FullReads

Packer rose. “Is there anything else for me, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes. Take this interlined script, get some copies typewritten, and see that the company’s sides are changed to suit it. Be especially careful about that young Miss–ah–Miss Malone’s. You’ll find her part is altered considerably, and will be even more, when Mr. Canby gets the dialogue for other changes finished. He’ll let you have them to-morrow. By the way, Packer, where did you find–” He paused, stretched out his hand to the miniature sedan chair of liqueurs, took a decanter and tiny glass therefrom, and carefully poured himself a sparkling emerald of creme de menthe. “Will you have something, Mr. Canby?” he asked. “You, Tinker?”

Both declined in silence; they seemed preoccupied.

“Where did I what, Mr. Potter?” asked the stage-manager, reminding him of the question left unfinished.

“What?”

“You said: ‘By the way, where did you find–‘”

“Oh, yes.” Potter smiled negligently. “Where did you find that little Miss Malone? At the agents’?”

Packer echoed him: “Where did I find her?” He scratched his head. “Miss”–he said ruminatively, repeating the word slowly, like a man trying to work out the solution of a puzzle–“Miss–“

“Miss Malone. I suppose you got her at an agent’s?”

“Let’s see,” said Packer. “At an agent’s? No. No, it wasn’t. Come to think of it, it wasn’t.”

“Then where did you get her?” Tinker inquired.

“That’s what I just asked him,” Potter said, placing his glass upon a table without having tasted the liqueur. “What’s the matter, Packer? Gone to sleep?”

“I remember now,” said Packer, laughing deferentially. “Of course! No. It wasn’t through any of the agents. Now I remember–come to think of it–I sort of ran across her myself, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t just sure who you meant at first. You mean the understudy, the one that’s to play Miss Lyston’s part, that Miss–Miss–” He snapped a finger and thumb to spur memory and then, as in triumphant solution of his puzzle, cried, “Ma– Malone! Miss Malone!”

“Yes,” said Potter, looking upon him darkly. “Where did you sort of run across her, come to think of it, as a matter of fact?”

“Oh, I remember all about it, now,” said Packer brightly. “Why, she was playing last summer in stock out at Seeleyville, Pennsylvania. That’s only about six miles from Packer’s Ridge, where my father lives. I spent a couple of weeks with him, and we trolleyed over one evening to see ‘The Little Minister,’ because father got it in his head some way that it was about the Baptists, and I couldn’t talk him out of it. It wasn’t as bad a performance as you’d think, and this little girl was a pretty fair ‘Babbie.’ Father forgot all about the Baptists and kept talking about her after we got home, until nothing would do but we must go over and see that show again. He wanted to take her right out to the farm and adopt her–or something; he’s a widower, and all alone out there. Fact is, I had all I could do to keep him from going around to ask her, and I was pretty near afraid he’d speak to her from the audience. Well, to satisfy him, I did go around after the show, and gave her my card, and told her if I could do anything for her in New York to let me know. Of course, naturally, when I got back to town I forgot all about it, but I got a note from her that she was here, looking for an engagement, the very day you told me to scare up an understudy. So I thought she might do as well as anybody I’d get at the agent’s, and I let her have it.” He drew a breath of relief, like that of a witness leaving the stand, and with another placative laugh, letting his eyes fall humbly under the steady scrutiny of his master, he concluded: “Of course I remember all about it, only at first I wasn’t sure which one you meant; it’s such a large company.”