Contrary to the popular idea, based mainly on the comic weeklies, theatrical backers or "angels" are comparatively rare. Therefore, Victor Weldon's line of procedure since Mrs. Dainton had abruptly closed her American tour because of the illness of her Pomeranian pup, had been exceedingly uncertain. He had planned various productions on his own account, and he had endeavored unsuccessfully to interest certain financial gentlemen of the Wall Street district in the merits of two or three plays he had read. One of them in particular, a simple little comedy of peasant life in Germany, with two or three songs, had greatly impressed him. It was of Viennese origin, skillfully translated and adapted, but preserving the Viennese atmosphere and characters. Ent.i.tled "The Village Girl," the central role was that of a peasant girl who fell in love with a prince when the latter was hunting in disguise as a mere woodsman. Afterwards, meeting him at the state ball face to face in his gorgeous uniform, she, by renouncing her love for him because of his rank and t.i.tle, ultimately led the old Emperor to relent and give his consent to their marriage.

"Good plot," murmured Weldon, after reading it in his private office.

"The old stuff like this always goes with the public. There's a plot that must succeed, because it has never been known to fail. I can produce this play and make a barrel of money if I can only find a backer. I wonder if I couldn't rope Gordon in on this?"

Which explains why Sanford Gordon had already heard of the play at the time he renewed his acquaintance with Martha, and further explains the fact that three days later he was closeted with Weldon in the inner private office of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building.

"It will cost about twenty thousand cold, before we ring up the curtain," explained Weldon, skillfully calculating with the aid of a pencil and a pad of paper. "It will take about seven thousand for the production, including costumes and uniforms. Everything is Viennese this season, so we must get the correct atmosphere. Advertising and printing may take up two or three thousand more, and then we'll probably have to guarantee at least twenty-five hundred to the theater we select. I'd like to get a cla.s.sy theater like the Globe, where they have ushers in English military uniforms, and society people always go there because some one tipped them off that it was _the_ society theater of New York.

But it might take a little more money to get the Globe."

"Get the Globe by all means," said Gordon. "A few thousand more or less mean nothing if the thing is a hit, and if it is a failure, I guess I can stand the loss quite as well."

Victor Weldon sprang to his feet excitedly. The "roping in" had been easier than he antic.i.p.ated, for Sanford Gordon, in spite of his propensity for squandering wealth in certain directions, belonged to the category of "wise people." No one ever wasted postage to send him green-goods catalogues, and Weldon had been extremely doubtful of his ability to get Gordon as a backer, although, of course, he had enjoyed unlimited opportunities to win his confidence while acting as Mrs.

Dainton's manager.

"It's the chance of a lifetime," Weldon thought to himself as he clasped Gordon's hand to bind the bargain.

"I'll have the necessary legal papers drawn up by my lawyer," explained Gordon. "The money will be deposited with the Commercial Trust Company to-morrow morning. You will handle this production exactly as though it is your own--with one exception, my dear Weldon."

"What is that?" asked Weldon, apprehensively.

"You will engage for the leading role a young lady I will designate--"

"Ah, now I understand--" began Weldon, smiling.

"--who will have no inkling whatever of the fact that I am the backer of this show. In fact, no one must know that I am furnishing the money.

Furthermore, at any time I see fit--if, for instance, the young lady cannot, in my judgment, play the part satisfactorily--I reserve the right to stop the whole production _instantly_, merely paying the necessary bills. Do you understand?"

"But you wouldn't close the show if it's a hit, would you?" demanded Weldon.

"I'm not likely to close the show at all," he laughed. "But I have reasons of my own for reserving that right. Otherwise, however, you are the manager, owner, producer and director. Do as you please, my dear Weldon, but remember the terms of our compact."

"I am not likely to forget them," cried Weldon, enthusiastically. "But,"

he added nervously, "can the young lady you wish me to engage really act the part?"

"I don't know and I don't care," responded Gordon. "The fact remains that she is going to play the part, and if she doesn't know how to act, teach her. That's all."

Weldon shook his head sadly.

"I had hoped, after my experience, Mr. Gordon, that I was through with those bloomers where they try to force an unknown on the public," he sighed. "But I know you too well to try and argue that a well-known actress of reputation would help the piece and perhaps make it a hit."

Gordon picked up his silk hat and balanced it with one hand while he took his cane and gloves from the desk.

"It is immaterial to me, Weldon, whether the piece is a hit or not," he said carelessly. "Of course, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that it proves a success. But I won't shed any tears if it isn't. Like the respected founders of the New Theater, I am not producing this play to make money. I am simply endeavoring to give a certain young lady a chance to play a star part in a Broadway theater. If she has the merit to succeed, so much the better, for her sake and for yours. But personally I don't give a d.a.m.n--so long as I pull the strings."

CHAPTER XI

IN THE GREEN-ROOM

Time: Three months later.

"Half hour! Half hour!"

The resonant cry of the call-boy, making the rounds of the dressing-rooms of the Globe Theater, penetrated to the great empty green-room, immediately adjoining the star's dressing-room. Downstairs, from the musicians' room, came the sounds of the sc.r.a.ping of violin bows across the strings, the occasional toot of the French horn or the preliminary notes from a flute. Through the green-baize doors leading to the stage came the sounds of shifting scenery as the stage hands set the first act of "The Village Maid." A curtain was half drawn across the entrance to the adjoining star's room, behind which the faithful Lizzie of the boarding-house, now transformed into a real maid for an actress, was busily engaged preparing the toilette articles and the costumes of Miss Martha Farnum, actress.

Messenger boy 735, his diminutive figure almost hidden beneath a gigantic box of flowers, was escorted through the baize doors by old Pete, the back-door watchman.

"Put 'em down there, sonny," directed Pete, pointing toward a couch in the green-room. "And then vamoose quick. I got to watch the door, 'cause Miss Farnum ain't come in yet."

Number 735 deposited the flowers as directed, carefully cut the strings, opened the box, and was in the act of breaking off a fine American Beauty when Lizzie fortunately caught sight of him from the dressing-room.

"Here, you thief. Don't you dare," she cried.

"I only wanted one, lady," replied 735. "Gee, if I was an actress with all them blooms, I'd be glad to slip one of them to a kid who's going to sit up in the gallery and applaud your old show."

"Are you going to see the play?" asked Lizzie.

"Betcher life. A man give me a ticket and four bits to sit in the gallery and clap everything."

"What--everything?" queried Lizzie.

"Well, everything our leader does. There's forty of us kids, all got gallery tickets free and fifty cents on the side. And say, when Miss Farnum comes on the stage, you bet she'll hear us yell. We got orders to raise de roof den."

"You awful boy," cried Lizzie, genuinely shocked. "Here, take the rose, but don't tell any one about your free tickets. Miss Farnum won't care to have any one know the audience is paid to clap her."

"Aw, quit kidding me," responded 735, moving toward the stage. "Why, we sees 'most all the New York shows that way for nothing. We get paid to clap, even if the show's rotten. Don't try to kid me, baby."

"It's wonderful what you learn when you go on the stage," murmured the horrified Lizzie, after she had chased 735 into the darker regions of the stage. "I wonder what's keeping Miss Farnum?" she added thoughtfully, as she returned to the dressing-room.

Weldon, clad in immaculate evening clothes, and accompanied by an un.o.btrusive young chap wearing a dinner coat, a gray vest, a gray tie and a small derby, strolled back behind the scenes to make sure everything was all right for the opening. This was really Weldon's most ambitious attempt. For years he had served in a business capacity with many stars, and occasionally he had produced things on his own account, but never before had his bank-roll a.s.sumed proportions which would justify him in leasing the exclusive Globe Theater. If the new production made good it would be the making of him as a manager as well.

Consequently he was in delightful spirits.

His companion was a trifle more subdued, for upon his somewhat boyish face there was a cloud of anxiety. He was keen, alert, almost deferential in his att.i.tude toward the manager, but a certain experienced air suggested that behind his youthful appearance there was dynamic energy and a fund of vitality which might burst forth at any moment. He was Phil Hummer, the press agent of the Globe Theater, a former newspaper man who, as he often expressed it, "quit writing for the papers because he found he could make more money as a press agent."

For weeks he had been a.s.siduously informing the public, through such newspaper mediums as he could persuade to print his effusions, of the importance of Miss Martha Farnum's approaching stellar debut--for in the new play, be it known, Martha was being "starred."

A Broadway star! How often have you read of the wonderful luck of some obscure chorus girl, called upon in an emergency to play the leading role, and next day proclaimed a star! Pretty fiction it is. Once in a while it happens in real life, but very seldom. It is the alluring tales of the sudden elevation of choristers which attract and fascinate the beginner. The oft-told story of how Edna May rose from the ranks and became a Casino star over-night, has served as the guiding beacon in the life story of many a chorus girl seeking for fame; alas! too often in vain.

"Ready to-night for the stellar debut of Miss Martha Farnum," cried Weldon, enthusiastically. "To-night is the night that wins or loses all."

In clear defiance of the printed rules of the Fire Department young Mr.

Hummer carefully lighted a cigarette and observed carelessly: "Can't see how any one loses unless it's Miss Farnum."

"Not lose?" repeated Weldon. "Why, man, haven't I rented the theater for six weeks on a guarantee, to say nothing of engaging the company and paying for the most expensive scenic production of the season? With a new Paris gown for every act? If Miss Farnum doesn't make good, where am I?"

"Exactly where you were three months ago," said Hummer.