<h2 id="c20">CHAPTER XX <br/><span class="small">DOROTHY AND THE MANAGER</span></h2>
<p>Dorothy sank into a chair near the door.
Two or three important-looking women were
moving about restlessly, awaiting their turn to
pass beyond the portal guarded by a stout youth,
and face the manager in his private rooms. Others,
younger and more timid, sat quite still in their
chairs, as did Dorothy, and the girl could imagine
that they were silently praying for success in the
prospective interview with one who might decide
their fate. Dorothy seemed beyond thinking
consistently about her own circumstances; she just
sat there and waited. The youth at the door of
the private office looked at her sharply. Doubtless
he was wondering whether she had an appointment,
or whether she was one to be allowed to
enter out of her turn because of some “pull.”</p>
<p>It seemed to Dorothy that the very place rang
with an appeal for place, for position—for opportunity,
although not a word was spoken. But
the look on the faces of those waiting spoke louder
than words.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_196">[196]</div>
<p>Finally a girl in a red hat went in and came out
so quickly that the others looked at her curiously.
She murmured something that showed she had
been treated with scant ceremony. Then a very
stout woman, wearing an enormous veil brushed
past Dorothy. She was not escorted in by the
boy, but dashed past him as the girl in red came
out. Then, when the woman with the excess of
avoirdupois came out, the boy stepped up to
Dorothy.</p>
<p>“Your turn,” he said kindly. Then it occurred
to Dorothy that every one so far had been
kind to her. Were these people, that others had
spoken of so slightingly, not all respectful and
polite to any one who seemed to merit such consideration?
She felt that they were not half as
black as they had been painted.</p>
<p>The next moment the anxious girl was in the
private office of the manager. It was a small
room, but not gloomy in spite of the fact that it
was in the midst of a darkened theatre. A fine
rug was on the floor and there were a few well-chosen
pictures on the walls, the electric lights
showing them off to advantage.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_197">[197]</div>
<p>While the manager, who sat in a big revolving
chair, looked over some papers on his desk before
turning to Dorothy, she had an opportunity to
see that there hung before him what were evidently
family photographs. One was of a little
girl and another of a youth. Surely, she thought,
a man who had time to look at his children’s pictures
during business hours could not be so very
harsh because his time was taken up by a girl.</p>
<p>“Well?” asked the manager suddenly as he
wheeled around in his chair, wiping his glasses
carefully but not seeming to look at Dorothy.</p>
<p>She caught her breath with a gasp. The moment
had come. Her heart was beating painfully.</p>
<p>“I—I came to—to ask if you—if you have
on your books the name of a young lady—Miss
Octavia Travers?” she managed to stammer out.
“A young lady with the ‘Lady Rossmore’s
Secret’ company, I believe.”</p>
<p>“Travers,” repeated the manager thoughtfully,
“Travers? Seems to me I have. Is she
your sister?”</p>
<p>“Not exactly, but I have always regarded her
as such—we have been very close friends all our
lives.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_198">[198]</div>
<p>“Not a very long time at that,” remarked the
manager with a smile. “But what is it you want
to know about her?”</p>
<p>“To get her address.”</p>
<p>“Let me see, I’ll look it up—but if she is
such a close friend of yours why didn’t she send
you her address? She knew where she was going
to be,” and he spoke pointedly.</p>
<p>Tears welled into Dorothy’s eyes, and she felt
that she could not trust herself to speak. The
manager looked critically at her. Then he laid
aside the book he had picked up to consult.</p>
<p>“Run away?” he asked.</p>
<div class="fig">> <ANTIMG src="images/front.jpg" alt="“RUN AWAY?” HE ASKED" width-obs="500" height-obs="777" /> <p class="center"><span class="small">“RUN AWAY?” HE ASKED</span></p> </div>
<p>Dorothy nodded.</p>
<p>“Well, don’t feel so badly about it, my girl.
We’ll see if we can’t find her for you. But first
you had better tell me the story. It will help
greatly. You see when we engage a girl and she
happens to prove satisfactory we have no excuse
for dismissing her unless she might be under age—and
then her parents—of course—”</p>
<p>“But I must keep the entire matter from her
parents,” interrupted Dorothy. “I must find
Tavia myself and I know when I do she will listen
to me and it will be all right again.”</p>
<p>Dorothy was visibly trembling. The manager
folded his arms and looked at her thoughtfully.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_199">[199]</div>
<p>“You’re quite a young girl to undertake this,”
he said finally. “But I like your spirit, and I’m
going to help you. I tell you, my child, the stage
is no place for a young person who has had no
experience with the ways of the world. I never
encourage a young girl to go on the stage. There
are plenty of older characters whom we can get
and then there is less danger. But this girl you
are looking for—was she about your height?”</p>
<p>“Yes, with very brown hair,” replied Dorothy.
“And such lovely light brown eyes.”</p>
<p>“Let me see,” and he consulted the book again.
Dorothy waited anxiously, as he turned page after
page. Then he stopped. “Yes, here it is,” he
said. “Christina Travers. That must be the
girl. They rarely give the name just right.”</p>
<p>“Yes, she might say Christina,” admitted
Dorothy. “The girls at school called her
‘Chris’ for short.”</p>
<p>“Well, she is with the ‘L. R. S.’ company—I
beg your pardon, I mean the ‘Lady Rossmore’s
Secret’ company. We get in the habit of abbreviating
it. It’s a light thing we put on for a
filler. I’m afraid it isn’t doing any too well,
which, however, may make it easier for you to
induce your friend to give it up.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_200">[200]</div>
<p>“Oh, I hope I can!” and Dorothy left her
seat and came to stand beside the manager’s desk.
She had lost nearly all her fear and nervousness
now.</p>
<p>“They play in Rochester to-night,” went on
the manager consulting his list. “Then they go
to Rockdale—”</p>
<p>“Only one night in Rochester?” asked Dorothy,
showing some surprise and disappointment.</p>
<p>“Well, one night of that I fancy will be enough
for any place,” was the manager’s laughing reply.
“However, they may stay over to-morrow. But
Rockdale is only a few miles from there. You
could easily catch them at Rockdale. Is there
anything more I can do for you?”</p>
<p>“No, thank you,” and Dorothy turned away.</p>
<p>“If I can now, or later, just let me know,”
went on the manager. Then he wished her good-bye
and turned back to his desk.</p>
<p>Dorothy’s cheeks were flushed when she stepped
up to Nat in the lobby where he was watching
the men putting in place the photographs of
the next week’s performers. He seemed to have
forgotten all about his cousin.</p>
<p>“Oh, is that you?” he asked, and he looked
like some one suddenly awakened from a dream.
“I do believe if I stood here much longer I’d be
put into a frame by mistake. How did you make
out?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_201">[201]</div>
<p>“You mustn’t ask,” answered Dorothy pleasantly.
“You see I can’t quite report on it yet.”</p>
<p>“Oh, very well. I was only wondering—”</p>
<p>“But you mustn’t wonder. You agreed to act
as my escort and so you must be content with that.
I can only tell you that I am perfectly satisfied
with the interview I had.”</p>
<p>“Which means that our little friend Tavia is
not with any company. Well, I’m glad of it.
I always did give her credit for having better
sense. But you see, Doro, you are such a romancer
that you sometimes make stories out of
dreams. But I must say you do look ten years
younger. That manager must have been a nice
fellow.”</p>
<p>“He was,” answered Dorothy, glad that Nat,
as usual, had jumped to a conclusion and decided
the matter of the interview for himself, leaving
her free to go on without contradicting or making
any explanations. It was so much better
under the circumstances, she thought, that not
even Nat should know the truth.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_202">[202]</div>
<p>But just how she was going to carry out the
remainder of her task secretly she could not quite
determine. However, she had now become accustomed
to doing each part as it presented itself,
without planning further into the future, and, in
that manner, she hoped to be able to proceed until
the last link in the chain of her search had been
completed.</p>
<p>“We must get the souvenir cards,” Nat reminded
her, as they came to a store with the pretty-pictured
varieties in the window. “I’ll just buy
a pack of mixed ones—it will save time.”</p>
<p>But Dorothy was not thinking of souvenir
cards. Thoughts came to her of the play at
Rochester, with Tavia as one of the characters—Tavia
who must be timid amid her new and
unaccustomed surroundings in spite of her apparent
recklessness—yes, Tavia would be much
frightened at what she had done, Dorothy was
sure of it, when the girl, so far away from home
and friends found herself before a critical audience
in a theatre.</p>
<p>“If I could only reach her before another
night,” Dorothy thought, “but how can it be
managed?”</p>
<p>The boys would start for home to-morrow,
and of course Dorothy would have to go with
them. Something would surely happen—<i>must</i>
surely happen before then to help her, Dorothy
thought, with a confidence which great emergencies
sometimes inspire.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_203">[203]</div>
<p>“Now I suppose,” remarked Nat, as he made
his way out of the post-card store, “if you were
to send one of these particularly bright red ones
to Tavia at Dalton she would send one back on
the next mail, wishing you a merry Christmas, for
all your trouble. What do you suppose she would
say if she knew of the merry chase that had been
going on after her, and all the places you have
been looking for her? And all the while she was
as safe as little Bo-peep.”</p>
<p>“But I don’t intend to send her any cards until
she writes me first,” answered Dorothy. “She
owes me an apology for not writing to me.”</p>
<p>“Same here,” said Nat. “I’ll treat her the
same way. The saucy little thing,” he added
facetiously, “not to answer our nice long letters.
She ought to be slapped.”</p>
<p>Dorothy laughed at her cousin’s good humor.
It was better that he should take this view of the
case than that he should suspect the real facts.
Dorothy glanced at some of the cards as they hurried
along back to the hotel.</p>
<p>“Now there’s one,” pointed out Nat, “that
would just suit the circumstances. A girl doing
a song and a smile—that’s the ‘turn’ Tavia has
been doing to you, Doro. We must save that one
for her.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_204">[204]</div>
<p>“Yes,” answered Dorothy abstractedly, taking
the card in her hand. It was the picture of a girl
in chorus costume, and was enscribed with an appropriate
verse.</p>
<p>“Don’t you see,” explained Nat, “they’ve got
everything down to a post-card basis now. That
one is intended to be used in place of making a
party call when a gentleman has blown a girl to
a theatrical good time. She just sends this card
back and that suffices for formal thanks.</p>
<p>“Of course it might not just suit our set,” he
conceded, “but for those in the post-card clientele
it’s a cinch, as the poet says. I tell you after a
while we will be able to carry on all our business
correspondence with picture postals and not be
under the necessity of writing a word. Great
scheme, Nat (patting himself on the left shoulder
with his right hand), get a patent on your new
post-card.”</p>
<p>They had now reached the hotel. The veranda
was deserted as the hour for dinner was almost at
hand and the guests were dressing. Nat left
Dorothy at the elevator, with a warning to be
ready early in the morning. Then he hurried
to where he and Ned were staying.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_205">[205]</div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.