“Who,” Pam asked almost shyly, “is Tom Agate?”
Oscar Stalkey waved a hand in Pam’s direction. “You see?” he demanded with a wry smile. “There’s fame for you, Tom Agate,” he said, turning to Pam, “was just about the most famous song-and-dance man in vaudeville. You’ve heard stories about the good old days in the theater—about the grand troupers who always went on to give a performance no matter how they were feeling—”
Peter put his hand over his heart melodramatically. “Even if they were crying inside.”
Stalkey nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. It sounds real corny today, but they actually did it, and Tom Agate was one of the greatest.” As he walked back and forth, from one corner of the room to the other, his eyes shining with excitement, Peggy suddenly saw what May Berriman meant when she said that Oscar Stalkey had all the enthusiasm of a little boy. He was in love with the theater, after thirty years still as stage-struck as a newcomer.
“Tom Agate,” Oscar Stalkey was saying. “Why, I’ve seen that man hold an entire audience in the palm of his hand for more than an hour.”
“What did he do?” Pam asked.
“Do?” Stalkey frowned. “He was a performer. He sang songs, danced a little.”
“Actually, he danced badly,” Peter Grey said with a smile.
Stalkey was forced to agree. “Yes, I guess he did. But that didn’t make any difference. He was a personality and the audience loved him.” Stalkey made another tour of his office. “That was his secret,” he said. “He understood people. He knew what made them laugh, and he knew how to move them.” Stalkey stopped abruptly as if struck by a thought. He cocked his head to one side as if trying to recall something. “What was the name of that song he always sang—it was his theme song, an Irish ballad, I think—ah, yes, ‘Kathleen Aroon’ it was. He used to play the banjo along with it.”
“Yes, but Oscar,” Craig Claiborne objected, “he was just a song-and-dance man. Even the movies he did were just filming his vaudeville routines. He’s never had any acting experience.”