“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t give you a job, old dear. I like you too well to bawl you out. But maybe we’ll do business together some other way.”
As he drove his tin runabout homeward, Henry was unusually downcast. He didn’t blame Standish––Standish had showed himself over and over to be Henry’s best friend on earth. But it was dispiriting to realize how Standish must privately appraise him. Henry recalled the justification, and grew red to think of the ten years of their acquaintance––ten years of continuous achievement for Standish, and only a few months of compulsory display for himself. But he wished that Standish hadn’t thrown in that last remark about doing business together some other way. That wasn’t like Bob, and it hurt. It was too infernally commercial.
He found the apartment deserted. His shout of welcome wasn’t answered: his whistle, in the private code which everybody uses, met with dead silence. Henry hung up his hat with considerable pique, and lounged into the living-room. What excuse had Anna to be missing at 189 the sacred hour of his return? Didn’t she know that the happiest moment of his whole day was when she came flying into his arms as soon as he crossed the threshold? Didn’t she know that as the golden pheasants fled further and further into the thicket of unreality, the more active was his need of her? He wondered where she had gone, and what had kept her so late. Was this a precedent, and had the first veneer of their companionability worn off so soon––for Anna?
A new apprehension seized him, and he hurried from room to room to see if instead of censuring Anna, he ought to censure himself. There were so many accidents that might have happened to her. Women have been burned so severely as to faint: they have drowned in a bathtub: they have fallen down dumb-waiter shafts: they have been asphyxiated when the gas-range went out. And to think that only a moment ago, he had been vexed with her. The sight of each room, once so hideously commonplace, now so charming with Anna’s artistry and the work of her own hands––her beautiful hands which ought to be so cared for––filled 190 him with contrition and fresh nervousness.
No, she had escaped these tragedies––yet she was missing. Missing, but now half an hour late. And downtown there were dangerous street-crossings, and dangerous excavations, and reckless motorists.... Once in a while a structural-iron worker dropped a rivet from the seventh story; and there were kidnappers abroad.... The key turned in the lock, and Henry dropped noiselessly into a chair, and caught up day-before-yesterday’s paper.
He greeted her tenderly, but temperately. “Well, where’ve you been?”
She had to catch her breath. “Oh, my dear, I’ve had the most wonderful time! I’ve––oh, it’s been perfectly gorgeous! And I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
He had never seen her keyed to such a pitch, and manlike, he attempted to calm her instead of rising to her own level. “Got what? St. Vitus’ dance?”
“No! The scheme! The scheme we were looking for!”
Henry discarded his paper. “Shoot it.”
She waved him off. “Just wait ’till I can 191 breathe.... Do you remember what you told me a long time ago about a talk you had with your aunt? And she said bye-and-bye you’d see the writing on the wall?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve seen it!”
“Whereabouts?”
“Wait.... And remember your talking to Mr. Mix, when he said you ought to go to a League meeting and air your views?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I went!”
He gazed at her. “You what?”
She nodded repeatedly. “It was a big public meeting. I was going past Masonic Hall, and I saw the sign. So I went in ... oh, it was so funny. The man at the door stared at me as if I’d been in a bathing suit, or something, and he said to me in a sort of undertaker’s voice: ‘Are you one of us?’ And I said I wasn’t, but I was thinking about it, and he said something about the ninety and nine, and gave me a blank to fill out––only I didn’t do it: I used it for something lots better: I’ll show you in a minute––and then I sat down, and 192 pretty soon Mr. Mix got up to talk,––and you should have seen the way your aunt looked at him; as if he’d been a tin god on wheels––and he bragged about what the League was doing, and how it had already purified the city, but that was only a beginning––and what a lot more it was going to do––oh, it was just ranting––but everybody clapped and applauded––only the man next to me said it was politics instead of reform––and then he went on to talk about that ordinance 147, and what it really meant, and how they were going to use it like a bludgeon over the heads of wrong-doers, and all that sickening sort of thing––and the more he talked the more I kept thinking.... My dear, all that ordinance says––at least, all they claim it says––is that we can’t keep open on Sunday for profit, isn’t it?”
Henry was a trifle dizzy, but he retained his perspective. “Yes, but who’d want to keep open for charity?”
She gave a little cry of exultation. “But that’s exactly what we want to do! That’s what we are going to do. And they can’t prevent us, either. We’re going to keep open for 193 a high, noble purpose, and not charge a cent. And the more I thought, and Mr. Mix bragged, the more I ... so I wrote it all down on the back of that blank the man gave me––and there it is––and I think it’s perfectly gorgeous––even if it is mine. Now who’s Methuselah’s wife?”
On the back of the blank there was written, in shaky capitals, what was evidently intended as the copy for an advertisement. She watched Henry eagerly as he read it, and when at first she could detect no change in his expression, her eyes widened, and her lips trembled imperceptibly. Then Henry, half-way down the page, began to grin: and his grin spread and spread until his whole face was abeam with joy. He came to the last line, gasped, looked up at Anna, and suddenly springing towards her, he caught her in his arms, and waltzed her madly about the living-room.
When he released her, her hat was set at a new and rakish angle, and she had lost too many hair-pins, but to Henry she had never looked half so adorable.
“Of course,” he panted, “everybody else’ll 194 do it too, as soon as we’ve showed ’em how––”
“What––what difference does that make?”
“That’s right, too....” He fairly doubled himself with mirth. “Can’t you just see Mix’s face when he sees this writing on the wall––of the Orpheum?”
“I––I’ve been seeing it all afternoon. When can we start?”
“Right away. Now.” He stopped, rigid. “No, we won’t either. No we won’t. First, we’ve got to see the Judge––we’ve got to make sure there’s no flaw in it. And then––we won’t let anybody copy us!”
“But how can you stop them?”
Henry was electric. “What’s a movie theatre worth on Sunday? When they can’t give a show anyway? I’ll rent every house in town for every Sunday from now ’till August! I’ll have to go slow, so nobody’ll suspect. It may take a month, or two months, but what do we care? We’ll play it sure. It won’t cost too much, and we’ve got the cash in the bank. We’ve––” He paused again, and looked down at her, and his voice fell a semi-tone. “I don’t know where I get all this we stuff. I’d have 195 spent two-thirds of it by this time. You’re the one that’s saved it––and earned it too, by gosh!” He lifted her hands, and while she watched him, with shining eyes, he deliberately kissed the tip of each of her ten fingers. “That’s where the money’s come from,” said Henry, clearing his throat. “Out of dish-water. Only tonight we’re going out to a restaurant and eat ourselves logy, and you won’t wash a damn dish. It’s my party.”
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. Mix’s good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright in a gilded chair which was three sizes too small for him, bowed with a courtliness which belonged to the same historical period as the chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup, his eyes met Mirabelle’s.
“Seems to me you’ve got on some kind of a new costume, haven’t you?” asked Mr. Mix gallantly. “Looks very festive to me––very.”
For the first time since bustles went out of fashion, Miss Starkweather blushed; and when she blushed, she was quite as uncompromising about it as she was about everything else. It wasn’t that she had a grain of romance in her, but that she was confused to be caught in the act of flagging a beau; to hide her confusion, she rose, and went over to the furthest window 197 and flung it wide open. The month was February, and the air was chill and raw, but Mirabelle could think of no other pretext for turning her back and cooling her cheeks. And yet, although she would have perjured herself a thousand times before she would admit it, she felt a certain strange, spring-like pleasure to know that Mr. Mix was only pretending to be deceived.
“Oh, my, no,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve had this since the Flood.”
Mr. Mix had also risen, to hand her back to her seat, and now he stood looking down at her. She was wearing a gown of rustling, plum-coloured taffeta, with cut-steel buttons; and at her belt there was a Dutch silver châtelaine which had been ultra-smart when she had last worn it. Vaguely, she supposed that it was ultra-smart today, and that was the reason she had attached it to her. From the châtelaine depended a silver pencil, a gold watch, a vinaigrette with gold-enamelled top, and a silver-mesh change-purse. At her throat, she had a cameo, and on her left hand, an amethyst set in tiny pearls. Mr. Mix, finishing the inventory, seated himself and began 198 to tap one foot on the floor, reflectively. He was a man of perception, and he knew warpaint when he saw it.
“Makes you look so much younger,” said Mr. Mix, and sighed a little.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Miss Starkweather, and to dissemble her pleasure, she put an extra-sharp edge on her voice. “I don’t wear clothes to make me look younger; I wear ’em to cover me up.”
“That’s more than I can say for the present generation.”
“Ugh!” said Miss Starkweather. “Don’t speak of it! Shameless little trollops! But the worst comment you could make about this present day is that men like it. They like to see those disgraceful get-ups. They marry those girls. Beyond me.”
Mr. Mix sneezed unexpectedly. There was a cold draught on the back of his neck, but as Mirabelle said nothing about closing the window, he hesitated to ask permission. “I’ve always wondered what effect it would have had on your––public career––if you hadn’t preferred to remain single.”
“My opinions aren’t annuals, Mr. Mix. They’re hardy perennials.”
“I know, but do you think a married woman ought to devote herself entirely to public affairs? Shouldn’t she consider marriage almost a profession in itself?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Duty’s duty.”
“Oh, to be sure. But would marriage have interfered with your career? Would you have let it? Or is marriage really the higher duty of the two?”
“There’s something in that, Mr. Mix. I never did believe a married woman ought to be in the road all the time.”
“It was a question of your career, then?”
Mirabelle put down her cup. “Humph! No, it wasn’t. Right man never asked me.”
Mr. Mix’s mind was on tiptoe. “But your standards are so lofty––naturally, they would be.” He paused. “I wonder what your standard really is. Is it––unapproachable? Or do you see some good in most of us?”
Mirabelle sat primly erect, but her voice had an unusual overtone. “Oh, no, I’m not a ninny. 200 But good husbands don’t grow on goose-berry bushes. If I’d ever found a man that had the right principles, and the respect of everybody, and not too much tom-foolishness––a good, solid, earnest citizen I could be proud of––”
Mr. Mix interpolated a wary comment. “You didn’t mention money.”
She sniffed. “Do I look like the kind of a woman that would marry for money?”
“And in all these––I mean to say, haven’t you ever met a man who complied with these conditions?”
She made no intelligible response, but as Mr. Mix watched her, he was desperately aware that his moment had come. His next sentence would define his future.
He was absolutely convinced, through his private source of information, that Henry was due to fall short of his quota by four or five thousand dollars; nothing but a miracle could save him, and Mr. Mix was a sceptic in regard to miracles. He was positive that in a brief six months Miss Starkweather would receive at least a half million; and Mr. Mix, at fifty-five, wasn’t the type of man who could expect to 201 have lovely and plutocratic débutantes thrown at his head. He believed––and his belief was cousin to a prayer––that Mirabelle was absorbed in reform only because no one was absorbed in Mirabelle. Indeed, she had implied, a few moments ago, that marriage would cramp her activities; but it was significant that she hadn’t belittled the institution. Perhaps if she were skilfully managed, she might even be modernized. Certainly she had been content, so far, to be guided by Mr. Mix’s conservatism. He hoped that he was right, and he trusted in his own strategy even if he were wrong. And every day that he continued moderate in his public utterances, and in his actions, he was a day nearer to the golden ambition of an elective office.
He was threatened with vertigo but he mastered himself, and drew a long, long breath in farewell to his bachelorhood.
“You have heartened me more than you know,” said Mr. Mix, with ecclesiastical soberness. “Because––it has been my poverty––which has kept me silent.” He bent forward. “Mirabelle, am I the right man?” Almost by 202 sheer will-power, he rose and came to her, and took her hand. She shrank away, in maiden modesty, but her fingers remained quiescent. Mr. Mix sneezed again, and stooped to kiss her cheek, but Mirabelle avoided him.
“No,” she said, with a short laugh. “That don’t signify––I don’t approve of it much.” She wavered, and relented. “Still, I guess it’s customary––Theodore.”
Before he left her, they had staged their first altercation––it could hardly be called a quarrel, because it was too one-sided. Mirabelle had asked him without the slightest trace of shyness, to telephone the glad tidings to the Herald; and of a sudden, Mr. Mix was afflicted with self-consciousness. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give a valid reason for it; he couldn’t tell her that illogically, but instinctively, he wanted to keep the matter as a locked secret––and especially to keep it locked from Henry Devereux––until the minister had said: Amen. He admitted to himself that this was probably a foolish whim, 203 a needless precaution, but nevertheless it obsessed him, so that he tried to argue Mirabelle away from the Herald. His most cogent argument was that the announcement might weaken their position in the League––the League might be too much interested in watching the romance to pay strict attention to reform.
“Humph!” said Mirabelle. “I’m not ashamed of being congratulated. Are you? But if you’re so finicky about it, I’ll do the telephoning myself.”
Whereupon Mr. Mix went back to his room, and drank two highballs, and communed with himself until long past midnight.
In the morning, with emotions which puzzled him, he turned to the society column of the Herald; and when he saw the flattering paragraph in type,––with the veiled hint that he might be the next candidate for Mayor, on a reform ticket––he sat very still for a moment or two, while his hand shook slightly. No backward step, now! His head was in the noose. He wondered, with a fresh burst of self-effacement, what people would say about it. One thing––they wouldn’t accuse him of the truth. Nobody 204 but Mr. Mix himself knew the whole truth––unless perhaps it were Henry Devereux. Henry had developed a knowing eye. But Henry didn’t count––Henry was beaten already. Still, if Henry should actually come out and accuse Mr. Mix of––why, what could Henry accuse him of? Simply marrying for money? If it didn’t make any difference to Mirabelle, it certainly didn’t to Mr. Mix. And what booted the rest of the world? Why should he concern himself with all the petty spite and gossip of a town which wasn’t even progressive enough to have an art museum or a flying field, to say nothing of a good fight-club? Let ’em gossip.... But just the same, he wished that Mirabelle had been willing to keep the engagement a secret. Mr. Mix was sure to encounter Henry, once in a while, at the Citizens Club, and he didn’t like to visualize Henry’s smile.
He was in the act of tossing away the paper when his attention was snatched back by a half-page advertisement; in which the name of the Orpheum Theatre stood out like a red flag. Mr. Mix glanced at it, superciliously, but a moment later, his whole soul was strung on it.
THE ORPHEUM
Educational Motion Pictures
FREE! FREE! FREE!
Every Sunday afternoon and evening
ESPECIALLY HIGH-CLASS ENTERTAINMENT
of instructive and educational features
With Sacred Music
ABSOLUTELY FREE
to all those who present at the door ticket-stubs from the previous week’s performances (bargain matinees excepted) showing a total expenditure of Three Dollars.
IN OTHER WORDS
Two people coming twice during the week,
in 75 cent seats, come FREE Sunday
Three people coming twice during the week,
in 50 cent seats, come FREE Sunday
A PURELY VOLUNTARY COLLECTION
will be taken up and divided between
The Associated Charities
The Starving Children of Belgium and
The Chinese Famine Fund
This Sunday
206
THE SWORDMAKER’S SON––an absorbing drama
of Biblical days
Next Sunday
BEN-HUR, in seven reels
NO ADMISSION FEE BEING CHARGED, AND
ALL VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS BEING DEVOTED
TO CHARITY, THIS ENTERTAINMENT
DOES NOT FALL WITHIN ANY CITY ORDINANCE
PROHIBITING SUNDAY PERFORMANCES
THE ORPHEUM
Motion Pictures
Mr. Mix, goggle-eyed, jumped for the telephone, and called the City Hall, but as soon as the Mayor was on the wire, Mr. Mix wrestled down his excitement, and spoke in his embassy voice. “Hello––Rowland? This is Mix. I want to ask you if you’ve seen an ad of the Orpheum Theatre in this morning’s paper?... Well, what do you propose to do about it?”
The Mayor answered him in a single word: Mr. Mix started, and gripped the receiver more tightly. “Nothing!... Why, I don’t quite get you on that.... It’s an open and shut 207 proposition––No, I most certainly am not trying to make a pun; I’m calling you up in my official capacity. That’s the most flagrant, barefaced attempt to evade a law––Why, an idiot could see it! It’s to drive the crowd into the Orpheum during the week, so that––”
He listened, with increasing consternation. “Who says it isn’t a violation? Who? The City Attorney?” Mr. Mix was pale; and this was quite as uncommon as for his fiancée to blush. “When did he say so?... What’s that? What’s his grounds?... Repeat it, if you don’t mind––Practically a charitable performance by invitation––”
“Why, sure,” said the Mayor. He realized perfectly that Mr. Mix had the League and another thousand people of small discernment behind him, but the Mayor didn’t want to be re-elected, and did want to retire from politics. “The Orpheum doesn’t say a fellow that comes Sunday has got to prove he spent the money for the tickets, does it? Anybody that’s got the stubs can come. They’re just as much invitations as if they were engraved cards sent around in swell envelopes. If you’ve got 208 one––whether you paid for the invitation or not, or if you got it in the mail or picked it up on the street, you can go on in. And as long’s no money’s taken in over the counter, the City Attorney says it’s O.K. Of course, you can petition the Council, if you want to.”
Mr. Mix was licking his lips feverishly. “I’m obliged to you for your advice. We will petition the Council––I’ll have it signed, sealed and delivered by noon today.... And if that don’t do, we’ll apply for an injunction.... And we’ll carry this to the Governor before we’re done with it, Rowland, and you know what state laws we’ve got to compel a Mayor of an incorporated city to do his duty!... This is where we part company, Rowland. You’ll hear from me later!” He slammed down the receiver, rattled the hook impetuously, and called Mirabelle’s number.
“Mirabelle ... good-morning; have you ... No, I’m not cross at you, but––Oh! Good-morning, dear.... This is important. Have you seen the Orpheum’s ad in the Herald? Isn’t that the most barefaced thing you ever saw? Don’t we want to rush in and––”
She interrupted him. “Why, no, not when it’s for charity, do we?”
Mr. Mix nearly dropped the receiver. “Charity! Charity your grandmother! It’s a cheap trick to attract people during the week, so they’ll have a show on Sunday in spite of the law!”
“Oh, I don’t doubt there’s some catch in it. That’s Henry all over. But if the League went out and interfered with an educational and sort of religious program with a collection for charity, we’d–––”
“Yes, but my dear woman, would we sanction a dance for charity? A poker-party? A wine-supper? We–––”
“But there won’t be any dancing or drinking or card-playing at the Orpheum, will there?”
He lost his temper. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see––?”
“No, but I can hear pretty well,” said Mirabelle. “I’m not deaf. And seems to me––” She sniffled. “Seems to me you’re making an awful funny start of things, Theodore.”
“My dear girl––”
“What?”
“I just said ‘my dear girl.’ I–––”
“Say it again, Theodore!”
To himself, Mr. Mix said something else, but for Mirabelle’s benefit, he began a third time. “My dear girl, it’s simply to evade the law, and–––”
“But Theodore, if we lift one finger to stop the raising of money for the poor starving children in foreign countries, we’d lose every scrap of influence we’ve gained.”
“But this means that all the theatres can open again!”
“Well, maybe you’d better get to work and frame the amendment to Ordinance 147 we’ve been talking about, then. And the new statute, too. We’ve wasted too much time. But under the old one, we can’t go flirting with trouble. And if all they do is show pictures like Ben-Hur, and The Swordmaker’s Son, why ... don’t you see? We just won’t notice this thing of Henry’s. We can’t afford to act too narrow.... And I’m not cross with you any more. You were all worked up, weren’t you? I’ll excuse you. And I could just hug you for being so worked up in the interests of the 211 League. I didn’t understand.... When are you coming up to see me? I’ve been awfully lonesome––since yesterday.”
Mr. Mix hung up, and sat staring into vacancy. Out of the wild tumult of his thoughts, there arose one picture, clear and distinct––the picture of his five thousand dollar note. Whatever else happened, he couldn’t financially afford, now or in the immediate future, to break with Mirabelle. She would impale him with bankruptcy as ruthlessly as she would swat a fly; she would pursue him, in outraged pride, until he slept in his grave. And on the other hand, if certain things did happen––at the Orpheum––how could he spiritually afford to pass the remainder of his life with a militant reformer who wouldn’t even have money to sweeten her disposition––and Mr. Mix’s. He wished that he had put off until tomorrow what he had done, with such conscious foresight, only yesterday.
Now although Mr. Mix had shaken with consternation when he saw the advertisement of the Orpheum, Henry shook with far different sentiments when he saw the announcement in eulogy of Mr. Mix. It was clear in his mind, now, that Mr. Mix wasn’t the sort of man to marry on speculation; Henry guessed that Mirabelle had confided to him the terms of the trust agreement, and that Mr. Mix (who had shaken his head, negatively, when Henry estimated his profits) had decided that Henry was out of the running, and that Mirabelle had a walkover. The guess itself was wrong, but the deduction from it was correct; and Henry was convulsed to think that Mr. Mix had shown his hand so early. And instead of gritting his teeth, and damning Mr. Mix for a conscienceless scoundrel, Henry put back his head and laughed until the tears came.
He hurried to show the paragraph to Anna, 213 but Anna wouldn’t even smile. She was a woman, and therefore she compressed her lips, sorrowfully, and said: “Oh––poor Miss Starkweather!” To which Henry responded with a much more vigorous compression of his own lips, and the apt correction: “Oh, no––poor Mr. Mix!”
He carried his congratulations to his aunt in person; she received them characteristically. “Humph!... Pretty flowery language.... Well, you don’t need to send me any present, Henry; I didn’t send you one.”
“When’s the happy event to be?” he inquired, politely.
“June. Fourth of June.”
“And do you know where you’re going for your honeymoon?”
“I don’t like that word,” said Mirabelle. “It sounds mushier than a corn-starch pudding. And besides, it’s nobody’s business but his and mine, and I haven’t even told him yet. I’m keeping it for a surprise.”
“Oh!” said Henry. “That’s rather a novel idea, isn’t it?”
“Humph!” said Mirabelle, dryly. “The 214 whole thing’s novel, isn’t it? But I’m obliged for your coming up here, Henry. I didn’t suppose you had enough interest in family matters to be so nosey, even.”
Later in the week, Henry encountered Mr. Mix, and repeated his congratulations with such honeyed emphasis that Mr. Mix began to stammer. “I appreciate all you say, Henry––but––come here a minute.” He drew Henry into a convenient doorway. “I’m sort of afraid, from the way you act, there’s something in the back of your mind. I’ve thought, sometimes, you must have lost sight of the big, broad principles behind the work I’m doing. I’ve been afraid you’ve taken my work as if it was directed personally against you. Not that I’ve ever heard you say anything like that, but your manner’s been ... well, anyway, you’re too big a man for that, Henry. Now about this new scheme of yours. It’s my feeling that you’re dodging the law by sliding in the back door. It’s my official duty to look into it. Only if we do have to put a stop to it, I want you to realize that I sympathize with any personal 215 loss you may have to suffer. Personally, I’m grieved to have to take this stand against John Starkweather’s nephew. You understand that, don’t you?”
Henry nodded assent. “Why, certainly. Your motives are purer than the thoughts of childhood. The only thing I don’t understand is what all this has to do with my congratulating you?”
“Oh, nothing whatever. Nothing at all. It was just your manner.”
“Let’s come out in the open, then. How do you think you could put a stop to it? Because if you could, why, I’ll save you the trouble.”
Mr. Mix hesitated. “You were always an original young man, Henry. But if it’s my duty to stop your show, why should I give away my plans? So you could anticipate ’em?”
“No, I’ve done that already.”
“Now, Henry, that sounds too conceited to be like you.”
“Oh, no, it’s only a fact. But here––I’ll run through the list for you. Have me pinched under the ordinance? Can’t be done; the City 216 Attorney’s said so, and I saw the Chief of Police was in on it. Get an injunction? You can’t do that either, because––”
“Why can’t we?”
“Because I’ve got one already.”
Mr. Mix’s jaw dropped. “What’s that? How could you––”
“Oh, I got Bob Standish––just as a citizen tax-payer––to apply for a temporary injunction yesterday, to test it out. It’s being argued this morning. Don’t you want to come over and hear it? If I lose, I won’t open next Sunday at all; and if I win, then the League can’t get an injunction later.... What else can you do?”
“We may have other cards up our sleeves,” said Mr. Mix, stiltedly.
“Just the place I’d have looked for ’em,” said Henry, but his tone was so gentle and inoffensive that Mr. Mix only stared.
He shook hands with Henry, and hurried over to the Court House, where he arrived just in time to hear the grey-haired jurist say, dispassionately: “Motion denied.”
Mr. Mix swabbed his face, and thought in 217 lurid adjectives. He wouldn’t have dared, in view of Mirabelle’s opinion, to ask for an injunction on behalf of the League itself, but it had occurred to him that he might arrange the matter privately. He could persuade one of the old moss-backs that Mirabelle might be swayed by her relationship to Henry (this struck him as the height of sardonic humour), and the moss-back could go into Court as an individual, to enjoin the Sunday performance as opposed to public policy. But Henry had outstripped him; and furthermore, there was no question of judicial favour. The Judge who had refused the application was no friend of Henry, or of Judge Barklay. And Bob Standish’s attorney, who by a fiction was attacking Henry’s position, had claimed that the Sunday show was designed for profit, and that the price was merely collected in advance. This would have been precisely Mr. Mix’s thesis. Henry’s own lawyer had replied that since there was no advance in the price of tickets during the week, there was no charge for Sunday. A ticket during the week included an invitation. To be sure, one couldn’t get the invitation without the 218 ticket, but where was the ordinance violated? Would the Court hold, for example, that a grocer couldn’t invite to a lecture, for charity, on Sunday, every one who had patronized his shop during the previous week? Would the Court hold that an author couldn’t invite to a public reading on Sunday, every one who had bought his book on Saturday?
The Court wouldn’t.
And Mr. Mix, who knew Henry’s income to the nearest dollar, went home and got a pencil, and covered sheet after sheet with figures.
Presently, he sat back and laughed. Why, he had had his hysterics for nothing! Henry couldn’t overcome his handicap unless he jammed his house to capacity from now until August. No theatre had even yet accomplished such a feat. And it wasn’t as though Henry had a monopoly on this scheme; in another week, all his competitors would be open Sundays, too, with strictly moral shows, and no money taken at the door, and he would have the same competition as always. And yet, to be perfectly safe, (for Henry was fast on his feet) Mr. Mix had better frame his amendment to the 219 ordinance, and set the wheels in motion. With good luck, he could have Henry blanketed by April.
That evening, Mirabelle found him more animated than usual; and more lavish with compliments.
Since he had first seen Henry’s advertisement, Mr. Mix had been as uncertain of his prospects as a child with a daisy; he had foreseen that it was only a part of a very narrow margin of fortune which would determine whether he was to be a rich man, poor man, beggar man––or jilt. Now, however, his confidence was back in his heart, and when, on Sunday afternoon, he placed himself inconspicuously in the window of an ice-cream parlour, squarely opposite the Orpheum, it was merely to satisfy his inquisitiveness, and not to feed his doubt.
He had to concede that Henry was clever. Henry had introduced more fresh ideas into his business than all his competitors in bulk. What a customers’-man Henry would have been, if he had entered Mr. Mix’s brokerage office! Yes, he was clever, and this present inspiration of his was really brilliant. Mr. Mix 220 could see, clearly, just what Henry had devised. He had devised a rebate: from a book-keeping standpoint he was cutting his own prices during the week (for of course the Sunday performance was costly to him) but he was cutting them in such a subterranean manner that he wouldn’t expect to lose by it. Palpably, he thought that Orpheum stubs would become negotiable, that they would pass almost as currency, that when people hesitated between the Orpheum and any other theatre, they would choose the Orpheum because of the Sunday feature. But did Henry imagine that his scheme was copyrighted? Mr. Mix had to smile. Across the street, there were fully a hundred people waiting for the doors to open ... the doors had opened, and the crowd was filing past the ticket-booth. The house would be packed solid from now until late evening. But when next Sunday came, and all the other houses, relying upon Henry’s triumph over the City Attorney and the District Court, stole Henry’s thunder.... It was to laugh. Week-day business would be spread thin, as always; people could suit their own choice, and 221 have the same Sunday privilege. And this would knock all the profit out of it.
Mr. Mix retired, in the blandest of good-humour, and on Monday he visited the manager of the largest picture house in town.
“I suppose,” he said, “you’re going to follow the procession, aren’t you?”
The manager looked at him queerly. “Well––no.”
“Really?”
“No. That bird Devereux put it all over us like a tent.” He snorted with disgust. “Man from Standish’s office come round here a while back and asked for a price for the house for Sundays up to August. We thought it was for some forum, or something; and the damn place was shut down anyway; so we made a lease. Next twenty Sundays for four hundred and seventy-five beanos, cash in advance. Then it turns up that Standish’s office was actin’ for Devereux.”
The bloom of apoplexy rose to Mr. Mix’s cheeks. “You mean he––do you know if he leased more theatres than this one? Did he?”
“Did he! He signed up the whole damn Exhibitors’ Association. There’s twenty-two houses in town, and he’s tied up twenty-one and he owns the other. Far’s I can find out, it only cost him about six thousand to get an air-tight monopoly on Sunday shows for the next six months.”
Mr. Mix drew breath from the very bottom of his lungs. “What can you––do about it?”
“Do? What is there to do? All we can do is put on an extra feature durin’ the week, to try and buck him that way––and it won’t pay to do it. He’s got a cinch. He’s got a graft. And all the rest of us are in the soup.”
Mr. Mix was occupied with mental arithmetic. “Tell me this––is it going to pay him?”
“Pay him!” echoed the manager scornfully. “Six thou for twenty weeks is three hundred a week. Fifty a day. Twelve-fifty a performance. Twelve-fifty calls for about twenty-five people. Don’t you think he’ll draw that many new patrons, when he can give ’em on Sundays what nobody else can? And everything over twenty-five’ll be velvet. He’ll clean up two, three thousand easy and maybe more. What 223 beats me is why he didn’t get leases for the next hundred years. We wouldn’t have had the sense to block him.”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Mix, choking down his passion. “Because there’s going to be a new ordinance. It’ll deal with Sunday entertainments. And it’s going to prohibit any such horse-play as this.” He surveyed his man critically. “Does Henry Devereux belong to your Association?”
“No, he don’t. And he won’t either. We don’t want him.”
“Then as long as you people can’t keep open Sundays anyway,” observed Mr. Mix carelessly, “maybe you’d find it to your advantage to support the Mix amendment when it gets up to the Council. It’ll kill off any such unfair competition as this.”
The manager shrugged his shoulders. “If it wasn’t for your damn League we’d all be makin’ money.”
“I’m sorry we don’t all see this thing in the same light. But as long as the rest of you are out of it––”
“Oh, I can see that.... And you and me 224 both understand a little about politics, I should imagine.” He grinned wryly. “Never thought I’d link up with any reform outfit––but why don’t you mail me a copy of your amendment, and I’ll see how the boys take it.”
Mr. Mix agreed to mail a copy as soon as the final draft was completed, and he was as good as his word. On the same evening, he read the masterpiece to Mirabelle with finished emphasis.
“It’s perfect,” she said, her eyes snapping. “It’s perfect! Of course, I wish you’d have made it cover more ground, but just as a Sunday law, it’s perfect. When are we going to offer it to the Council?”
“Mirabelle,” said Mr. Mix, “we’ve got to do some missionary work first. And before you can do missionary work, whether it’s for religion or politics or reform, you’ve got to have a fund.”
“Fund? Fund? To get an ordinance passed? Why don’t you walk in and hand it to ’em?”
He shook his head. “I was in politics a good 225 many years. We’ve got to get out printed matter, we’ve got to spend something for advertising, we’ve got to––approach some of the Councillors the right way.”
She sat up in horror. “Not––bribe them!”
“Oh, dear, no! You didn’t think that of me!”
“No, but when you said––”
“I said they had to be ‘approached.’ I didn’t mean corruption; I meant enlightenment.” He rubbed his nose reflectively. “But the cost is approximately the same.”
“Of course, I trust your judgment, Theodore, but ... how big a fund do you suppose we’ll want.”
“Oh, I should think five thousand would do it.”
“Five––! Theodore Mix, how could you spend five thousand dollars for such a thing? There isn’t that much in the treasury! There’s hardly one thousand.”
“My dear, if I were in your place, I’d protect my ante. I’d––”
“What’s all that gibberish?”
“I said,” he corrected hastily, “we’ve got too much at stake to risk any failure when a little money would guarantee success.”
“Would five thousand dollars guarantee it?”
“If I had that much in cash, to spend here and there as I saw the need of it––take one type of man out to dinner a few times, where I could get close to him––loan another type fifty dollars if he asked me for it (and some of ’em would)––hire detectives to shadow another type––”
“Detectives!”
“Yes. To check up their habits. Suppose we found a man gambling on the sly; we’d hold that over his head and––”
“Humph! I don’t like it much, but in a good cause it may be justifiable.”
“And leaflets and circulars and one thing and another.... But if I have to go out and get permission from a finance committee before I can let go of a dime, I can’t do anything. I’d have to have the money so I could use it exactly as I needed it. And if I did, I’ll bet I could get support you never dreamed of. Get outside people to bring pressure on the Council.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Why, with a leeway of 227 five thousand, I’d even have the Exhibitor’s Association with us. I’d have––”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
“How?”
“Because long before I was in the League, I was in politics. When I say I know, I know. Of course, the Association’s help would only go to show that they see the light in respect to their own business––it wouldn’t cover all the whole scope of the amendment, but even so––”
“Theodore, you know politics and I don’t. But both of us know the proverb about what you catch flies with. So we’ll try both methods together. You can put out the molasses, and I’ll put out the vinegar; and between us, we ought to get somewhere.”
“We can’t fail,” said Mr. Mix, sitting on needles.
Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched the pigeon-holes. “I’ve been told, Theodore, by––people I consider very reliable––that in August, dear John’s money will be coming to me.” This was the first time that she had ever broached the delicate subject. “I always 228 meant to use some of it for the League.” She had unearthed her check book, and was writing words and figures as angular as herself. “So really,––this is on account.” She came over to hand him the check, and after a slight hesitation, she stooped and pecked him on the forehead, but immediately afterwards she relapsed into her consistently, non-romantic character. “You better give me an itemized account of how you spend it, though, Theodore. You better give me one every day. We’ve got to be businesslike, even if we are––engaged.”