Tony, chewing a cigar, mumbled cues, and Mander read.
And, while the reading went on, the elevators were bringing show people to the reception-room, and the girl at the desk was telling them that Tony was busy. That was all they had to be told—they went away. Soon the news would spread up and down Royal Street that the Tony Vaux show was cast. By late afternoon the Everts-Hall Agency would no longer be a big stop.
The reading ended. Tony lit a fresh cigar.
“Let me hear it again, Frank.”
A fine dew of sweat appeared on Mander’s forehead.
“A little too much steam,” Tony said when the second reading was finished. “Now, now.” Fat hands spread out in a placating gesture. “Not bad; not bad at all, Frank. But I’m thinking of the other characters. They’re tense with drama. If you give me high comedy I get too much contrast. No belly laughs, just chuckles. Take it from ‘I don’t mean I’m the best in the world—’ Page four.”
There was only a hair-line of change in Mander’s reading, but the part shaded into an entirely different part. This was what Wylie meant by a producer touching the strings and producing vibrations. But to give these vibrations, an actor had to be an actor.
Tony beamed; Tony’s cigar moved from one side of his mouth to the other. “A nice reading,” he said genially. “It’s your part, Frank.”
The dew was gone from Mander’s forehead. “How about a twenty-five dollar advance, Tony? I’m in to my landlady for six weeks. The old girl’s getting peeved.”
Tony chewed the cigar. “The office is starting to get tough on advances. Can’t you tell her you’re working?”