“Cut that ‘of,’” he said. “The show’s too long, anyway.”
And, having handled a delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leaned back in his chair and chewed the end off another cigar.
For some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. If Mr Goble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms except to Wally. To him he enlarged from time to time on the pain which “The Rose of America” caused him.
“How I ever came to put on junk like this beats me,” confessed Mr Goble frankly.
“You probably saw that there was a good idea at the back of it,” suggested Wally. “There is, you know. Properly handled, it’s an idea that could be made into a success.”
“What would you do with it?”
“Oh, a lot of things,” said Wally warily. In his younger and callower days he had sometimes been rash enough to scatter views on the reconstruction of plays broadcast, to find them gratefully absorbed and acted upon and treated as a friendly gift. His affection for Mr Goble was not so overpowering as to cause him to give him ideas for nothing now. “Any time you want me to fix it for you, I’ll come along. About one and a half per cent of the gross would meet the case, I think.”
Mr Goble faced him, registering the utmost astonishment and horror.
“One and a half per cent for fixing a show like this? Why, darn it, there’s hardly anything to do to it! It’s—it’s—in!”
“You called it junk just now.”