A letter from Lolita, received in Cleveland a few weeks later while Jimmy was on the first lap of his transcontinental journey as press agent extraordinary for Madame Olga Stephano, the noted exponent of Ibsen, sent the dark clouds which had given him an extremely low visibility scurrying like mist before the sun and shot his blood pressure up almost to the danger point.
Lolita admitted the justice of Jimmy’s objection to “Ursula’s Undies,” and sent word that she had finally ceased her connection with that organization and was “doing bits” with a stock company in Mt. Vernon. If Jimmy would only forgive her she’d heed his advice on all occasions in the future. Jimmy, in a mood of extreme jubilation, had sent her a seventy-three word night letter and had retired early.
When he bounded out of his bed in the Carlton Hotel the next morning and looked over a copy of the Star which a thoughtful management had slid under his door, he began to radiate gladness and to impart tidings of good cheer. Little Sunshine, the sweet young orphan in the story book, who went around making folks forget their troubles by telling them that abscessed teeth and carbuncles were blessings in disguise, had nothing on him.
He trilled a merry roundelay while he bathed and shaved, and he felt so good that he tossed a “good morning, kid” to a pert little sparrow who was hopping about on the fire escape outside the open window.
Jimmy had a well forged alibi for his exuberance of spirits, quite apart from the resumption of diplomatic relations with the fair Lolita. He had just performed that fascinating operation known in the patois of the profession as “putting one over.” The patient who had submitted to his deft scalpel was no less a personage than E. Cartwright Jenkins, dramatic editor of the Star. E. Cartwright Jenkins was the alpha and omega, the guardian angel of the drama in that corner of the world.
It is only fair to state that just one month before Jimmy’s advent on the scene, E. Cartwright had declared war to the death on the bureau of publicity and promotion. He had issued a manifesto which took in everyone from the humblest representatives of a “Tom show” to the avaunt couriers of the actors and actresses deemed worthy of favorable mention by the critics of the Big Town.
The Jenkins’ ire had been aroused by a neat little yarn submitted by a modest young gentleman with mild blue eyes who had attested to its accuracy on the sacred honor of his grandsires. The subsequent developments had almost involved the Star in an expensive libel suit and certain blistering remarks from the owner and publisher of the paper, directed at the dramatic editor’s head, had resulted in the issuance of the aforementioned ultimatum. The manager of the Standard Theatre had shown Jimmy the letter containing it.
“We shall accept from the theatre,” the letter ran, “only the briefest sort of a general preliminary announcement giving the name of the play and the players concerned. Press agents’ contributions are not wanted and will not be used. It will not be necessary for them to call to pay their respects. We will take those for granted.”
As Jimmy sat on the edge of his bed and read the dramatic page of the Star over again he chuckled gleefully. Confronting him was a three column head which read: “Defense and a Rebuttal.” Underneath it was a thousand word letter addressed to the dramatic editor and signed “Very Respectfully Yours, James T. Martin.” Following it was a long piece bearing the signature of E. Cartwright Jenkins.
The letter was a work of surpassing art which had been jointly composed the day before by Jimmy and a reporter on the rival Inquirer who had covered “sports” with him in days gone by on a St. Louis paper and who had a freely flowing repertoire of adjectives at his command that was dazzling in its completeness. It was a protest against the Star’s embargo on theatrical tidings and a defense of the ancient and honorable calling of press agent. It was cunningly interlarded here and there with oily and unctuous references to the supreme wisdom of Mr. Jenkins.
That worthy gentleman was appealed to as “the recognized authority on all things pertaining to the serious drama in this part of the United States” and as a “patron of the seven arts whose causeries are the delight of the cultured and the despair of the untutored.” Mention was made of the discouragement such worthy artists as Madame Stephano met with as a result of the refusal of the Star to co-operate in the movement for the uplift of the stage, etc., etc.
“That’ll get that old bird,” Jimmy had remarked to his friend after the latter had explained what the “seven arts” were. “He’s the chairman of the executive committee of the I-Hate-Myself Club.”
Jimmy had had prophetic vision. E. Cartwright had fallen into the trap. He had printed the letter in full and he had followed it with certain remarks of his own in which he regretted that the new rule interfered with the “proper exploitation of such representative and distinguished players as Madame Stephano,” etc., etc.
The press agent took out a lead pencil and began underscoring the name of his star every time it appeared in both his letter and the dramatic editor’s subjoined comment.
“Fourteen times,” he chuckled to himself. “The poor old boob.”
He stuck his derby on his head a bit rakishly, reached for a silver topped walking stick and started a progress down to the lobby that was a continuous round of cheery greetings. He joked with the chambermaid he saw entering the room next his own; exchanged a bit of badinage with another who was loitering near the elevator, and playfully slapped the elevator boy on the back with his folded newspaper. He maintained this exalted mood throughout breakfast during which meal he again counted over the “Madame Stephanos” on the sixth page to see if he’d made a mistake in his previous reckoning.
After breakfast he strolled out into the lobby again and over to the cigar counter. As he pointed to a box in the case marked “50￠” each, he beamed at the slender blonde who was reaching to serve him and the blonde beamed back.
“Say, sister,” he asked pleasantly, “how’d you like a couple of seats for the show Monday night at the Standard?”
“Fine,” replied the young woman. “What is it?”
“Olga Stephano,” returned the press agent as he reached for his pass pad and his fountain pen.
“She’s that Russian actress, ain’t she, that plays in those highbrow plays?”
“That’s right,” replied Jimmy. “Ibsen stuff, but she’s a bear at it. She makes you tremble and she makes you sigh.”
The blonde person took the proffered pass and folded it carefully.
“I’ll take my sister,” she said. “She’ll have the time of her life if there’s anything sad in it. I must say you press agents are a mighty nice lot of boys. I meet a lot of you fellows in the course of a season and most every one slips me a pass just for sociability. Here comes Mr. Wilson now. He just got in this morning. He told me he’s ahead of some new play they’re trying out for Otis Taber.”
The gentleman who was approaching was a well set-up, prosperous looking man in his early forties who looked more like a bank cashier or a successful professional man than the popular conception of a theatrical advance agent. He was one of that distinguished little group of clever newspapermen who have been lured away from the daily grind of news-gathering or editorial work into the pleasant bypaths of theatrical endeavor and who have found the fascinations of the show world too subtle to resist no matter how hard they try.
“Hello, Jimmy, old man,” he said heartily. “What are you doing out here in Cleveland? I thought you were with ‘Meyerfield’s Frolics’.”
“I was,” replied Jimmy, “but I’m off song and dance shows. I had a run in with Meyerfield.”
“What are you doing?” asked the other.
“I’ve signed up with the little old uplift, Tom,” returned Jimmy. “I’m elevating our well known stage.”
Tom Wilson looked puzzled for a moment.
“You don’t mean to say that you’re ahead of Stephano?” he gasped.
“That’s what,” said Jimmy, with easy assurance. “I knew it would hand a laugh to all of you kid glove scouts, but I’m going to make good even if I am about as much of a highbrow as a bush league second baseman. As a matter of fact I’ve started to clean up already. Have a cigar.”
Mr. Wilson looked in the case and indicated a modestly priced weed. Jimmy held up a deprecatory hand.
“Nothing doing, sister,” he expanded. “Slip him one of those regular smokes.”
His friend picked a thick cigar out of the box the blonde person handed him and looked into Jimmy’s smiling face.
“Say,” he inquired. “What’s the idea? Had a legacy or something?”
Jimmy motioned him towards a large leather sofa in the center of the lobby.
“I’ve just put one over on the censor,” he exulted, as he settled down, “and I just naturally feel a little frisky. You don’t mind if I pin a few war crosses on my chest, do you?”
“Not at all,” replied the other good naturedly. “Fire ahead.”
Jimmy opened the folded newspaper in his hand and passed it to his brother agent with a playful little flourish. As the latter read the indicated section Jimmy watched him out of the corner of his eye carefully looking for signs of approval. Along about the second paragraph a knowing smile began to curl the corners of Mr. Wilson’s mouth. His companion heaved a sigh of profound satisfaction and lolled back at peace with all the vasty universe.
“That’s a pretty good start,” commented the other handing the paper back. “Rather a choice line of language, too.”
“You said something,” returned Jimmy. “I’ve got a date with a couple of those words the next time I run into a dictionary. I betcha old E. Cartwright never gets wise. Nothing succeeds like the little old salve.”
When the meeting of Local No. 78 of the Publicity Promoters’ Mutual Admiration Society adjourned about ten minutes later, Tom Wilson inquired if Jimmy was planning any more attacks on the common enemy. The latter yawned in simulation of great nonchalance.
“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas I hope to put into general circulation before the day is over,” he remarked casually. “Old Henry P. Inspiration has been working overtime for me since I turned highbrow. I’ll walk down to the theatre with you.”
Jimmy’s imagination indulged in grand and lofty tumb............