"It's all right with me, son," the old man said. "I know you are a clean-living, clean-thinking lad. Keep away from show girls—and chorus boys." Colman winked. "Don't let musical comedy shennanigans get you, chappie. Marry someone outside the business and stay married." He bit off the end of his cigar and spat it into the spittoon.
Dick Carter was the juvenile. A handsome kid with curly red hair. Brusque Irish. No question about his good humor. Or heart.
Across the. street from the theatre was a cafeteria. At the center of the rear wall was a telephone booth. If you knew how, you could walk right through the booth into an old-fashioned barroom.
Dick Carter took Ken to dinner one evening. Dick was full of advice. Ken drank a beer. Dick consumed half a dozen whiskies. "Show business," said Dick, "is a lotta hooey. Especially this end of the game. Musical comedy is a hookshop on parade. It's a cinch when you're good-looking. You look as though you could put it over. What's more, take it easy. Don't work too hard. Let's go out tonight. I'll get us a coupla broads and we'll have a sandwich followed by a piece of young chicken. Get me?"
Because he was lonely, Ken accepted. "We'll meet at the stage door after rehearsals," Dick agreed.
At eleven o'clock that night Jules Monroe was reviewing Ken's waltz routine with Norah. He dismissed the girl and asked Ken to remain. He wanted to look over Ken's high-kick specialty, he said.
"Not tonight," Ken protested. "I'm tired. And I've done the same dance hundreds of times out west."
The director leaned on his stick as he clambered up the
