Matters were going forward with Mayme—beg her pardon, Mary McCartney, too.
“Better and more of it,” she wrote the Bonnie Lassie. “They rang me in on one of their local Red Cross shows to do a monologue. Was I a hit? Say, I got more flowers than a hearse! You’ve got to remember, though, that they deliver flowers by the car-load out here. And the local stock company has made me an offer. Ingenue parts. There is not the money that I might get in the pictures, but the chance is better. So Marie Courtenay moves on to the legit.—I mean the spoken drama. Look out for me on Broadway later!”
In the correspondence from Sergeant Berthelin there came a long hiatus followed by a curt bit of official information: “Seriously wounded.” The Little Red Doctor brought the news to me, with a queer expression on his face.
“It doesn’t look good, Dominie,” he said. “You know, my old friend, Death, is a shrewd picker. He’s got an eye for men.” He mused, rubbing his tousled, brickish locks with a nervous hand. “I was getting to kind of like that young pup,” he muttered moodily.
The saying that no news is good news was surely concocted by some one who never chafed through day after lengthening day for that which does not come. But in the end it did come, in the form of a scrawl from the Weeping Scion himself. He was mending, but very slowly, and they said it would be a long time—months, perhaps—before he could get back to the front. Meantime, they were still picking odds and ends, chiefly metallic, out of various parts of his system.
“I’m one of the guys you read about that came over here to collect souvenirs,” he commented. “Well, I’ve got all I need of ’em. They can have the rest. All I want now is to get back and present a few to Fritzie before the show is over.”
Thereafter the Little Red Doctor exhibited, but read to us only in small parts, quite bulky communications from overseas. Some of them, it became known, he was forwarding to our little Mary, out in the Far West. With her answer came the solution.
“Some of the ‘Grass and Asphalt’ sketches are wonders; some not so good. I am going to try out ‘Doggy’ if I can find a poodle with enough intelligence to support me. But you need not have been so mysterious, Doc, about your ‘young amateur writer who seems to have some talent.’ Did you think I would not know it was David? Why, bless your dear, silly heart, I told him some of those stories myself. But how does he get a chance to write them? Is he back on this side? Or is he invalided? Or what? Tell me. I want to know about him. You do not have to worry about my—well, my infatuation for him, any more. He was a pretty boy, though, wasn’t he? But I have seen too many of that kind in the picture game. I’m spoiled for them. How I would love to smear some of their pretty, smirky faces! They give me a queer feeling in my breakfast. Excuse me: I forgot I was a lady. But don’t say ‘pretty’ to me any more. I’m through. At that, you were all wrong about Buddy. He was a lot decenter than you thought: only he was brought up wrong. Give him my love as one pal to another. I hope he don’t come back a He-ro. I’m offen he-roes, too. Excuse again!”
Wars and exiles alike come to an end in time. And in time our two wanderers returned, but Mary first, David having been sent into Germany with the Army of Occupation. Modest announcements in the theatrical columns informed an indifferent theater-going world that Miss Marie Courtenay, an actress new to Broadway, was to play the ingenue part in the latest comedy by a highly popular dramatist. Immediately upon the production, the theater-going world ceased to be indifferent to the new actress; in fact, it went into one of its occasional furores about her. Not that she was in any way a great genius, but she had a certain indefinable and winningly individual quality. The critics discussed it gravely and at length, differing argumentatively as to its nature and constitution. I could have given them a hint. My predictions regarding the ancestral potencies of the monkey-face were being abundantly justified.
No announcements, even of the most modest description, heralded the arrival of Sergeant Major (if you please!) David Berthelin upon his native shores. He came at once to Our Square and tackled the Little Red Doctor.