“All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is dear at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over. God knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the time. What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing over the orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me.”
“Well, we'll open her up and see what we got,” said Upton. “Is Sampson along?”
“No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write a play afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her straightened out.”
When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I visited the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage crew were busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I lay down in my room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the afternoon—about five o'clock, because I looked at my watch—by a knocking at the door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay, his cheerfulness had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and anxious mood.
“Nervous, old man?” I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company I had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that I could keep an eye on him.
“Nervous?” he said. “I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming spells in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?”
I hadn't, but offered to go in search of some. He wouldn't let me.
“Don't go,” he said. “Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now. What the devil is he doing here?”
“Perhaps there's some other show on,” I suggested, miserably.
“I told you they were trying to double-cross me,” he said. “I know perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll play this thing in spite of hell and high water.”