Madame Olga Stephano continued to be a “regular guy” for the remainder of the season, but when the summer rolled around Jimmy began to feel that his enthusiasm for the cause in the future would depend entirely upon an utterly sordid matter of dollars and cents. He politely suggested that a more obese emolument every Saturday night would make all the difference in the world. Madame Stephano exploded like a giant firecracker, shrugged her shapely shoulders and walked away.

Jimmy thereupon decided to leave the uplift flat on its back. He gave in his notice and the next day a summons from Chester Bartlett reached him. Bartlett offered him a place as press agent for his newest musical comedy, “Keep Moving” at a salary which exceeded the demand which Madame Stephano had rejected by twenty-five dollars a week. Jimmy went into executive session with himself and considered a motion for a reconsideration of his previously avowed determination to “keep all song and dance shows for life.” It was passed by a unanimous vote.

Jimmy smiled cynically one Saturday night in the early fall as he stood on the Boylston Street curb and watched a great throng of Boston amusement seekers filing through the main entrance of the Colonial Theatre. He was a backslider and an apostate, but he was no longer conscious of any scruples in the premises. His cynical aspect on this particular occasion was the result of his contemplation of the sign which outlined in incandescent brilliance over the portals of the playhouse the name of his new affiliation. It seemed to him to be, for a moment, a symbol of his downfall and disgrace.

His smile lost its hardness a minute later, however, and became something a shade softer and more human. A vagrant memory of a certain young person from Cedar Rapids, Iowa,—a young person whom Jimmy held in the highest regard—had crossed his train of thought. It was pleasant to think that Lolita Murphy was close at hand and that when the performance was over he could walk across the Common with her to her hotel, whisper words of endearment, and bask in the effulgence of the smiles which she so lavishly bestowed upon him.

Lolita, released from the oblivion of her drudgery as a player in the Mt. Vernon Stock Company, still cherished a great and overwhelming ambition to climb the ladder of theatrical fame and carelessly brush off the more or less distinguished celebrities who, she felt, encumbered the topmost rung.

She had reluctantly consented to accept a minor position in the “Keep Moving” company at Jimmy’s behest. The latter, filled with a pardonable desire to be near her, had convinced her that a little musical comedy experience was a necessary part of her theatrical training and had persuaded Bartlett to give her a microscopic part in the piece. In the first act she separated herself from the ranks of the chorus and remarked “Here comes the prince now.” In the second act she was the hat-check girl in the scene depicting the entrance to the dining-room of the Carlton Hotel and was called upon to say “think you’re fresh, don’t you?” to the principal comedian. In the third and final act she was one of the bridesmaids in the ragtime wedding number.

Jimmy, it must be confessed, had begun to strongly suspect that Lolita would eventually find out that the American stage would be able to worry along without her assistance if the worst came to the worst and that destiny had not selected her to snatch the laurels from the brow of Mrs. Fiske. That was one of the reasons which impelled him to suggest that she associate herself with “Keep Moving.” He didn’t want her to have any heart-aches or artistic growing pains and he felt that she could be spared much distress and disillusion if he were on the sidelines at all times with words of cheer and encouragement.

A smart limousine drew up alongside him and Chester Bartlett, “classiest” of musical comedy entrepreneurs alighted, bringing with him something of the flair of a Parisian boulevard as contrasted with the Broadway manner which usually characterized theatrical men in his particular field of endeavor. University man, cosmopolite, patron of amateur sports, big game hunter and intimate of distinguished literary men in a half dozen countries, Chester Bartlett was a unique figure in the realm of twinkly-toes and tinkly music. As he came towards Jimmy he seemed to exude such a suggestion of perfect poise and supreme savoir faire that the press agent felt for a moment as if he should applaud.

“Hello, old man,” said Bartlett jovially. “What song doth our troubadour sing next? You’ll have to woo the muse in accents soft and low if you expect to equal her performance this morning for your young friend down at the Colonial. That story had a tang that was delightful. Don’t you think so?”

The manager had intended to pierce Jimmy’s Achillian heel and he had succeeded. If there was anything that stirred the latent energies that lay dormant in the press agent’s soul and filled him with the fierce and fiery zest of a crusader it was praise of a rival’s achievements. And that fellow down at the Colonial had put one over that morning. There was no gainsaying that. His story about the group of chorus girls who had organized a Back to Nature club and who had elected to live in tents on the roof of one of the biggest hotels in town had landed with a splash and an extensive pictorial lay-out in every paper in town. Jimmy had been nursing a grouch all day because he hadn’t thought of the idea first. He didn’t permit any outward signs of his annoyance to reach Bartlett, however. He assumed his customary jaunty air of sublime self-confidence in making reply.

“I’ll say it was pretty good,” he said, “but I’ve got something about ready to spring that’ll send that fellow down for the count in the first round. I’ve got a date with this Emily Ann Muse party tomorrow morning and when she’s listened to what I’ve got to say she’ll jump through the paper hoop at the word of command.”

Bartlett laughed good-naturedly. Jimmy’s dazzling metaphorical flights and picturesque similes were a constant source of piquant delight to him.

“You’re not quite as modest as the cooing dove,” he remarked, “but you’re a darned sight more diverting. I hope you’re going to get our stately queens into the web you are weaving. I rather fancy they’re on the war-path tonight after all the notoriety their sisters in art got today.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Jimmy. “They’re goin’ to be right in the little old center of the stage with baby spot lights playin’ on ’em from all sides. There won’t be anythin’ doin’ for about thirty-six hours or so, though. I can’t open cold with this act. I’ve got to call a rehearsal.”

Bartlett chuckled and strolled into the lobby. As Jimmy watched his trim figure disappear past the door-man at the far end he experienced a sinking sensation that was decidedly unpleasant. He suddenly realized that in a moment of expansiveness induced by jealousy of a hated rival he had drawn a check against a sadly depleted bank account. As a matter of plain, ungarnished fact he hadn’t a notion as to how he was going to make good. He had no more idea than Bartlett as to the nature of the story that was to startle the natives in thirty-six hours, but he was the original cheery optimist and somehow he felt that the gods would be good to him. He sauntered leisurely down the street in quest of an inspiration.

The walk across the Common after the performance that night wasn’t quite as stimulating as it generally was. Jimmy’s earlier saunter had failed to result in the production of an idea that was even remotely possible of materialization and he had slowly let himself drop into one of those states of moody pre-occupation which are usually fatal to romance. Lolita, too, was strangely silent and detached and their conversation at first was mono-syllabic and intermittent. Presently they came to a bench on the fringes of the park and sat down under the sheltering branches of a great elm, as they had for several nights past. Neither spoke for a minute or two. Jimmy was the first to find voice.

“I might have ’em organize a literary society and have one of those Harvard ducks come over some off afternoon and slip ’em a lecture,” he said abstractedly as he stared straight ahead.

Lolita eyed him curiously. The speech was so entirely disassociated from his hitherto brief remarks that she couldn’t fathom its significance.

“Who?” she asked.

“There wouldn’t be time for that, though.” He went on unheedingly. “He’d probably have to take a couple of days to decide and another couple to get his nerve up.”

“What are you talking about, Jimmy Martin?” broke in Lolita impatiently.

Jimmy came to with a start and laughed foolishly.

“Excuse me, girlie,” he replied. “I forgot that you didn’t know anything about it. You see I ain’t really here on this bench at all. I’m right out on a sand-bar and the tide’s comin’ in. I’m goin’ to be all awash in a little while if the life guards don’t come out and pull a rescue.”

“I don’t understand,” persisted Lolita.

“It’s easy, girlie. I’ve got a case of goods to deliver and the drivers are out on strike. In words of one syllable, sweetheart, I’ve promised Bartlett that I’m goin’ to back the peace pow-wow off on to the inside pages on Monday morning and I’ve been reachin’ out all night for ideas, but I don’t seem to get anywhere at all, not anywhere at all.”

“Is it something about some old story for the papers or something like that that’s worrying you?”

Jimmy felt impelled to make a snappy rejoinder, but his saner judgment prevailed. He checked himself just in time.

“That’s the general idea, girlie,” he said evenly and lapsed into ruminative silence again.

It was dark under the old elm and Jimmy couldn’t see Lolita’s face. Had he been able to he would have noted an expression on it that might possibly have given him concern. It was an expression that was a blend of petulance and of something wan and a bit forlorn, a mixture of irritation and of anguish that seemed perilously near the breaking point. When she spoke again her voice was tremulous and low.

“Stories, stories, stories,”—she paused with every repetition of the word—“that’s all you think about. What good do they do? What’s the use of them all? They don’t make anybody happier, do they? They don’t mean anything, do they? They really don’t, do they?”

Jimmy slipped out of the silences instantly and edged closer to Lolita. He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away quickly. He was bewildered by her attitude and there was a shade of genuine agitation in his voice as he made reply.

“What’s the matter, honey? Didn’t you like that little yarn and the two column picture of you the Journal ran the other morning? That sheet’s got a circulation of over four hundred thousand. Think of all those people readin’ about you and seein’ your picture and talkin’ about you. Didn’t that make you happy? I hoped it would. That’s what I got ’em to use it for.”

Lolita touched him gently on the arm.

“I didn’t mean to be nasty, Jimmy,” she said. “I really didn’t and I hate to tell you the truth, but you’d really ought to know it. Do you want to?”

“Fire ahead. You don’t even have to blindfold me.”

“It didn’t make me as happy as you’d imagine. There wasn’t a single soul that saw it who knew anything about who I was or anything except the folks in the company, and they were all jealous because you’d put it in. I didn’t mean any more to that four hundred thousand than the printer that set up the type. Oh, no, I didn’t. You can’t tell me.

“Let me tell you something, Jimmy. Old Doc Crandall, the city editor of the Cedar Rapids Democrat-Chronicle, wrote a piece once about the graduation exercises at the Central High School and he said that I recited with ‘fine expression and wonderful emotional control.’ There were only two lines about me, but those two lines made me happier than a whole page in Boston would,—yes, or New York either. Do you know why?”

Jimmy, whose ideals were crashing down to earth, sat entranced at Lolita’s turbulent outburst.

“No,” he replied. “What’s the answer?”

“Because nine out of every ten people that read those two lines either know me to speak to or by sight or knew mother or dad and what was printed meant something to them about someone who meant something to them. That’s kind of mixed up, I guess, but you know what I’m trying to say. What do I mean to anyone here or in New York or any place else here in the east? Nothing—nothing at all, Jimmy—just nothing at all.”

She wound up at a helter-skelter pace that left her quite out of breath and had it not been for the sheltering elm Jimmy might have noticed that she was biting her lip when she paused and that she was holding herself in with a mighty effort. He again tried to take her hand, but she would have none of it.

“Girlie,” he pleaded, making a clumsy attempt at gentleness, “you mean a whole lot to a certain party who’s pretty close at hand. You’ve just naturally got the Cedar Rapids blues again tonight, honey, but you’ll be all right in the mornin’, all right in the mornin’, honey. Take it from me. I don’t lose many bets.”

But Lolita had lapsed into silence again and didn’t reply. Presently she complained of being chilly, got up wearily and begged to be taken home. At the door of her hotel Jimmy made one last effort to lift her out of her mood.

“Paper says fair and warmer tomorrow, honey,” he said. “Maybe we can hire a little old gas wagon and get out among the golden rod and the daisies, if I ain’t too busy. Would you go?”

“Maybe,” replied Lolita listlessly. “Good night.”

And she was gone. Jimmy gazed after her despairingly. Gloom entered his soul and made preparations to settle down for the night.

A strident voiced newsboy turned the corner just then shrilly crying the early or “bull-dog” edition of one of the Sunday papers.

“Hi, Journal,” he called, “Sunday Morning Journal—full account of “Billy” Williams’ sermon on booze and tobacco—hi, Journal—all about “Billy” Williams’ campaign—full account of both meetings—box score world’s champion games—hi, Journal.”

Jimmy mechanically bought a paper. A screaming headline caught his glance: