Blue-grass and Broadway Part 10

"That was just what I was going to hand you--you get four hundred a week for this show, but you'll have to go in and earn it. It's a departure, and you may not like it. You'll have to hammer it a lot, but I'm not signing a single 'Rosie Posie' contract until I see this in shape."

"I mean it. A stage manager has to take my stuff all hot even if he thinks some of it is cold. Get me?"

"That's good. I'll give you the completed ma.n.u.script Sat.u.r.day so you can pound and set it for Monday next."

"That's good. By!"

With which short, but sure, wire-pulling Mr. Vandeford opened his campaign to double-cross his own original plans. He had hardly stopped fixing Mr. William Rooney when Pops looked in upon him and announced Mr.

Grant Howard, the eminent playwright.

"h.e.l.lo, Grant," was Mr. Vandeford's short and unenthusiastic greeting to the small, black-haired person with weak, pink-rimmed, blue eyes, who sauntered into the sanctum and dropped sadly into a chair with his back to the light. A cigarette hung from the left corner of his upper lip, and his hands trembled. "Been hitting 'em up?"

"Yes," answered the playwright, laconically.

"Broke?"

"Pretty bad."

"Want to doctor a play for Hawtry for me by Friday next for a thousand dollars cash?"

"Cash now?"

"Cash Friday."

"Would have to lock myself up in my apartment to do it; but Mazie's been crying for gold-uns for a week."

"Send Mazie to me, and I'll fix that, and hand you the thousand on Friday. Here, take this ma.n.u.script over in my other office and be ready to talk it over with me by ten o'clock. I'll see Mazie in the meantime."

Mr. Vandeford placed the precious "Purple Slipper" in the hands of a man who at that very moment had two successful plays running on Broadway, his interest in both of which he had sold out for a mess of pottage to be consumed in the company of Miss Mazie Villines of the "Big Show."

"Dolph had better order me up a little cold wine to start on," said Mr.

Howard, as he rose languidly to incarcerate himself at the bidding of Mr. Vandeford. The same scene had been enacted between the two bright lights of American drama several times before with very good results.

Mr. Howard's brain was of that peculiar caliber which does not originate an idea, but which inserts a solid bone construction as well as keen little sparklets into the fabric of another's labor, and makes the whole translucent where before it may have been opaque. On Broadway he was called a play doctor, and Mr. Vandeford was not the first manager who had shut him up with quarts of refreshment to tinker on the play of many a literary, dramatic, bright light.

"Dolph will give you scotch and soda to your limit, no further,"

answered Mr. Vandeford, without graciousness. "I'll be here waiting for your talk-over at ten-thirty o'clock."

"All right. Have Mazie come for me after her show?"

"Yes."

With which the eminent playwright betook himself to a small private office which opened into the lair of Mr. Adolph Meyers. After he had entered that retreat Mr. Meyers softly rose from his typing machine and as softly locked him in. Then he proceeded to hunt for Miss Mazie Villines until he got her into conversational connection with Mr.

Vandeford. They conversed in these words with great cordiality:

"Want to earn a nice little two hundred for keeping Grant Howard working at doctoring a play by next Friday for me?"

"I'm giving him a thousand if it's delivered Friday."

"Two hundred to you."

"Not three!"

"There's Claire Furniss. Grant had her at supper last night at Rector's.

She's a beauty, you know."

"Two fifty."

"Goes!"

"Good! Come get him here at my office at eleven-fifteen. Get a taxi by the hour at your stage-door--on me--and come by for him."

"Good girl! By!"

"What a life!" Mr. Vandeford muttered to himself, then rang his buzzer for Mr. Adolph Meyers.

"Pops, it's eight o'clock. Go get us a couple of slabs of pie at the automat, and then I'll go over to see Breit at the booking office."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Vandeford," Mr. Meyers acquiesced, and departed in search of provender for the lion and himself. Left to himself, Mr. Vandeford fell into another trance, from which he was dragged by another tinkle of his telephone.

"There'll be a wireless to my grave," he muttered as he took down the receiver and snapped into it:

"This is Mr. Vandeford talking."