He felt that the company's present plight had been brought about partly by him; through his friendship with Lillie (how could Miss Moon guess it was for Bill's sake?) and his thoughtless promise of secrecy. Therefore he was inclined to do his best to atone; and the blasé young soldier who once had thought all work and most pleasures a bore, toiled like a slave through a whole day and half a night to save Ed Binney fatigue.
After midnight, when the impromptu posters were ready, Loveland and "Pa" Winter went out together with big rolls of paper under their arms, and a huge pot of flour paste, stirred up (for the sake of Gordon's beaux yeux) by the hand of the landlord's niece, over the kitchen fire.
They had no right to "grab spaces," Pa Winter pointed out; and if they put up the new paper on top of the old the agent of the "Dandy Lady Minstrels" would ruthlessly cause it to be covered over with his own bills. Still, despite these pessimistic prophecies, Loveland distributed the advertisements of "Lord Bob" as well as he could, hoping for the mercy or the negligence of the coming rival.
What remained of the night he spent in committing to memory the part of "Lord Bob," for which, without a dissenting voice, the five other members of the company had cast him.
It was a part which a London or New York leading man would have studied for two weeks, rehearsed for three, and finally played with joy mingled with misgiving. But Loveland could not afford artistic scruples. The play was the thing, and the acting must take care of itself.
They went out to rehearsal early next morning, and were thankful that there had been neither rain nor snow to destroy the fragile posters. In front of one which Loveland had put up on the face of the Opera House, stood a girl and an old man, talking in low voices.
"They're reading about the play and making up their minds to come," muttered Loveland to Lillie de Lisle, with whom he had walked to the theatre. As he spoke, the pair turned and stared sharply for an instant at the actor and actress. Loveland was disappointed. After all, they did not look like the sort of persons who would care to attend a performance given by barn-stormers. The girl was a lady, the man a gentleman. They were well dressed, their faces had a cultivated expression, indescribable yet unmistakable. Altogether, they were of a different order from the people who had composed the audiences at the Opera House during the past week.
"I shall certainly write and tell them what's going on," remarked the girl to her companion, who was probably her father. "It's a shame. Something ought to be done."
"We might telegraph, if you think it would be worth while," replied the old man.
Loveland heard the words, spoken as the pair turned away to walk down the street, towards the residence part of the town, but he attached no importance to the disjointed sentences. The affairs of the Human Flower Company were occupying his mind for the moment, to the exclusion of all else. He was not even thinking of lost Lesley Dearmer, or wondering whether there would be a letter from his mother forwarded by Bill to Bonnerstown this week.