Another week passed, and then Baron had an extraordinarily busy day.
In the forenoon came a letter from one of the dramatic editors for whom Baron had done special work occasionally.
“They are launching some sort of a dramatic stock enterprise out at Fairyland to-night,” the letter ran, “and I’m hoping you can do it for me. Thornburg is managing it. I don’t hope it will be much as a dramatic proposition, but you might be able to get some readable impressions. Please let me know.”
A later mail brought a communication from Thornburg.
The sight of the manager’s signature brought Baron up with a jerk—but he was reassured by the first few lines. Thornburg wasn’t charging him with bad faith. Instead, he was enclosing an order for an unlimited number of seats for the Fairyland opening.
“I understand,” ran a pencilled line by way of postscript and explanation, “that you are to represent the Times to-night.”
Also there was a letter from Baggot. Baggot’s play had reached a stage where it needed Baron’s inspection. The budding playwright asked no questions. He merely declared his intention of calling that night.
Baron went up into the attic to look at the morning paper. He wanted to know what they were doing out at Fairyland, and who was doing it.
And while he noted one impressive name after another, he was arrested by an altogether amazing sound down in his mother’s sitting-room. Mrs. Baron had been giving Bonnie May her music lesson, and now, the lesson done, she was singing for her pupil.