Izzy’s willowy friend summed him up one evening when the ladies of the ensemble were changing their practise-clothes after a particularly strenuous rehearsal, defending him against the Southern girl, who complained that he made her tired.
“You bet he makes you tired,” she said. “So he does me. I’m losing my girlish curves, and I’m so stiff I can’t lace my shoes. But he knows his business and he’s on the level, which is more than you can say of most of these guys in the show business.”
“That’s right,” agreed the Southern girl’s blonde friend. “He does know his business. He’s put over any amount of shows which would have flopped like dogs without him to stage the numbers.”
The duchess yawned. Rehearsing always bored her, and she had not been greatly impressed by what she had seen of “The Rose of America.”
“One will be greatly surprised if he can make a success of this show! I confess I find it perfectly ridiculous.”
“Ithn’t it the limit, honetht!” said the cherub, arranging her golden hair at the mirror. “It maketh me thick! Why on earth is Ike putting it on?”
The girl who knew everything—there is always one in every company—hastened to explain.
“I heard all about that. Ike hasn’t any of his own money in the thing. He’s getting twenty-five per cent of the show for running it. The angel is the long fellow you see jumping around. Pilkington his name is.”
“Well, it’ll need to be Rockefeller later on,” said the blonde.
“Oh, they’ll get thomebody down to fixth it after we’ve out on the road a couple of days,” said the cherub, optimistically. “They alwayth do. I’ve seen worse shows than this turned into hits. All it wants ith a new book and lyrics and a different thcore.”