When it had subsided Angelo said: “I know where there are two burros, in a vacant lot on the west side. They’ve been on the stage in vaudeville. One is trained to bowl a man over and sit on him.
“So, you see,” his grin broadened as he turned to Dan Baker, “I have written that part expressly for him, just as I have for the other donkeys in the cast.”
The laugh was now on Dan Baker. He responded by narrating one more fantastic yarn, and the work went on.
Then came the night when Angelo exclaimed over the last wild dance, when even Florence joined in the ballet, “It is enough! To-morrow I go to seek a producer. To-night, before you sleep, say a little prayer for our success.”
Let us hope no one will be shocked when we declare that on that night, long after Florence was lost in slumber, Petite Jeanne crept from the warm bed to the cold floor, pried up the loose boards, drew forth the hidden God of Fire and whispered to him some words that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. For, after all, you must recall that Petite Jeanne was more than half gypsy. Besides, she was dreadfully in earnest. For had she not, in an impersonal way, come to love very much the fiery little composer, the blonde-maned musician and, most of all, the appealing old trouper, he of long gray locks and plaintive, melodious voice? For these more than for herself she wished the light opera to be a great and lasting success.
CHAPTER XII
A FACE OF GRAY STEEL
Angelo had a few well chosen friends in the world of stage people. As soon as offices were open the next morning, his card was presented to one of these. An hour later, with a bulky manuscript under his arm and a letter of introduction in his pocket, he entered the lobby of a second office.
He was ushered at once into the presence of a broad shouldered, rather dull, but quite determined appearing man who sat in a swivel chair before a birch-mahogany desk. In another corner of the room sat a tall, dark, young man whose face had the appearance of having been moulded out of chilled gray steel.
“It’s a light opera,” said Angelo, placing his manuscript on the desk. “If you’ll let me tell you about it I am sure you will be able to decide at once whether or not it will fit the Blackmoore Theatre.”
The stout man nodded.