  When Richard returned from Albany the next day he couldn’t find enough words to praise Peggy for what she had said on the radio. “But your aunt was upset,” Peggy exclaimed, “and she might have been right! Just suppose we couldn’t have opened—” “It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference,” Richard said. “But if you had said we might not open, think of all the audience we would have lost!” “That’s exactly what I was thinking of,” Peggy declared happily. “That’s why I went ahead.” Richard called the cast together on stage to tell them what had happened in Albany. “I got panicky when I heard that the commissioner was out of town—almost decided to hire a guide and try to trail him in the woods! But then he sent a wire from some little town saying he’d return Monday, so I decided to wait.” “By the way,” Chuck interrupted, “you know we have dress rehearsal tomorrow night, and the next night we open! Have you sent anything to the papers yet? Does the town know we’re going to open?” Richard gave Chuck an amused “where-do-you-think-I’ve-been” look. “Mr. Crosby, I sent out at least six press releases Monday afternoon from Albany. Not only to Lake Kenabeek, but to the New York papers, too. The Albany paper is running a long article on this—it’s an interesting issue, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a good press all around. The Slade brothers may have actually helped this theater!” Chris laughed out loud. “I’ll bet they love that idea!” “Oh, certainly! They’ll be here with bells on Thursday night,” Alison drawled. Michael Miller was listening, too, covered with scene paint as usual, and wearing his carpenter’s apron stuffed with tools. “I’ll bet anything that when they hear about this, we’ll be hearing from them again! Those boys don’t give up so easily!” “Oh, now, Michael,” his father remonstrated, “they’re not as bad as all that—” “I want to hear what happened!” Rita urged Richard. “We don’t know how you wangled this or what the commissioner said—” “Well, I explained our problem to him,” Richard began. “That someone had questioned the legality of operating a profit-making business in a school, and that we were threatened with court proceedings if we continued. I told him who was behind it and why—the brothers Slade and their movie house—and I also explained that we were helping the school by our rent. Of course, he couldn’t have agreed more with that, knowing as much as he does about educational funds! And I ranted—really ranted—about what the Kenabeek Summer Theater could do for this town—and the whole area—and the school.” Richard was declaiming now as he walked back and forth in front of the stage, and the cast was highly amused. “So, the commissioner promised to look into the matter some time soon.” Richard stopped dramatically. “Some time soon,” he repeated, obviously enjoying the effect on the cast. “Why, he’s a regular ham!” Peggy thought, grinning. “Well, you should have seen me,” Richard continued, laughing himself. “I got up from my seat, leaned over the desk, stared him straight in the eye, and said, as if this was the biggest thing since the end of the Ice Age, ‘The Kenabeek Summer Theater opens on Thursday. This Thursday!’” “What did he do? What happened?” Mary Hopkins asked breathlessly. “He decided that he’d better do something about it!” Richard laughed. “He was galvanized! He told his secretary to drop everything, and together we went through a list of all the companies operating in the state. We found that two other companies were playing in high schools! If we couldn’t go ahead here, those theaters would have to fold, too! “Well, it didn’t seem fair, and yet, since no one had ever before questioned the legality of playing in a school, there was no precedent to go by. And no time to get a court decision!” Richard was very serious now, and the cast listened interestedly, hanging on every word. “So, the commissioner decided that the only thing he could do legally was to postpone a decision until Labor Day! If anyone raises the question again, they will be informed that nothing can be done about it until after Labor Day—and by that time, of course, all the theaters will have finished their seasons!” “Very clever!” Mr. Miller nodded thoughtfully. “Very clever indeed!” “Yes, but there’s one other little thing,” Richard added. “It was also decided, in order to squelch any rumors or new questions, that this theater will operate on a non-profit basis.” “We are now a non-profit organization?” Chuck asked slowly. “We are indeed,” Richard replied. “Any money left over at the end of the season, after expenses, goes to the Kenabeek High School toward their new science lab.” “Well!” Chuck exclaimed, looking perfectly blank. “Oh, what a pity!” Rita cried. “Then you two won’t make any money this summer!” She knew that Chuck and Richard were working for nothing beyond their living expenses. They weren’t even on regular salaries like the rest of the company. Every penny would be poured back into the theater to pay back the Chamber of Commerce and the individual investors. Chuck laughed. “I had hoped to have something left over at the end of the season, but I can’t imagine that we need the profits as much as the school does. Actually, I’m glad about this arrangement!” “There probably won’t be too much left over, anyway,” Richard added. “Did you ever hear of a summer theater making a real profit on a first season? I agree with Chuck. We just want to have a season successful enough to warrant a return next year.” “We won’t have a season this year if we don’t get back to work!” Chuck declared. “We have a lot to clean up today. Places for the second act, everybody, Scene Two.” “Congratulations, Richard,” Peggy said as she took a seat in the auditorium. She had some time before she was due on stage, and she wanted to watch the other actors. “I think you did a wonderful job!” “The Chamber of Commerce is going to be awfully pleased with the way this turned out,” Mr. Miller said, shaking Richard’s hand. “And the School Board will be delighted.” “Thanks, Mr. Miller,” Richard said. “I hope Max Slade will change his mind about us now, too.” “He might,” Mr. Miller agreed. “He just might. If I have an opportunity, I’ll try to speak with him about it. Well, back to work, now. Congratulations again, Richard.” Watching him go, Peggy was struck again by the company’s good fortune in having Howard Miller. He was such a finished actor and lent dignity to the theater by his position with the Chamber of Commerce and the School Board. “Mr. Miller did a lot in the theater in his time, didn’t he?” Peggy whispered to Richard as the act began. “He certainly did. His background’s very impressive!” “Do you think he might be able to work something out with Max Slade?” Peggy asked. “It’s possible, but if he can’t,” Richard whispered with a twinkle, “maybe I’ll sic you on the job! You did just fine with John Hamilton.” Peggy laughed. “Oh, Richard! All I said was that Dear Ruth would open Thursday. What on earth would I say to Max Slade?” “I would leave that entirely up to you!” Richard teased. “I’m sure you’d think of something!” “But not until after Thursday,” Peggy said with mock seriousness. “No, no, certainly not until after Thursday!” Richard agreed, chuckling. “We couldn’t take a chance on losing you opening night! He might lock you up in the movies!” “And I’d have to look at one of those awful pictures twelve times.” They both laughed. “But isn’t it exciting, really?” Peggy said. “I mean the opening—only two more days! It doesn’t seem possible.” “Two more days,” Richard echoed thoughtfully, “and there’s such a lot to do.” “NO!” Chuck suddenly shouted from the orchestra, and Peggy and Richard both jumped. “No! How many times do I have to tell you—you cannot throw that line away!” He ran up on stage and motioned Danny out of the way, saying, “Now watch this! I hate to show you how to do your part, but we can’t get hung up on this every time we play the scene!” Peggy’s eyes opened wide. She had never seen Chuck Crosby like this before. “You pause after you say, ‘I got to the turnstile,’ etc. Then you say, ‘I didn’t have a nickel’—and you don’t throw it away! You’ll kill your next line if it isn’t just right. Now watch.” “I see,” Danny said when Chuck had finished. “Thanks, Chuck.” “This is not Chekhov we’re playing, it’s a Norman Krasna comedy!” Chuck said, speaking to everybody. “Now suppose we get to work! And stop playing Alison Lord and Chris Hill and Danny Dunn—and Peggy Lane, radio heroine.” He pointed straight at her. “Let’s play Dear Ruth!” He jumped off the stage and resumed his place down front. “Take it again,” he called, “from the beginning!” And he was right. Watching him, Peggy knew that it was time to get down to serious work. In two days they had to have a play ready. Really ready, not half-way. And Chuck, like all good directors, was giving them the impetus and the drive to do it. |
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