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Updated: June 13, 2025
Mr Goble subjected her to a prolonged stare, seemed about to speak, changed his mind, and swung off moodily in the direction of the grill-room. He was not used to this sort of treatment. He had hardly gone, when Wally appeared. "What was he saying to you?" demanded Wally abruptly, without preliminary greeting. "He was asking me to lunch." Wally was silent for a moment.
Mr Goble has nothing to do with the financial arrangements of 'The Rose of America. Those are entirely in my hands. Mr Goble, in return for a share in the profits, is giving us the benefit of his experience as regards the management and booking of the piece. I have always had the greatest faith in it.
Mr Goble jerked his head so violently that the Derby hat flew off, to be picked up, dusted, and restored by the stage-director. "Oh, so you don't like it? Well, you know what you can do . . ." "Yes," said Jill, "we do. We are going to strike." "What!" "If you don't let Mae go on, we shan't go on. There won't be a performance tonight, unless you like to give one without a chorus." "Are you crazy!"
"Eight twenty-five," he observed. "Time those girls were on stage." Mr Goble, glad of a concrete target for his wrath, cursed him in about two hundred and fifty rich and well-selected words. "Huh?" said Mr Miller, hand to ear. Mr Goble repeated the last hundred and eleven words, the pick of the bunch. "Can't hear!" said Mr Miller, regretfully. "Got a cold."
But, speaking with the utmost respect and viewing him in the most favorable light, he is a combination of tom-cat and the things you see when you turn over a flat stone! Such are the reasons why I am sorry that you are in his company." Jill had listened to this diatribe with a certain uneasiness. Her brief encounters with Mr Goble told her that every word was probably true.
Somewhere, in some sinister den in the criminal districts of the town, there is a school where small boys are trained for these positions, where their finer instincts are rigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated by competent professors. Of this school the candy-eating Cerberus of Messrs Goble and Cohn had been the star scholar.
He passed into the silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse, stopped up his mouth with a piece of chewing-gum. Mr Goble regarded the silver-tongued orator wrathfully. He was not accustomed to chatter-boxes arguing with him like this. He would probably have said something momentous and crushing, but at this point Jill intervened. "Mr Goble." The manager swung round on her. "What is it?"
"I would not care to sell out for twenty thousand!" yelled the overwrought Mr Pilkington. "I wouldn't sell out for a million! You're a swindler! You want to rob me! You're a crook!" "Yes, yes," assented Mr Goble gently. "But, all joking aside, suppose I was to go up to twenty-five thousand . . . ?" He twined his fingers lovingly in the slack of Mr Pilkington's coat. "Come now! You're a good kid!
What would his visitor think of him if he knew that he had been mean enough to do just that very thing that in order to punish his cousin for his Union sentiments and drive him away from the academy, he had written a letter to Budd Goble which came within an ace of bringing Marcy Gray a terrible beating?
"That epigram . . ." "It's out!" "But . . . !" "It's out!" "Surely," protested Mr Pilkington almost tearfully, "I have a voice . . ." "Sure you have a voice," retorted Mr Goble, "and you can use it any old place you want, except in my theatre. Have all the voice you like! Go round the corner and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath!
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