Bambi Part 29

"Belasco is one of the leading managers in New York, Professor,"

explained Jarvis, patiently. "He is as well known as Pierpont Morgan or Theodore Roosevelt."

"Indeed! Well, I am not surprised at my ignorance. I have no interest in present-day drama. It is degenerate mush."

"Have you seen anything, since 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'?" Jarvis inquired.

"I have seen 'The Second Mrs. Tanqueray,'" he replied conclusively.

"That was considered strong meat in its day, but now we have 'Damaged Goods,'" mused Jarvis.

"And what are 'Damaged Goods'?" inquired the Professor.

"What are Yonkers? Don't tell him, Jarvis--he's too young to know. It's an ugly modern play. We saw some things you might have enjoyed. Oh, I often wished for you."

"Thank you, my dear, but I have no desire to enter that cauldron of humanity."

"I agree with you, Professor Parkhurst."

"That is a rare occurrence, I may say," answered the Professor, with a twinkle.

"Thank goodness, you have me to prod you into life. You would both sit in your dens and figure and write until you blinked like owls in the night. I have stored up energy enough, from these two weeks in the cauldron, to run me for months. I didn't miss one thing, ugly or beautiful. I shall use it all."

"Use it? How use it, my dear?"

"In my thoughts, my opinions, my life."

"Dear me!" said her father, staring at her. "What odd things you say!"

"It's true, what she says," Jarvis e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "She rolled New York up on reels, like a moving-picture show, and I have no doubt she could give us a very good performance."

"I shall," quoth Bambi.

"It is rather a pity you waste your impressions, Bambi. Why don't you write them down?" Jarvis patronized.

"In a young lady's diary, I suppose. No, thanks."

"One author in a family is enough," commented the Professor, heartily.

"You ought to tell us your conclusion about your career. Did you settle it in your mind?"

"I did."

"A career?" anxiously, from Professor Parkhurst.

"Yes, wealth and fame are in my grasp."

"You haven't done anything rash, my dear?"

"Well, slightly rash, but not the rashest I could do."

"Is it dancing?" from Jarvis.

"Of a sort."

"Not public dancing?"

"No, private," she giggled.

"Will it take you away much?" Jarvis asked her.

"Oh, I'll go to New York occasionally."

"It is to be a secret, I take it?" the Professor said.

"It is, old Sherlock Holmes."

They slipped back into their routine of life as if it had never been broken. Jarvis, after two perturbed days of restlessness, went into a work fit over a new play. The Professor was busy with final examinations, so Bambi was left alone with plenty of leisure in which to do her next story.

She wisely decided to write herself--in other words, to dramatize her own experiences, to draw on her emotions, her own views of life. She must leave it to Jarvis to rouse and stir people. She would be content to amuse and charm them. So she boldly called her tale by her own name, "Francesca," and she shamelessly introduced the Professor and Jarvis, with a thin disguise, and chortled over their true likeness after she had dipped them in the solution of her imagination. She relied on the fact that neither of them ever looked between the covers of a magazine.

Besides, even if they chanced upon the story, they would never recognize their own portraits.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HER TALE HAD THE PLACE OF HONOUR AND WAS ILl.u.s.tRATED BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG, THE SUPREME DESIRE OF EVERY YOUNG WRITER.]

A few days before the prize story was published, a special copy came to her from Mr. Strong. She hid it until the "Twins" were gone. Then she hurried out to the piazza and the hammock with it. It was a thrilling moment. "Prize Story by a Wonderful New Writer" stared up at her from the front page. Her tale had the place of honour in the makeup, and it was ill.u.s.trated--double-page ill.u.s.trations--by James Montgomery Flagg, the supreme desire of every young writer. She hugged the magazine. She scanned it over and over. She laid it on the table, picked it up casually, and turned to the first story indifferently, just to squeeze the full joy out of it. Then she pounded a pile of pillows into shape, drew her feet up under her, and began to read her own work. She smiled a good deal, she chuckled, finally she laughed outright, hugging herself.

At this unfortunate moment Jarvis appeared. She looked as guilty as a detected criminal.

"What's the joke?"

"Oh, I was laughing at a story in here."

"How can you read that trash?"

"It isn't trash. It's perfectly delightful."

"What is it?" He came nearer to her, and she clutched the magazine tightly.

"Oh, just a prize story."

"A prize story? And funny enough to make you laugh? Not O. Henry?"

"Of course not. He's dead. A new writer, it says."

He held out his hands for it, and, perforce, she resigned it to him.

"Francesca!" he exclaimed.

"Odd, isn't it? That's what attracted me to it," Bambi lied.