“Come see me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock.”
She looked at the name on the card and gasped in astonishment, for it was that of one of the best-known of metropolitan theatrical managers, whose chief claim to fame lay in the many successful productions of comic opera.
“Are you on the level with this?” she asked, incredulously.
“Come around to-morrow and see,” he answered.
“Put it there,” she said, excitedly, as she held out her hand, and then she called out to the waiter to whom she believed she owed her allegiance:
“Billy, Billy, come over here.”
With a roll and a swagger, and not too hurriedly, lest he lose one tithe of that dignity which he believed went with the position of beer slinger in one of the toughest joints in New York, Billy came, scowling, as if he already scented in the air coming interference with his plans of life.
“See, Billy,” she said, laughing like a little girl with the joy of it all. “See, this is the great theatre manager, and he’s going to give me a show to see what I can do. I’m going on the stage, Billy, in a regular theatre, and sing before the people. Ain’t it great?”
She was like a child in her enthusiasm.
“Come on, let me blow the crowd: what are you going to have, boys?” this last with a comprehensive sweep of the hands. “I’m buying now.”