“Hey, Bobby!” “Gee, Bobby!” “Oh, Bobby!” they shouted in a splendid enthusiasm, “you’re in the headlines.”
They had the morning paper between them, and in each one’s endeavor to show Bobby the place and the words they damaged the sheet considerably.
“And we’re all so glad!” said Francis, who had himself starred in five productions.
“We’re proud of you, Bobby,” said Pearl, smiling angelically.
“And we all love you,” chimed in Peggy, “and Mr. Compton,” she thoughtfully added.
“Just wait until I read this,” said Bobby. And while, moving his mouth in the slow pronunciation of each word, the lad read his own praises, Francis, in a dreamy ecstasy, seated himself, absently placing in his mouth the pipe he was later to use in the production, and gazed upon the loved one in happy and ungrudging admiration.
“Oh, just wait till they see ‘Imitation,’ ” said Bobby, after glancing over the text under the headlines. “Then they’ll have something to write about. I don’t mean me. I mean you, Peggy, and you, Pearl, and you, Francis.”
“And just think of the heaps and heaps of fun we’re having,” chortled Peggy. “People say we’re working during vacation. Do you call this work?”
“I should say not,” said the other three, one after the other in such quick succession that their words almost chimed together.
As they went on to chat gayly of their present joy and their future plans, Compton was in earnest converse with Joe Heneman.