The Girls of Central High on the Stage/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII
THE RACE IS ON
There was a rustle of expectancy—upon the girls' side, at least—at Assembly on Monday morning. Rumors of the prize offered for the best play written by a girl of Central High had aroused great interest and the school eagerly awaited Mr. Sharp's brief remarks regarding it.
"It is not our wish," said the principal, in the course of his speech, "to restrict the contestants in their choice of subjects, or in methods of treatment. The play may be pure comedy, comedy-drama, tragedy—even farce—or melodrama. Miss Gould will confine her lectures this week in English to the discussion of plays and play-making. Candidates for fame—and for Mrs. Kerrick's very handsome prize—may learn much if they will faithfully attend Miss Gould's classes. And, of course, it is understood that there must be no neglect of the regular school work by those striving for the laurel of the playwright.
"I doubt if we have any budding female Shakespeares among us, yet I realize that the youthful mind naturally slants towards tragedy and the redundant phrases of the Greek and Latin masters, as read in their translation; but let me advise all you young ladies who wish to compete for the prize, to select a simple subject and treat it simply.
"Have your play display human nature as you know it, and realism without morbidness."
The girls of Central High who had heretofore excelled in composition naturally were looked upon as favorites in this race for dramatic honors. Among the Juniors, Laura Belding and Nellie Agnew always received high marks for such work. They possessed the knack of composition and were what Bobby Hargrew called "fluid writers."
"If it was a jingle or limerick, I'd stand a chance," sighed Bobby to herself. "But think of the sustained effort of writing a whole play! Gee! two hours and a half long. It would break my heart to sit still long enough to do it."
Jess Morse had never tried to more than pass in English composition. For the very reason, perhaps, that she had seen the practical side of such a career at home, she had not, like so many girls of her age, contemplated seriously literary employment for herself.
Lily Pendleton was known to have once essayed an erotic novel, and had read a few chapters to some of her closer friends. Bobby said it should have been written on yellow paper with an asbestos pad under it to save scorching Miss Pendleton's desk. Of course, Lily would attempt a play in the most romantic style.
The boys began to hatch practical jokes anent the play-writing before the week was out; and one afternoon Chet Belding appeared in a group of his sister's friends, and with serious face declared he had with him the outline and introductory scene of Laura's play, its caption being:
"The Poisoned Bathing-Suit; or, The Summer Boarder's Revenge."
Some of the girls—and not alone the Juniors like Laura, Nellie and Jess—were very serious about this matter of the play. Mrs. Kerrick's prize spurred every girl who had the least ability in that direction to begin writing a dramatic piece. Some, of course, did not get far; but the main topic of discussion out of school hours among the girls of Central High was the play and the prize.
Jess talked it over with her mother, and Mrs. Morse grew highly excited.
"Why, Josephine, dear, if you could win that prize it would be splendid! Then you could have a new party dress—and a really nice one—and the furs I have been hoping to buy you for two seasons. Dear, dear! what a lot of things you really could get for that sum."
"I guess it would help us out a whole lot," admitted the girl. "We need so many things"
"Why, I shouldn't allow you to use a cent of it for the household—or for me," cried her mother. "No, indeed."
"I haven't won it yet," sighed Jess. "But I guess if I did win it you'd have to take a part of it, Mother."
"Nonsense, child!" cried Mrs. Morse. "We'll have some checks in shortly. And we sha'n't starve meanwhile. Now, let us look over this plot you have evolved and perhaps I can suggest some helpful points—and show you how to write brisk dialogue. That is something the editors always praise me for—although I have never dared try a play myself. It is so hard to get a hearing before a really responsible manager."
Outside help for the girls was not debarred by the terms of the contest, so long as the main thread of plot in each play was original with the author, and she actually did the work. Jess listened to the practical suggestions of her mother in relation to her play; but all the time she had upon her mind, too, the domestic difficulties that seemed to have culminated just now in a single great billow of trouble.
No money had come in. She had been obliged to go once more to Mr. Hargrew for groceries, and to the meat store and to Mr. Vandergriff's. Her mother could talk in her cheerful manner about what she could do with the two hundred dollar prize if she earned it. But Jess was very sure that she would not spend it for personal adornment—although no girl at Central High loved to be dressed in the mode more than Jess Morse.
"If such a darling thing should happen as my winning the prize, I'd put it all in the bank for a nest-egg," she thought. "Then, when checks do not come in, we would not have to ask for credit. We'd pay up all debts and start square with the world. And then—and then I'd be perfectly happy!"
The first of the month arrived, and with it Mr. Chumley. Mrs. Morse was busy at her desk and said:
"Just tell him, Josephine, that we will have it shortly. He needn't come again. I'll let you take it around to his house to him when I get it."
But this did not suit the old man, and he pushed his way, for once, into the presence of the literary lady.
"Now, see here! Now, see here!" he cackled. "This won't do at all, Widder—this won't do at all! I want my money, and I want it prompt. And if you can't pay your present rent prompt, how do you expect to pay it next month, when you must find three dollars more? Now, tell me that, Ma'am?"
"Really, Mr. Chumley! You are too bad," complained Mrs. Morse. "I am so hard at work. You quite drive the ideas out of my head. I—I don't know what train of thought I was following."
Mr. Chumley snorted. "You'd better be huntin' the advertisement columns of a newspaper for a job, Widder," he said. "Them 'trains of thought' of yours won't never carry you nowhere. I gotter have my money. How are you going to get it?"
"I have never failed to pay you heretofore, have I?" asked the lady, bringing out her handkerchief now. "I think this is too bad"
"But I want money!"
"And you shall have it. I have considerable owing to me—oh, yes! a good deal more than sufficient to pay your rent, Mr. Chumley. You will get it."
That was a very unsatisfactory interview for the landlord, and particularly so for Mrs. Morse. She complained when he had gone to Jess:
"Now, my day is just spoiled. I'm all at loose ends. It will cost me a day's work. Really, Josephine, if only people wouldn't nag me so for money!"
And Jess strove to shield her all that she could from such interviews. Mrs. Morse needed to live alone in a world with her brain-children. Meanwhile her flesh-and-blood child had to fight her battles with the landlord and tradesmen.
It was amid such sordid troubles that Jess evolved the idea for her play. The butterfly is born of the ugly chrysalis; out of this unlovely environment grew a pretty, idyllic comedy which, although crude in spots, and lacking the professional touch which makes a dramatic piece "easy acting," really showed such promise that Mrs. Morse acclaimed its value loudly.
"Oh, Mother! don't praise me so much," begged Jess. "The theme is good, I know. But it scares me. How can I ever dress it up to make it sound like a real play? It sounds so jerky and imperfect—that part that I have written, I mean."
"There is something a dramatic critic told me once that may be true," replied her mother. "It was that the piece which reads smoothly seldom acts well; whereas a play that 'gets over the footlights' usually reads poorly. You see, action cannot be read aloud; and it is the action that accompanies the words of a dramatic piece that makes those words tell.
"I am not sure that Mr. Sharp and his committee will consider your play the best written, from a literary standpoint; but I understand that they have invited Mr. Monterey, the manager of the Centerport Opera House, to read the plays, too. And you, Josephine, write for him; for they will depend upon his judgment in the choice of the acting qualities of the piece."
This was good advice, as Jess very well knew. And she could barely keep her mind sufficiently upon her school work to pass the eagle scrutiny of Miss Grace G. Carrington, so wrapped up was she in the play. Not even to Laura did she confide any facts regarding the piece. Some of the girls openly discussed what they had done, and what they hoped; but Jess kept still.
Thursday came and in her mother's morning mail was a letter with the card of the Centerport Courier in the corner.
"Now, what can that be?" drawled Mrs. Morse, when Jess eagerly brought it to her. "They buy no fugitive matter, and I haven't sent them anything since having my interview with Mr. Prentice. I really would have been happier to see a letter like that from one of the New York magazines; it might have contained a check in that case," and she slowly slit the envelope.
But Jess waited in the background with suppressed eagerness in her face and attitude. At once her thought had leaped to Mrs. Prentice. She had not told her mother a word about that lady's visit on Friday evening, nor her errand to the house. But if Mrs. Prentice was really "the power behind the throne" in the Courier office, she might easily put some regular work in the way of Mrs. Morse.
"Listen to this, child!" exclaimed her mother, having glanced hastily through the letter. "Perhaps I had better take this—for a time, at least. I don't like the idea of being tied down—it might interfere with my magazine work"
"Oh, Mother!" cried Jess. "What is it?"
"Listen: Addressed to me, 'Dear Madam:—Will reconsider your suggestion of covering Hill section for society news. Can afford at least five dollars' worth of space through the week, and perhaps something extra on Sunday. Come and see me again. Respectfully, P. S. Prentice.' Well!"
"Oh, Mother!" repeated Jess. "What a splendid chance!"
"Why, Josephine, not so very splendid," said her mother, slowly. "He only guarantees me five dollars weekly. That is not much."
"It will feed us—if we are careful," gasped Jess.
"Goodness, Josephine! What a horribly practical child you are getting to be. I don't know what the girls of to-day are coming to. Now, that would never have appealed to me when I was your age. I never knew how papa and mamma got food for us."
Jess might have told her that conditions had not changed much since her girlhood!
"But five dollars regularly will help us a whole lot, Mother," she urged.
"And it will necessitate my going out considerably—and appearing at receptions and places. Really—I have refused a number of invitations because of my wardrobe. My excuse of 'work' is not always strictly true," sighed Mrs. Morse.
"But do, do try it, Mother!" cried Jess.
"Well," said the lady, "it may do no harm. And it may be an opening for something better. But, really, nobody must know that I am a mere society reporter on the Centerport Courier."