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Chapter XII
ON THE STAGE

Henry Thorne was the first passenger to alight from the east-bound plane. Tall, well-built, with a close-clipped mustache and iron gray hair that curled a bit around his temples, he was a man’s man.

Helen threw her arms around her father and he gave her a tremendous hug.

“Golly, I’m glad to see you, hon,” he said. “Where’s mother?”

“She’s coming. She couldn’t run as fast as I,” explained Helen, breathless with excitement.

Mrs. Thorne, her face flushed with happiness over her husband’s coming arrived and they embraced affectionately.

Then Mr. Thorne saw John Hardy and Janet and her mother.

“Say, this is great of you to come over. I feel like a visiting celebrity, or something.”

“You’re very much a celebrity,” smiled Janet.

“Not to you,” he replied. “Well, let’s start home. I’ve only this light traveling bag.”

“Does that mean you won’t be able to stay long?” asked Helen anxiously.

“I should say it doesn’t. I can live for six months out of a traveling bag. Oh, of course, I wouldn’t look like Beau Brummell, but I’d be acceptable in average circles.”

The Thornes occupied the back seat and Janet and her mother sat in front. The big car purred smoothly and Janet’s father sent it humming away on the trip back to Clarion.

Janet got only snatches of the conversation that was going on in the rear seat. She was anxious to listen, but it wouldn’t have been very polite to have done so obviously. Anyway, Helen would tell her most of the news the next day.

From the few remarks she overheard, she realized that Henry Thorne was exceedingly happy to be home, and that the last year had been a strain even though all of his pictures had been money makers.

The lights of Clarion were in sight when he leaned forward and spoke to Janet’s father.

“Get any worms located, John?”

“Plenty of them and right in my own back yard. You can dig to your heart’s content.”

“How about the fishing?”

“I haven’t tried it myself, but the boys say there are lots of bullheads in Indian creek. Remember it?”

“I’ll never forget the time we were hunting rabbits and walked across the ice of the creek. It wasn’t frozen thick enough and we dropped through into water waist deep. Going home was the longest, coldest walk I’ve ever taken.”

“It wasn’t very pleasant,” nodded Janet’s father. “Did you hear about the experience of the girls?”

“Haven’t read a paper for weeks. I’ve been going day and night on retakes for the last picture. What happened?”

They slowed down for the edge of Clarion and Janet’s father, briefly and vividly, recounted the events of that harrowing night in the storm and bitter cold of Little Deer valley.

“I should have known about this,” said Henry Thorne quietly. “Why didn’t someone wire me?”

“I thought of it,” said Helen’s mother, “but it all happened so quickly. Then, after the girls were safe at home I thought wiring you would only prove disturbing and I knew you were going to the limit of your strength and endurance anyway.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded, sinking back in the rear seat. “My, but it’s great to be home.”

John Hardy swung the car into the drive and they rolled up the grade to the porch.

“Pity you couldn’t take a man to his own door,” chided his friend.

“All right, I will if you want to miss the lunch that’s waiting.”

They bantered good naturedly, for John Hardy and Henry Thorne had been companions since boyhood. Now their correspondence was haphazard and infrequent, but each anticipated their visits together.

Janet hastened to the kitchen to help her mother with the lunch, placing the delicious, thinly cut sandwiches on a large silver platter. There was a heap of them, but it was late and they were all hungry.

Her mother stopped halfway to the dining room, a stricken look appearing on her face.

“I completely forgot to stop on the way home and get ice cream.”

Janet looked at the clock. It was 1:15 a. m.

“I’m afraid it’s too late to find any place near here open. We’ll make out anyway with sandwiches, cheese wafers and tea.”

“There’s some chocolate cake left over from yesterday,” said her mother.

“Then I’ll put that on. We’ll have plenty.”

They bustled about and almost before they knew it Janet was out on the porch announcing that lunch was ready.

The Hardys sat on one side of the table and the Thornes on the other, the conversation shifting back and forth. The pile of sandwiches dwindled rapidly, tea cups were refilled two and three times and Henry Thorne was noticed taking at least two slices of the thick, delicious chocolate cake. John Hardy accused him of taking three slices, but this he denied strenuously.

“If I’m to be accused of eating three slices of cake, I’m going home,” he announced. “And I won’t be back until there’s more cake.”

“I’ll get up early and bake a fresh one. It will be ready by noon,” said Janet’s mother.

“That’ll be just about the time I’m getting up. Come on folks. We’ve got to get some sleep tonight.”

Goodnights were said quickly and with Henry Thorne in the lead, the visitors departed for their home.

Janet helped her mother clear away the dishes. It was too late to wash them and they were hastily stacked in the sink.

“How do you think Henry looks?” asked John Hardy coming into the kitchen.

“He’s too tired and looks like he’s been going on nervous energy for simply days,” replied Janet’s mother.

“I got the same impression. If we can manage to make him forget that strenuous business of his, of making successful motion pictures he’ll be able to build himself up.”

“He’ll find plenty to interest himself in the graduation program,” said Mrs. Hardy, “and if you take him on some fishing and loafing expeditions along the creek he’ll get a fine chance to relax.”

“Unless they send a rush call from the coast for him to return at once like they did a year ago just after he had settled down to a fine vacation. Well, staying up and talking doesn’t help the situation. Scoot for bed, Janet. It’s a good thing you aren’t in the class play, what with keeping such late hours as this.”

Up until the afternoon of the play Janet saw very little of Helen’s father. He was over to the house once, but Helen informed her that he had been sleeping and taking long drives around the countryside with her mother.

“They have so very much to visit about,” explained Helen, who was worn thin by the strain of the last rehearsals. The night before it had been midnight before they rang down the curtain. Janet had been up equally as late for her work on the meager lighting equipment kept her on the job as long as the cast rehearsed.

On Friday afternoon they made a final check of sets and lights and costumes and Miss Williams rehearsed one or two of the minor characters who had been causing more trouble than the leads in getting their lines in just the way she wanted them.

The gymnasium was filled with row upon row of chairs. The old curtain which shielded the stage had been refurbished and looked quite presentable in spite of the landscape scene which it depicted. Someday Janet hoped the school would be able to buy adequate stage equipment. The stage was large enough, but the sets were pitifully few in number and all of them several years old. They had been changed a little here and there by the stagecraft class, but underneath you could detect the same flats and doors and windows of other years.

It was five o’clock before they finally straggled away from the gym and the call for the entire cast and stage crew was 6:30 o’clock for Miss Williams wanted everyone on hand early. Janet had seen the instructor conferring with a rather distinguished looking man that afternoon and guessed that he was the representative of the producing company, there to see the production and make the final decision on offering a job to Miss Williams.

Janet, in spite of the fact that she was only a member of the stage crew, found it hard to eat even though supper that night was especially delicious and her mother, although silent, looked at her reprovingly.

Helen arrived before supper was over and Janet was surprised to see her so calm. Perhaps her father had been coaching her on composure.

Janet folded up a clean smock, tucked it under one arm, and joined Helen.

“Good luck, girls,” said her father. “We’ll wait for you after the show and all have a lunch down town to celebrate the event.”

“Do you know where your folks are going to sit?” asked Janet.

Helen shook her head. “Dad wouldn’t tell me; thought if I knew I would be looking for them and it might make me nervous.”

“This is the first time a high school class has ever performed before a famous Hollywood director,” said Janet.

“Oh, don’t think of Dad in that way. Now that he’s back home he’s just a neighbor and he wants to be thought of in that way.”

“All right, but you can’t keep the cast from remembering that an ace director is in the audience tonight.”

“I suppose not. I only hope it won’t make them too excited and upset.”

“How about yourself?”

“I had been wondering up until tonight. But now I’ve made myself realize that he’s just Dad and that makes all of the difference in the world. Sort of gives me the confidence that I need for I know that if I make mistakes he’ll understand. I wish you were going to be Abbie.”

“Well I’m not, and you’ll get along all right with Margie. I think she’s really been working hard.”

“Oh, she’s worked hard enough, but somehow she doesn’t seem real in the character.”

“You mean I’m just crazy and silly enough to make a very real Abbie?” chided Janet.

Helen’s face flushed quickly.

“You know better than that. Margie is light-headed enough for the rôle of Abbie, but she lacks some spark of sincerity that’s needed, for after all, you know, Abbie finally solves the riddle of the Chinese image and pulls out the string of priceless pearls which saves the fortunes of the Naughtons.”

The cast and stage crew reported on time and Miss Williams checked each of them in. She devoted her own energies to making up the principals while several other teachers, fairly adept in dramatics, helped with the makeup of the minor characters.

Janet put on her smock and checked the lighting instructions which had been mimeographed and placed it beside the small switchboard. Actually she knew them all by heart, but she wanted to be sure there would be no mistake; no dimming of the lights when they should be brightened nor a sudden blackout in the middle of a love scene.

Margie Blake came up from one of the dressing rooms. She was glorious in salmon-hued taffeta and golden slippers.

Margie, fully aware of the striking picture she made, walked slowly across the stage, which had been set for the opening scene, the garden of the Naughton home.

Ed Rickey was standing nearby and Janet saw his eyes widen as they took in the beauty of Margie and her costume. And Janet felt her own heart tighten. Here she was in a smock, with her hands none too clean, no wonder that Ed had eyes only for Margie.

One of the sky drops was hanging unevenly and Miss Williams sent one of the boys in the stage crew up into the loft to adjust the lines and even the drop. The dramatic instructor stood in the middle of the stage motioning for first one end of the drop and then the other to be lifted or lowered.

Suddenly there was a cry from the loft and Janet, looking up, saw one end of the heavy drop sagging. It hung there for a moment. Then there was the sound of rending wood and the drop hurtled down toward the stage.

Miss Williams leaped backward instinctively, but Margie, seated on a garden bench, didn’t have a chance.

Janet tried to shout a warning, but the cry jammed in her throat. Margie looked up and Janet caught one terror-stricken look on her face. Then the drop thudded to the floor, a tangle of painted canvas enveloping Margie.

Chapter XIII
JANET STEPS IN

Ed Rickey was the first to reach Margie. With desperate hands he tore away the pile of canvas, splintered wood and snarl of rope. Jim Barron, who had rushed from the dressing room with his makeup only half on, helped Ed lift Margie to a nearby bench.

Then Miss Williams took charge. Margie was breathing regularly, but her eyes were closed. There was a nasty bump over her forehead and her dress looked like it might have been run over by a ten-ton truck, for a mass of dust and grime had come down with the drop.

The boy who had been in the scene loft scrambled down.

“The pulleys let go!” he cried. “Honestly, Miss Williams, I couldn’t help it.”

“Of course not, and I don’t think Margie is badly hurt. She’ll come around in a minute or two.”

Someone brought a glass of water and Miss Williams raised Margie’s head and forced some water between her lips.

After a time Margie opened her eyes.

“Where was the storm?” she mumbled. Then, recognizing the anxious faces of the members of the cast about her, struggled to sit up.

“What hit me?” she demanded thickly.

“The pulleys gave way and a drop came down,” explained Ed.

Margie tried to stand up, but sat down abruptly.

“My head,” she moaned. “It feels ten sizes too large.”

“Carry her downstairs,” Miss Williams said to Ed and Jim. While the boys were obeying instructions, Miss Williams went to a telephone and summoned a doctor.

It was 7:15 o’clock then and the curtain was set for eight. In just forty-five minutes the show must go on and Margie had a splitting headache and her costume was ruined at least for the night.

When Doctor Bates, the school physician arrived, it was 7:30 o’clock and Margie, stretched out on a couch in the girls’ dressing room, was holding cold cloths on her head.

Doctor Bates’ examination was quick but thorough.

“Mild concussion, I’d say. She must go to bed at once and remain there, perfectly quiet, for at least twenty-four hours.”

Margie struggled to her feet and was as promptly returned to the couch by the doctor, who forced her to choke back her words.

“Sure, I understand,” he said. “You’ve got a part in the play and you’ve got to go on. That’s the tradition of the theater. But this isn’t a theater. This is a high school play and young lady you’re not going to risk serious injury to yourself by doing any such thing as attempting to appear in this play. I’m going to take you home right now.”

Doctor Bates, who usually had his way, helped Margie out to his car. It was a tearful and protesting Margie, but Miss Williams joined in insisting that she go home and there was nothing else for her to do.

By the time Margie was on her way home the first rows of the gym were filling with spectators and Miss Williams, a look of desperate intent upon her face, called the cast together on the stage.

“We’ve got to go on for this means so much to me and to you. Try and forget, if you can, what has happened to Margie. Do everything you can to help the girl I’m going to push into Margie’s rôle. If she stumbles on her lines or forgets them, fake until you can pick it up again.”

Then she swung toward Janet.

“Can you get anything from home you can wear for the first act – something very light and pretty. You’ll be able to wear the costumes intended for Margie in the other two acts.”

“You mean you want me to step in and take Margie’s rôle?” asked Janet.

“That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve got to do it. You’re the only one who knows the lines.”

“But I’m afraid I’ll make a terrible mess of things; I’ll spoil the whole show.”

“You can’t, Janet, you can’t.” There was desperate entreaty in Miss Williams’ words. “I’ve heard you repeating Margie’s lines to yourself at rehearsal. You know them all and you know the action. Just imagine that you were originally picked for the rôle. You can handle it, I know.”

“Come on, Janet. This is our chance. We’ll be playing together tonight. I need you to steady me.” It was Helen speaking, saying she needed Janet to steady her.

Janet smiled to herself. She would be the one who would need bolstering.

Miss Williams came up.

“I’ve found one of the boys with a car. He’ll take you home and bring you back with a costume for the first act. I don’t want to hold the curtain unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll make it,” promised Janet.

There was no one at home and she rushed upstairs and dove into the large wardrobe in her room. She had been wondering all the way home what to select. Probably that pale green silk print. She’d only worn it once or twice, and never to anything at school.

Janet seized the dress, slipped out of the smock and everyday dress she had worn under that, and wiggled into the cool, crisp silk. Stockings and shoes were changed in a flash. Pausing just a moment before her mirror, she brushed her hair vigorously until the light caught all of its natural golden glints. Then she ran down stairs, breathless from the rush.

It was two minutes to eight, just two minutes before the curtain was scheduled to go up, when Janet reached the stage. Miss Williams was pacing nervously when she hurried on, but she stopped instantly and eyed Janet approvingly.

“Splendid, dear, splendid. We’ll start on time. If you forget some of the lines, just make up a few sentences until you can recall them. The rest of the cast will help you carry along.”

Helen, dark and radiant, came out of the wings.

“You need a little more color on your cheeks. You look as pale as a ghost.”

“I feel pretty much like a ghost,” confessed Janet as they slipped into a dressing room where Helen adeptly applied a touch of rouge, used an eyebrow pencil sparingly, and then finished the makeup with just enough lipstick to accentuate the charm of Janet’s lips.

“Everybody ready?” It was Miss Williams, calling the cast together for a final checkup.

Fortunately Janet would not go on until the middle of the first act. It would give her an opportunity to regain her full composure, to get into the swing of the play, and to brush up on any lines she was afraid she might forget.

The music of the high school orchestra, which was playing in the pit out front, reached a crescendo and died away. Janet faintly heard a wave of applause for the efforts of the orchestra. Then the girl who had taken her place at the switchboard dimmed the house lights, shoved the switch that sent the electricity surging into the footlights, and the curtain started up.

There was that little breathless pause before the action of the play began. Then Helen, the first character on the stage, started her lines. Clearly, confidently, she spoke, and Janet’s fears for the play, fears for any mistakes of her own, melted away. Helen was going magnificently, perfectly at ease and seemingly living the very rôle of Gale Naughton.

Janet slipped into the mood of the play. It wasn’t hard for she had attended every rehearsal and knew the lines of almost every character.

On the other side of the stage Miss Williams, the prompt book in her hands, was obviously pleased.

Then came a cue that awoke Janet from the pleasant glow. She was on next. With hands that fluttered just a little she picked up a mirror on the tiny dressing table in the wings and made sure that her hair was right.

It was time for her to go on, a rollicking, bouncing sort of entrance that one would expect from gay, light-hearted Abbie Naughton, and Janet did it perfectly.

The blaze of light from the footlights shielded her from the audience. She didn’t need to care what they were thinking. All she needed to do was to go through her part, playing it to the utmost. Later she would know what the audience thought, but then it would be too late to matter.

Janet and Helen had a fast exchange of lines, Helen reproving Janet for her gayety when the family funds were so low. They carried that hard bit of repartee off successfully and when the conversation swung to another character, Helen whispered under her breath.

“You’re grand, simply grand. Keep it up.”

“Double the compliment for yourself,” replied Janet, her lips barely moving yet the words were audible to Helen.

The first act was over suddenly. The curtain came down, smoothly, silently, and as it bumped the floor a gathering wave of applause echoed throughout the gym. Miss Williams nodded and the curtain went up again, the members of the cast smiling and bowing.

Then came the rush for the second act. The stage must be reset and the girls, especially, had to put on new costumes. Miss Williams stopped Janet in the wings.

“Margie’s costumes for the last two acts are laid out in the dressing room. I’m sure they’ll fit.” Then she laughed. “They’ll have to, Janet. We can’t stop for a costume, can we?”

“Not after the first act,” replied Janet.

But Margie’s costumes did fit. It was as though they had been made for Janet.

The action of the play moved more rapidly, swirling closer and closer around the Chinese image on its pedestal in the garden.

Finally came the third act with Janet, clumsy, jubilant Janet, accidentally knocking over the image, which burst open when it struck the stage floor and there, inside the figure of clay, was the secret of the image and the continued comfort of the Naughtons – a ruby, so perfect, so beautiful, that it was worth an exceedingly large fortune.

Before Janet knew it the curtain came down for the final time and on its echo came a sustained wave of applause. First the cast, then Miss Williams, and then the cast, answered the steady calls for their appearance. When Janet and Helen, coming out hand in hand, took a bow, the applause reached a new peak and then died away as the audience, satisfied as having paid tribute to the two stars of the show, prepared to leave the spacious gymnasium.

There was the usual crowd on the stage, parents and friends rushing up to congratulate members of the cast and over in one corner Janet saw Miss Williams signing her name to a paper that looked very much like a contract. Without doubt the dramatics instructor had earned her contract with the producing company.

“I’m tired,” announced Helen, in a very matter-of-fact manner.

“I suppose I am, too, but I’m still far too excited to realize it,” replied Janet. “Here come the folks.”

Her father and mother, closely followed by Helen’s parents, were pushing their way through the crowd.

“I’m mighty proud of you two,” said John Hardy as he gave each of them a hug.

“I’m more than that,” chuckled Helen’s father. “I’m tempted to sign them to contracts and take them back to Hollywood with me.”