“Look,” she cried to a busy and jaded-looking official, who was hurrying past her with a sheaf of papers in his hands and a lead pencil in his mouth. “Set your eyes on that boy. That’s Compton’s aunt or grandfather—he’s not quite clear which—and of the two, I think, with all respect to Compton, the aunt is the better comedian.”
The official looked and grinned.
“Maybe you’re right,” he observed, removing the pencil from his mouth. “You’re working with Compton. Keep your eye on the kid. We may need him if he’s not engaged already.”
“Come on here, Bobby; you take my hand,” said Compton, turning sharply and detecting his understudy in action. Another man might have been annoyed, Compton was tickled beyond measure.
Threading their way through a maze of sets and scenery, among which busy men—carpenters, electricians, secretaries and what not—were winding in what appeared to be inextricable confusion, they finally arrived at a set arranged to represent the lobby of a hotel.
To the left was a cigar counter, and beyond it an exit, or, possibly, an entryway to some other part of the hotel. The rest, save for a bellhop’s bench, was space. Seated or lounging about were several actors; among them a young lady dressed as a salesgirl; a boy of about Bobby’s size, though evidently several years older, gay in the buttons and livery of a bellhop; a young man in society clothes; and finally a young woman who was evidently a lady.
Hurrying from one to the other of these and speaking quickly certain instructions, was a young man whose intense face expressed infinite patience and strong, though jaded, energy. He was tired—had been tired for six months—but had no time to diagnose the symptoms. This was the stage director, Mr. Joseph Heneman.
“Halloa, John! Glad you’ve come. Everything’s set, and we’re going to move like a house afire. Who’s that fine little boy with you?”
“I’m his aunt,” said Bobby seriously.
Heneman nearly exploded on the spot.