toward their fellows of the cast, they cut the atmosphere of rehearsals with acid. They were roundly hated.
Ken, when he began preparations for his two dance numbers, decided he would again attempt to forego the joys of intoxication, the sweet release of the orgy. He would be strictly professional, he determined. He would meet Howard face to face, regard him as a director, a producer. Thus straightforward in his admission that their friendship was ended, he would settle into a period of money-making.
For a few days he succeeded in maintaining the illusion that he was an obscure, harmless and uninteresting dancer. He remained in the background, hung in the shadows of the big stage or sulked in his dressing-room. A piano player supplied him with music for his new routines. He engaged Jimmy Pierce, negro dancer, to watch his work and to suggest innovations.
During the third week of rehearsals, the stage manager, Murray King, laconic old timer, with the sad face of an Assyrian slave, told him his first act specialty was to be curtailed and made an incident of a chorus number.
"By whose orders?" Ken demanded.
"Mr. Vee's."
Ken pushed the stage manager aside as he dashed out of the dressing-room. He found Howard seated on the stage apron, guiding the Farraguts through a sketch. Howard was intent upon his stars. He did not notice Ken, who paced angrily up the stage. As Ken turned downstage, Jack Farragut interrupted the rehearsal. Tall, blond, sharp-featured, with a drawl craftily concealing the sting of his tongue, he said:
