactorily—I reserve the right to stop the whole production instantly, merely paying the necessary bills. Do you understand?"
"But you wouldn't close the show if it's a hit, would you?" demanded Weldon.
"I'm not likely to close the show at all," he laughed. "But I have reasons of my own for reserving that right. Otherwise, however, you are the manager, owner, producer and director. Do as you please, my dear Weldon, but remember the terms of our compact."
"I am not likely to forget them," cried Weldon, enthusiastically. "But," he added nervously, "can the young lady you wish me to engage really act the part?"
"I don't know and I don't care," responded Gordon. "The fact remains that she is going to play the part, and if she doesn't know how to act, teach her. That's all."
Weldon shook his head sadly.
"I had hoped, after my experience, Mr. Gordon, that I was through with those bloomers where they try to force an unknown on the public," he sighed. "But I know you too well to try and argue that a well-known actress of reputation would help the piece and perhaps make it a hit."
Gordon picked up his silk hat and balanced it with one hand while he took his cane and gloves from the desk.
"It is immaterial to me, Weldon, whether the piece is a hit or not," he said carelessly. "Of course, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that it proves a success. But I won't shed any tears if it isn't. Like the respected founders of the New Theater, I am not producing this play to make money. I am simply endeavoring to give a certain young lady a chance to play a star part in a Broadway theater. If she has the merit to succeed, so much the better, for her sake and for yours. But personally I don't give a damn—so long as I pull the strings."