“Manzanita!” repeated the other. “By God!” He swore softly, and stared at the other.
Banneker was annoyed. Evidently the gossip of which Io’s girl friend had hinted that other night at Sherry’s had obtained wide currency. Before the conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to after that surprising check, one of the actors came over. He played the part of an ex-cowboy, who, in the bar-room scene, shot his way out of danger through a circle of gang-men, and he was now seeking from Banneker ostensibly pointers, actually praise.
“Say, old man,” he began without introduction. “Gimme a tip or two. How do you get your hand over for your gun without giving yourself away?”
“Just dive for it, as you do in the play. You do it plenty quick enough. You’d get the drop on me ten times out of ten,” returned Banneker pleasantly, leaving the gratified actor with the conviction that he had been talking with the coming dramatic critic of the age.
For upwards of an hour there was carnival on the dismantling stage, mingled with the hurried toil of scene-shifters and the clean-up gang. Then the impromptu party began to disperse, Eyre going away with the dancer, after coming to bid Banneker good-night, with a look of veiled curiosity and interest which its object could not interpret. Banneker was gathered into the corps intime of Miss Raleigh’s supper party, including the author of the play, an elderly first-nighter, two or three dramatic critics, Marrineal, who had drifted in, late, and half a dozen of the company. The men outnumbered the women, as is usual in such affairs, and Banneker found himself seated between the playwright and a handsome, silent girl who played with distinction the part of an elderly woman. There was wine in profusion, but he noticed that the player-folk drank sparingly. Condition, he correctly surmised, was part of their stock in trade. As it should be part of his also.
Late in the supper’s course, there was a shifting of seats, and he was landed next to the star.
“I suppose you’re bored stiff with talking about the shooting,” she said, at once.
“I am, rather. Wouldn’t you be?”
“I? Publicity is the breath of life to us,” she laughed. “You deal in it, so you don’t care for it.”
“That’s rather shrewd in you. I’m not sure that the logic is sound.”