“Not that!” Brainard said, with tightening lips. “Not if you read the lines, Mac!” The old actor stormed back and forth, snapping his fingers and cursing with equal warmth stars and managers, the stage and life.
“Isn’t there some one in the company who could take the part?” Brainard asked.
“Not one, man or woman!” the Scotsman growled. “We’re using the whole company.”
“Where’s Louisiana?” Farson inquired, a little smile wreathing his lips.
“You mean that Kansas kid? She’s knocking about the stage somewhere,” MacNaughton replied. He had had several passages with Miss Delacourt already, and had no great opinion of her ability except in repartee. “You aren’t thinking of that child?”
“Let’s find her,” Farson said. “She knows Shakespeare by heart—her mother used to put her to sleep on it—she’s always getting it off when she isn’t ragging the show with her Kansas slang.”
They found Louisiana sitting on a pile of properties, playing with a lanky pup. She smiled on Farson in a friendly fashion, and ignored the manager.
“Say, what’s broken down now?” she drawled. “Have Miss Leroy’s stays given warning, or did the big bass fiddle bust a string?”
“Look here, Miss Louisiana,” Farson replied. “Quit your guying, and get ready for Cordelia. We’ll rehearse you all the afternoon.”
“Gee whiz!” the young woman remarked, rising and yanking the puppy by the leash. “But you’re sudden, my dear!”