Well, anyways, after the first shock was over, I seen there was an enclosure with the President's letter. This was from some committee which had a big W.S.S. lable printed at the top and a piece out of the social register printed underneath, and was dated N. Y. It begun more personal.
"Dear Miss La Tour," it said. "As a woman so prominent in the theatrical world, we feel sure that you would be glad to take an active interest in the great Thrift movement which is now before the country. Will you not form a theatrical women's committee that will pledge the sale of twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of stamps on the first of the month? The first of every month will be observed as Thrift Stamp Day, and we will be glad to furnish you with all literature, stamps, etc., if you will notify headquarters of your willingness to do this work."
The letter was signed by some guy which it was impossible to read his name because he hadn't used no rubber stamp but did it by hand and had other things on his mind. But did I care? I did not! Believe you me, I had already decided to do like he asked, and why would I need to know his name when I wasn't going to write to him anyways, but to Mr. Wilson? Dancing as long as I have which is about fifteen years or since I could walk, pretty near, and not only professionally but drawing my own contracts from the time most sweet young things is thinking over their graduation dresses, I have learned one thing, if no other. Always do business with the boss. Refuse to talk to all office boys, get friendly with the lady stenographer, if there is one, but do all business with the one at the head—and no other! This motto has saved me no end of time which has been spent in healthy exercise under my own roof and Ma's eagle eye, which otherwise might have wore out the seats of outside-office chairs.
And so I concluded that I'd sit right down that minute and let Mr. Wilson know I was on the job. I knew I had some writing paper someplace and after I had took a lot of powder and chamois and old asperin tablets out of the desk I dug it up:—a box of handsome velour-finish tinted slightly pink, with envelopes to match. And I got hold of a pen and some ink which Musette, my maid, had overlooked, she being a great writer to her young man which is French and Gawd knows how fluent she writes him in it, only of course being born over there certainly makes a difference.
Well, anyways, I cleaned off the desk and rubbed the cream off my nose and hands and set down to write that letter. And—believe you me—it was some job. I guess I must of commenced a dozen times and tore them up with formal openings—do you get me? And then I realized that the box of pink tinted was getting sort of low and I had better waste not want not, and so determined to just be natural in what I wrote but not take up his time with too long a letter. So at last I threw in the clutch, gave myself a little gas, and we was off, to this effect.
"My dear Mr. Wilson:—
"Many thanks for yours of the 25th inst. Will at once get busy at helping to make the first of the month savings day instead of unpaid-bill day.
"Cordially,
"Marie La Tour."
This seemed refined and to the point, and although I was awful tempted to put a P.S. asking did they know anything about Jim, I left off on account of me not believing in asking personal favors of the Government just now, as the war office was probably medium busy and the Censor might answer first, at that. So I just sealed it up as it was, and about then Ma left off playing on my souvenir and came in with a pink satin boudoir cap down tight over her head. Ma just can't seem to get over the idea that boudoir caps at five dollars and up per each is a sort of de lux housework garment.
"I'm just going in the kitchen and beat up a few cakes for lunch," said Ma, and withdrew, leaving me to lick on three cents and shoot the letter fatefully and finally down the drop near the gilt-bird-cage elevator of our home-like little flat. I felt awfully relieved and chesty somehow when it was done and with her good news ringing in my ears. For Ma is certainly some cook, and she has it all over our chef, who—believe you me—knows she would never be missed if she went although Ma simply can't learn to stay out of the kitchen. And while she was busy with the butter and eggs and sugar and wheat flour, I was deciding to call a committee, because I knew that was the way you generally start raising twenty-five thousand dollars worth of anything, except a personal note.
Committee meetings is comparative strangers to me except the White Kittens Annual Ball, and a few benefit performances which last is usually for the benefit of those which are to be in it, they leaving aside all consideration of the benefit of the audience much less of the charity it is supposed to be for, and the main idea being how long each actor can hold the spotlight. You may have noticed how these benefit performances runs on for hours.
Well, anyways, I having been to several such as of course the best known parlour dancing act in America and the world, like mine undoubtedly is, is never overlooked. And I knew we had to get a place with a big table and chairs set around it and then the committee was started. So the White Kittens always having met in the Grand Ball Room of the Palatial Hotel, I called up the place and hired the room for the next morning at twelve-thirty, me being determined that my Theatrical Ladies Committee should get there directly after breakfast. The cost of the room was one hundred dollars, and I didn't know was the Government to pay it or us, but I was, of course, willing to do it myself if necessary. Anyways it was a committee-room, I knew that by reason of my having sat in it as such at least twice each year since the place was built—way back in '13. Then all I had to do was get my committee.