Peggy Raymond's Vacation Part 19

Other misunderstandings had to be cleared up before everything was running smoothly. When Peggy called on Mr. Silas Robbins, and stated her errand, that excellent man failed to grasp her explanation, and took her for the manager of a theatrical troupe.

"You don't mean that you're running a show at your age! I call it a shame. You don't look a day older than my Ettie. Haven't you got a home and folks, child, or what is it that's druv you into this dog's life?"

Of course it was necessary for Peggy to begin at the beginning, and in the course of twenty minutes or so, the good man began to understand. As the extent of his blunder gradually dawned upon him, he threw back his head and broke into a hearty guffaw whose enjoyment was contagious.

Peggy joined him, and then there was an exultant note in her laughter.

Observation had taught her that when a man is laughing, it is one of the hardest things in the world for him to say no.

"Now, suppose we start over again, and go kind of slow," said Mr. Silas Robbins. "I've got as far as this, that you're all high-school girls and want to give a show. It would take a reg'lar racehorse of a brain to keep up with that tongue of yourn."

Peggy's further explanations were characterized by the utmost deliberation, so that Mr. Robbins had time to ask any questions that occurred to him, and the outcome justified her expectation. Not only did she secure the use of the school building, but Mr. Silas Robbins agreed to purchase tickets for himself and family.

"And to think I took you for a perfessional," said Mr. Robbins, smiling very broadly as he turned back to his waiting horses. "If there's anything in your show funnier'n that, it'll be wuth the price. Going to ask a quarter, be you? That's right. Folks don't appreciate a cheap ten-cent show, the way they do one they've got to pay a good price for."

Peggy met a similarly cordial reception at the office of the _Weekly Arena_, the country paper, on which she was relying for free advertising. Mr. Smart, the editor, was a careworn little man, whose frayed and faded business suit suggested that too many subscriptions were paid in potatoes and cord wood, and too few in the coin of the realm. He agreed to her request with a readiness Peggy thought wonderfully kind, though it would have surprised her less, had she realized with what eagerness Mr. Smart was continually seeking items with a news value.

"I'll make one or two references to it in this issue," Mr. Smart promised, "to sort of pique curiosity, you know. And next week you might give me a little write-up of the thing. Outline the plot, without giving away the surprises, and put it on thick about its being funny. It _is_ funny, ain't it?"

"Oh, yes, very."

"That's the talk," said Mr. Smart approvingly. "I don't know how it is with city people. Sometimes it seems to me that they must like to have their feelings harrowed up, judging from the kind of plays they go to see. But here in the country, we like to get our money's worth of laughing. And, by the way, I suppose you understand, Miss, that it's customary for the Press to receive two complimentary tickets."

Notwithstanding this cordial and valuable support, Peggy was to find that the lot of an actor-manager is not altogether free from thorns.

Claire had obligingly agreed to accept the vacant _role_ in the cast, but after one reading of the little play, a marked decrease in her enthusiasm was observable.

"Do you know I don't like the part of _Adelaide_ a bit," she confided to Priscilla. "I'd like to play _Hazel_. I'm going to ask Amy if she'd mind changing with me."

Priscilla stared.

"Of course she'd mind. She knows her part and has played it once. You couldn't ask her to learn a new one just because you prefer hers."

Claire's air of depression became more marked.

"Priscilla," she quavered, "I don't see how I'm going to play that part.

I don't know how I'll endure it."

Priscilla's amazement grew. "Why, what's wrong with it? I think it's particularly cute."

"Why, we're quarrelling every minute, you and I. And at the end of the second act, you say--" Claire's voice died away in a dejected whimper.

But there was little balm for her grievance in Priscilla's unfeeling laughter.

"Well, what of it? There's nothing real about it. A quarrel in a play isn't anything."

"It's something to me," replied Claire, in tones nicely balanced between despondency and tenderness. "When I think of your glaring at me and saying such cruel, cruel things, it seems as if it would almost kill me." She found her handkerchief, and actually shed a few tears, while Priscilla choked down her exasperation, and tried to answer with fitting nonchalance.

"Sorry you feel that way. We might ask Dorothea Clarke, the girl who took the part before, to come up for a week, just to play it. Though I must say," concluded Priscilla, her irritation getting the better of her good resolutions, "that your idea impresses me as too silly for words."

The suggestion that Claire's cooperation was not necessary to the success of the undertaking was all that was needed. Claire had no intention of being reduced to the position of an on-looker, while the others enjoyed the fun and reaped the plaudits of the enterprise.

Nothing more was heard of Claire's giving up her part, but in the rehearsals she showed such a total lack of spirit, and played the _role_ a.s.signed her with so unmistakable an air of injury, that patient Peggy was driven to the verge of desperation.

Nor were her troubles confined to Claire. Rosetta Muriel who had been offered an unexacting part in the cast, confided to Peggy her intentions in regard to costume. "I'm going to have an apple-green silk. The skirt'll be scant, of course, and draped a little right here. And which do you think would be stylisher, a square neck or--"

Peggy had by now recovered herself sufficiently to interrupt. "Why, you're cast for a parlor-maid."

"I know it," said Rosetta Muriel, indifferently.

"You can't dress in apple-green silk. You ought to have a plain black dress and a little white ap.r.o.n."

Rosetta Muriel flushed and tossed her head.

"I don't know what difference that makes. If you're going on the stage you want to look as nice as you can, I should think."

"One can look very nice in a black dress and a white ap.r.o.n. I'm going to be a frumpy old woman, with the worst rig you ever saw. But of course,"

concluded Peggy firmly, perceiving that Rosetta Muriel was inclined to argue the point, "If you'd rather not take the part, I can probably find some one else. But whoever takes it, will have to be dressed suitably."

That argument was as effective with Rosetta Muriel as it had been with Claire. She yielded as the other girl had done, and as ungraciously.

"It's easy enough to see through that," she told herself angrily. "Those city girls want to be the whole thing. They're afraid to let me dress up nice, for fear folks will look at somebody else." And it argues well for the strength of Rosetta Muriel's vanity that for the moment she actually believed her preposterous charge.

Plans for the play absorbed the leisure of the cottagers. Little else was talked of. To Jerry Morton had been a.s.signed the responsibility of organizing an orchestra of local talent, and he came twice a day or oftener, to report progress or ask counsel. The tan shoes, whose excessively pointed toes betrayed that probably they were as old, if not older than Jerry himself, but which in Jerry's estimation were synonymous with unpretentious elegance, appeared so frequently that the razor-like tips began to look somewhat scarred and battered, as if they might perhaps retire from active service in ten years' time, or so. But the tan shoes were not Jerry's only concession to the social amenities.

An unwonted attention was given to grimy knuckles and finger-nails. More than once he made his appearance with his usually frowsy hair as sleek as the coat of a water rat, and dripping, in further likeness to the animal mentioned. Peggy, whose original interest in Jerry had been intensified by the favorable impression he had made on Graham, hailed these signs of awakening with satisfaction, and laid plans to bring about still more startling changes.

The little comedy did not require much in the way of scenery. But to present even a simple home scene on the schoolhouse platform, necessitated considerable planning, to say nothing of hard work.

Arrangements were made for extra benches to put back of the battered desks, for the _Weekly Arena_ had exhibited a n.o.ble determination to earn the two complimentary tickets, and Peggy felt sure of a full house. Farmer Cole had agreed to lend Joe for the important day, and it looked as if the hired man would not find his post a sinecure.

"If ever a place was misnamed," Aunt Abigail remarked one day, "this is the spot. Dolittle Cottage. Do-_little_ Cottage," she repeated, with an emphasis calculated to make her meaning apparent to the most obtuse. "In the course of a few weeks we have become a preparatory school and an orphan asylum." She looked significantly at Peggy who sat on the steps, feeding the speckled chicken from a spoon. "And our last development is a theatrical agency. Well, I can't say that it is exactly my idea of a quiet, restful summer."

The hour of preparation was at its height, and the great occasion less than a week away, when Peggy received news which sent her already buoyant spirits climbing like a rocket. The rural delivery had brought her several letters, and as Priscilla noticed, she pounced first on a missive in a business-like envelope, with a typewritten address. She had hardly read two lines before she interrupted herself with a joyous squeal.

"Girls, isn't it glorious! Elaine is coming Sat.u.r.day."

"Elaine! Why, I thought she said she couldn't." Priscilla's answer was a little less spontaneous than usual.

"Her mother and Grace have been invited somewhere, and they insisted on her coming here. She's worked so hard, and they feel she needs a change." Peggy was reading down the page, her bright face aglow with antic.i.p.ation, but Priscilla's look indicated no corresponding pleasure, and she answered with a non-committal murmur, when Peggy added, "She'll be here for the play. I'm so glad."

And Priscilla struggling to express a degree of satisfaction in the prospect, did not guess how soon she would echo Peggy's words from the bottom of her heart.

CHAPTER XIV

AUNT ABIGAIL IS MISLAID

The little country schoolhouse had been the scene of varied activity that morning. Even in term time, when the battered desks were occupied, it is a question whether a forenoon's program would have been more strenuous. Equipped with tape-measures the girls had calculated to a nicety just how much furniture the platform could accommodate, and still give the performers room to make their entrances and exits without colliding with the armchair or overturning the small table. The question of extra benches had also come up for consideration, and the girls had demonstrated to their complete satisfaction that two people of ordinary size could be seated comfortably at each desk. Absorbed in these fascinating calculations, they had failed to notice how rapidly the time was pa.s.sing, till Dorothy began to complain of being hungry.

"You're as good as an alarm-clock," declared Priscilla, consulting her watch. "It's half-past eleven, Peggy."

"Is it? Then we mustn't wait another minute. If Aunt Abigail is back from her walk, she may be hungry too." Aunt Abigail had been invited to attend the preliminary inspection of the schoolroom, but had declined, frankly avowing her preference for a walk. Jerry had told her of a somewhat rare fern growing half a mile from the cottage, and Aunt Abigail who intermittently was an enthusiastic amateur botanist had professed a desire to see this particular species in its native haunts.