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Updated: June 13, 2025
There was a silence as far, at least, as he and she were concerned. In the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelter they stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to be happening. Some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. The rasping voice of Mr Goble was making itself heard from the unseen auditorium.
A slight cloud seemed to dim the sunniness of the author's mood. "No, not that one," he said reluctantly. "No hope there, I'm afraid. I saw Goble this morning about that, and he said it didn't add up right. The one that's going to be put on is 'The Primrose Way. You remember? It's got a big part for a girl in it." "Of course! The one Elsa liked so much. Well, that's just as good.
Mr Goble broke off to bellow at a scene-shifter who was depositing the wall of Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke's Long Island residence too far down stage. "Not there, you fool! Higher up!" "You gave her her notice this evening," said Jill. "Well, what about it?" "We want you to withdraw it." "Who's 'we'?" "The other girls and myself."
Mr Hill thought so too, and it was consequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellow from the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speeches and a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong. "I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Hill, quietly but dangerously, stepping to the footlights. "All wrong!" repeated Mr Goble. "Really?"
For some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. If Mr Goble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms except to Wally. To him he enlarged from time to time on the pain which "The Rose of America" caused him. "How I ever came to put on junk like this beats me," confessed Mr Goble frankly. "You probably saw that there was a good idea at the back of it," suggested Wally.
There was a cloud upon Mr Goble's brow, seeming to indicate that his grievance against life had not yet been satisfactorily adjusted: but it passed as he saw Jill, and he came up to her with what he would probably have claimed to be an ingratiating smile. "Hello!" said Mr Goble. "All alone?" Jill was about to say that the condition was merely temporary when the manager went on.
Marcy had not seen him since his return from Barrington, but he had heard of him as a red-hot Confederate who went about declaring that hanging was too good for Yankees and their sympathizers. When Marcy heard of this, he told himself that the man was another Bud Goble, who, when the pinch came, would take to the woods and stay there as long as danger threatened.
"I've an idea," said Mr Goble, raising his voice as the long form of Mr Pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics will roast it. If you ask me," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort of show the critics will pan the life out of. I've been fifteen years in the . . ." "Critics!" cried Wally.
Let's hear what you base them on. Be coherent for a couple of seconds." Mr Goble filled his depleted lungs. "If you ask me . . ." he began. "We don't," said Wally curtly. "This has nothing to do with you. Well," he went on, "we're waiting to hear what this is all about." Mr Pilkington gulped.
I'll make them a speech if they want me to, or head the procession with a banner if they are going to parade down the boardwalk. I'm for 'em, Father Abraham, a hundred thousand strong. And then a few! If you want my considered opinion, our old friend Goble has asked for it and got it. And I'm glad glad glad, if you don't mind my quoting Pollyanna for a moment. I hope it chokes him!"
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