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"The next number on the regular program is," etc., etc. The crowd yelled; Burlingham stood firm, and up went the curtain on Eshwell and Connemora's sketch. It got no applause. Nor did any other numbers on the program. The contrast between the others and the beauty of the girl, her delicate sweetness, her vital youth, her freshness of the early morning flower, was inevitable.
And for the first time the truth about the catastrophe came to her. She turned to Burlingham. "How brave you are!" she cried. "Oh, what'd be the use in dropping down and howling like a dog?" replied he. "That wouldn't bring the boat back. It wouldn't get me a job." "And you shared equally, when you lost the most of all." They were walking on.
Miss Anstruther was not in the least offended. She paraded, jauntily switching her great hips and laughing. "Jealous!" she teased. "You poor little broomstick." Burlingham was in a white flannel suit that looked well enough in those dim lights. The make-up gave him an air of rakish youth. Eshwell had got himself into an ordinary sack suit.
Burlingham followed, to visit the offices of the two evening newspapers and by "handing them out a line of smooth talk" the one art whereof he was master to get free advertising. Also there were groceries to buy and odds and ends of elastic, fancy crêpe, paper muslin and the like for repairing the shabby costumes.
Whenever he paused for breath, Burlingham leaned from the box and took it up, pouring out a stream of eulogies of his show in that easy, lightly cynical voice of his. And the audience straggled in young fellows and their girls, roughs from along the river front, farmers in town for a day's sport.
It was Pat who said to Burlingham, "Bob, we're going to let the pullet in on the profits equally, aren't we?" "Sure," replied Burlingham. "Anybody kicking?" The others protested enthusiastically except Tempest, who shot a glance of fiery scorn at Burlingham over a fork laden with potato salad. "Then you're elected, Miss Sackville," said Burlingham. Susan's puzzled eyes demanded an explanation.
He drew a pad of blank forms toward him, wiped a pen on the mat into which his mouse-colored hair was roached above his right temple. "Well, miss, what's the patient's name?" "Robert Burlingham." "Age?" "I don't know." "About what?" "I I don't know. I guess he isn't very young. But I don't know." "Put down forty, Sim," said the doctor. "Very well, Doctor Hamilton."
"That's a good idea," replied he. "I'll try to get together some simple slop. Perhaps a melodrama, a good hot one, would go eh?" After ten days the receipts began to drop. On the fifteenth day there was only a handful at the matinée, and in the evening half the benches were empty. "About milked dry," said Burlingham at the late supper. "We'll move on in the morning." This pleased everyone.
It was the same way with her dead mother she had been loving and trusting, had given generously without thought of self, with generous confidence in the man she loved and had paid with reputation and life. She compelled Burlingham to take what was left of her fifty dollars. "You wouldn't like to make me feel mean," was the argument she used. "I must put in what I've got the same as you do.
"He'll be back in a few minutes," replied Burlingham. "In fact, he ought to be back now." His glance happened to meet Susan's; he hastily shifted his eyes. "Where's the box?" asked Violet. "Tempest's taking care of it," was the manager's answer. "Tempest!" exclaimed Mabel. Her shrewd, dissipated eyes contracted with suspicion.
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