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Updated: June 13, 2025
Such were the meditations of Mr Goble, and, on the final fall of the curtain amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, he had despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to find Mr Pilkington and conduct him to the presence. Meanwhile, he waited impatiently on the empty stage. The sudden advent of Wally Mason, who appeared at this moment, upset Mr Goble terribly.
Goble wanted his part rewritten as a Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hit last season in 'Hoots, Mon! That sort of thing is always happening in musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good people happen to be available at the moment.
"Who," enquired Jill, anxious to be abreast of the conversation, "is Ike?" "Mr Goble. Where I've just got work. Goble and Cohn, you know." "I never heard of them!" The young man extended his hand. "Put it there!" he said. "They never heard of me! At least, the fellow I saw when I went down to the office hadn't! Can you beat it?" "Oh, did you go down there, too?" asked Nelly. "Sure.
Mr Goble, giving a creditable imitation of a living statue, was plucked from his thoughts by a hand upon his arm. It was Mr Miller, whose unfortunate ailment had prevented him from keeping abreast of the conversation. "What did he say?" enquired Mr Miller, interested. "I didn't hear what he said!" Mr Goble made no effort to inform him.
What is it?" enquired Mr Saltzburg. "I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. . . . We cannot play the overture again. What is it? What has happened?" Mr Goble, that overwrought soul, had betaken himself to the wings, where he was striding up and down with his hands behind his back, chewing his cigar. The stage director braced himself once more to the task of explanation.
A momentary thought flashed through her mind that it would be horrible to be touched by him. He looked soft and glutinous. "All right," said Mr Goble at last, after what seemed to Jill many minutes. He nodded to Mr Saltzburg. "Get on with it! And try working a little this time! I don't hire you to give musical entertainments." "Yes, Mr Goble, yes. I mean no, Mr Goble!"
He had been up late last night, and, in spite of the fair weather, he was feeling a trifle on edge. "'In the words of Omar of Khayyam' . . ." Mr Goble clapped his hands. "Cut that 'of," he said. "The show's too long, anyway." And, having handled a delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leaned back in his chair and chewed the end off another cigar.
"Jews' finery!" shouted the captain, with his fingers on his sword. But the stranger held up a hand deprecatingly. "'Pon my oath, Goble, I gave you credit for more penetration," he drawled; "you may be right about the Scotchman, but your longshore lout has had both birth and breeding, or I know nothing."
Otis Pilkington had left Atlantic City two hours after the conference which had followed the dress rehearsal, firmly resolved never to go near "The Rose of America" again. He had been wounded in his finest feelings. There had been a moment, when Mr Goble had given him the choice between having the piece rewritten and cancelling the production altogether, when he had inclined to the heroic course.
"Mr Brown." "Hello?" "Do you think there would be any chance for me if I asked for work at Goble and Cohn's?" "You're joking!" cried Nelly. "I'm not at all." "But what do you want with work?" "I've got to find some. And right away, too." "I don't understand." Jill hesitated. She disliked discussing her private affairs, but there was obviously no way of avoiding it.
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