“What was the name of that place again?” asked Freddie. “The what-ho-something?”
“The Automat?”
“That’s the little chap! We’ll go there, shall we?”
“The food’s quite good. You go and help yourself out of slot-machines, you know.”
“My favorite indoor sport!” said Freddie with enthusiasm. “Hullo! What’s up? It sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!”
The voice of the assistant stage-manager was calling—sharply excited, agitation in every syllable.
“All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! Mr Goble wants all the chorus—gentlemen on the stage!”
“Well, cheerio for the present,” said Freddie. “I suppose I’d better look into this.” He made his way onto the stage.
§ 3.
There is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal of a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connected with it. Softened by the gentle beauty of the Spring weather, Mr Goble had come to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an excellent temper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day. Five minutes of “The Rose of America” had sent him back to the normal: and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul. When Wally Mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him a cigar. And when a New York theatrical manager does that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst.