“Here we are,” said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he was talking.
“That’s right,” returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five.
“And say,” he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, “if this isn’t a good show, I’ll punch your head.”
“You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!”
To another who inquired, “Is it something really good?” the manager replied:
“I don’t know. I don’t suppose so.” Then, lifting his hand graciously, “For the lodge.”
“Lots of boys out, eh?”
“Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago.”
It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and all largely because of this man’s bidding. Look at him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent group—a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success. The gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands. Seats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. Through it all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness in a way, small as it was.
“She’s too nervous,” said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once.
“Better go back and say a word to her.”
Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.
“Say, Cad,” he said, looking at her, “you mustn’t be nervous. Wake up. Those guys out there don’t amount to anything. What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know,” said Carrie. “I just don’t seem to be able to do it.”
She was grateful for the drummer’s presence, though. She had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.
“Come on,” said Drouet. “Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out there now, and do the trick. What do you care?”
Carrie revived a little under the drummer’s electrical, nervous condition.
“Did I do so very bad?”
“Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night.”
Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could do it.
“What’s next?” he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying.
“Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him.”
“Well, now you do that lively,” said the drummer. “Put in snap, that’s the thing. Act as if you didn’t care.”
“Your turn next, Miss Madenda,” said the prompter.
“Oh, dear,” said Carrie.
“Well, you’re a chump for being afraid,” said Drouet. “Come on now, brace up. I’ll watch you from right here.”
“Will you?” said Carrie.
“Yes, now go on. Don’t be afraid.”
The prompter signalled her.
She started out, weak as ever but suddenly her nerve partially returned. She thought of Drouet looking.
“Ray,” she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal.
“She’s easier,” thought Hurstwood to himself.
She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less trying parts at least.
Carrie came off warm and nervous.