Bambi Part 42

"Isn't your magazine literary?"

"Certainly not in that sense. We publish a dozen magazines and this kind of thing doesn't fit any of them. We entertain the public--we rarely instruct them."

"I see. I'm obliged to you for your trouble. I'll try the _Atlantic_."

"Bring in some stories, light, entertaining stuff with a snap, and we will take them."

"Thanks! 'Fraid that isn't in my line."

Jarvis went over to the Public Library and deliberately studied the style of stuff used by the various monthly publications, making notes.

For the next few days he worked all day and a good part of the night on things he thought he could sell, according to these notes. Then he began a campaign to peddle them. The _Atlantic_ refused his drama articles, and he tried them elsewhere, with no success. The other things were equally a drug on the market. He saved postage by taking them to the editors' offices himself, and calling for them in ten days or so. He always found them ready for him. He took a cheaper room, and got down to one square meal a day. Finally, an opportunity came for him to review some books for a literary supplement of a newspaper. Confident that his luck had changed, he proceeded to demolish three out of the four books a.s.signed to him in the most scathing reviews, whereupon the editor paid him half price and dismissed him.

The week when things reached the lowest ebb he was summoned by a postal from an acquaintance, made during one of his night prowls, an old English cabman. When he arrived at the address indicated he found the old man sick in bed with rheumatism. He wanted Jarvis to drive his hansom for a week, on a percentage, until he could get about again.

There was no choice. It was that or the park benches, so Jarvis accepted. Old Hicks fitted, or rather misfitted, him in a faded blue tailed coat and a topper, Jarvis looked like an Otto Gus.h.i.+ng cartoon of Apollo in the attire, but he never once thought of that. He hitched up the bony old horse, mounted the box, with full instructions as to traffic rules, and headed for the avenue. He found the new trade amusing. He drove ladies on shopping tours, took nurses and their charges around the Park. He did not notice that his face and manners caused many a customer to stare in astonishment. When one woman said audibly to her companion, "Good heavens! what a handsome creature!" he never dreamed she referred to him.

It was the fourth day of his employment as a cabby when a summons came from the Frohman offices bidding him appear at the theatre at eleven o'clock on the following day. It was embarra.s.sing. Old Hicks was entirely dependent on what Jarvis brought in at night, and they could neither of them afford to have the cab idle a full day. So he decided to stop at the theatre in the morning, and then deduct his time off duty.

Promptly at eleven the cab arrived at the Empire Theatre and Jarvis descended from the box. He gave the boy a cent to hold his horse, although nothing except a bushel of oats could have urged the old bone-rack into motion. Up to the booth window he marched, and presented the letter. The boy inspected the old blue coat, the topper, and the worn gloves.

"Character costume," he grinned: then he opened the letter, and his face changed.

"Excuse me, sir, I'll see if Mr. Frohman will see you."

He was out and back, almost at once, bowing and holding the door open.

"Right ahead, into the private office," he said, importantly. A clerk took charge of our hero at the far door, announcing formally, "Mr.

Jarvis Jocelyn, Mr. Frohman."

Jarvis entered the big room and crossed eyes with the man at the far end. What Mr. Frohman saw was a tall, splendidly set-up youth, with a head held high, and a fearless, free carriage, attired in the very strange and battered habiliments of a cabby. What Jarvis saw was a fat little man, with a round face, sharp, twinkling eyes, and a genial mouth. The whole face had a humorous cast, a kindly expression.

"You are Jarvis Jocelyn?" said Mr. Frohman, as Jarvis reached him.

"I am."

"You wrote a play called 'Success'?"

"I did."

"I've read your play."

"That's good."

"Well, the play isn't," Frohman interrupted, "It is extremely bad, but there are some ideas in it, and one good part."

"The woman, you mean?"

"The woman nothing. She's a wooden peg to hang your ideas on. I mean the man she married."

"But he is so unimportant," Jarvis protested.

"He was important enough to get this interview. I never would have bothered with you, or with your play, if it hadn't been for that character. He's new."

"You want me to make him a bigger part in the play?"

"My advice is to throw this play in the wastebasket and write one about that man."

"Will you produce it if I do?"

"Probably not, but I'll look it over. What else have you done?"

"I have finished two things. One I call 'The Vision'--this is a Brotherhood of Man play--the other I call 'Peace,' and it's a dramatization of the Universal Peace idea."

"Why don't you write something human? n.o.body wants dramatized movements.

The public wants people, personalities, things we all know and feel. You can't get much thrill out of Universal Peace."

"But I believe the public should be taught."

"Yes, I know. I get all of you 'uplift boys' sooner or later. Teach them all you like, but learn your trade so thoroughly that they will have no idea that they are being taught. That is the function of the artist-playwright. What do you do besides write plays?"

"Just at present I drive a cab," Jarvis answered simply.

"You don't say? How does that happen?"

"I was up against it for money, and I took this to oblige a friend cabby who has rheumatism."

"'Pon my word! How long have you been at it?"

"This is my fifth day."

"Business good?" The manager's eyes twinkled. Jarvis smiled gravely.

"I have been wis.h.i.+ng it would rain," he confessed.

"When do you write?"

"At night, now. But this is only temporarily."

"What do you think of my idea of another play?"

"The idea is all right, if you will only take it when I've done it."

"How long have you been at this play writing?"

"Three years."

"How long do you suppose it took me to learn to be a manager?"

"I don't know."