“Well, well——” snapped the man at the little table, “that’s the cue, ‘leave it to destiny.’ Come on, McVey? Come a-w-n, McVey? Where’s McVey?” He raised his voice fretfully.
A nervous, thin man hurried down the stage.
“Oh, there you are. Go ahead, McVey. You’re keeping everybody waiting. Didn’t I tell you you’d have to read the grandfather’s part to-day?”
“No, sir, you didn’t,” said McVey, aggrieved.
“Well, anyhow, I meant to,” said his superior.
“But I’m reading Miss Gifford’s part this morning,” said McVey, who was the assistant [209] stage manager. “She had to go to see about her costumes.”
“You’ll have to read ’em both, then,” ordered the special director. “Anyhow, the parts don’t conflict—they’re not on the stage together during this act. Do the best you can. Now let’s go back and take those last two sides over again.”
Vibrantly and with the proper gesture in the proper place, Miss Cherry repeated her speech. Wearily and without gestures, Mrs. Morehead repeated hers. The flustered McVey, holding the absentee Miss Gifford’s part in one hand and the mythical grandfather’s in the other, circled upstage and, coming hurriedly down, stepped in between them.
“No, no, no,” barked the director, “don’t come on that way—you’ll throw both these ladies out. Come on at the upper side of that blue chair, Mac; that’s the door. This is supposed to be a house. You can’t walk right through the side of a house without upsetting things. You realize that, don’t you? Once more—back again to ‘leave it to destiny.’”
The rehearsal went on by the customary process of advancing a foot and a half, then retreating a foot, then re-advancing two feet. The novices in the cast were prodigal of their energy, but the veterans saved themselves against what they knew was coming later, when they would need all they had of strength and more, besides.