The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Wodehouse (good books for 7th graders .TXT) 📕

right to raise a loud yell of agony when I see you risking it on a...”

“Pardon me,” said Fillmore loftily, looking happier. “Let me explain. Women never understand business matters. Your money is tied up exclusively in 'The Primrose Way,' which, as you know, is a tremendous success. You have nothing whatever to worry about as regards any new production I may make.”

“I'm not worrying about the money. I'm worrying about you.”

A tolerant smile played about the lower slopes of Fillmore's face.

“Don't be alarmed about me. I'm all right.”

“You aren't all right. You've no business, when you've only just got started as a manager, to be rushing into an enormous production like this. You can't afford it.”

“My dear child, as I said before, women cannot understand these things. A man in my position can always command money for a new venture.”

“Do you mean to say you have found somebody silly enough to put up money?”

“Certainly. I don't know that there is any secret about it. Your friend, Mr. Carmyle, has taken an interest in some of my forthcoming productions.”

“What!” Sally had been disturbed before, but she was aghast now.

This was something she had never anticipated. Bruce Carmyle seemed to be creeping into her life like an advancing tide. There appeared to be no eluding him. Wherever she turned, there he was, and she could do nothing but rage impotently. The situation was becoming impossible.

Fillmore misinterpreted the note of dismay in her voice.

“It's quite all right,” he assured her. “He's a very rich man. Large private means, besides his big income. Even if anything goes wrong...”

“It isn't that. It's...”

The hopelessness of explaining to Fillmore stopped Sally. And while she was chafing at this new complication which had come to upset the orderly routine of her life there was an outburst of voices in the other office. Ginger's understudy seemed to be endeavouring to convince somebody that the Big Chief was engaged and not to be intruded upon. In this he was unsuccessful, for the door opened tempestuously and Miss Winch sailed in.

“Fillmore, you poor nut,” said Miss Winch, for though she might wrap up her meaning somewhat obscurely in her telegraphic communications, when it came to the spoken word she was directness itself, “stop picking straws in your hair and listen to me. You're dippy!”

The last time Sally had seen Fillmore's fiancée, she had been impressed by her imperturbable calm. Miss Winch, in Detroit, had seemed a girl whom nothing could ruffle. That she had lapsed now from this serene placidity, struck Sally as ominous. Slightly though she knew her, she felt that it could be no ordinary happening that had so animated her sister-in-law-to-be.

“Ah! Here you are!” said Fillmore. He had started to his feet indignantly at the opening of the door, like a lion bearded in its den, but calm had returned when he saw who the intruder was.

“Yes, here I am!” Miss Winch dropped despairingly into a swivel-chair, and endeavoured to restore herself with a stick of chewing-gum. “Fillmore, darling, you're the sweetest thing on earth, and I love you, but on present form you could just walk straight into Bloomingdale and they'd give you the royal suite.”

“My dear girl...”

“What do you think?” demanded Miss Winch, turning to Sally.

“I've just been telling him,” said Sally, welcoming this ally, “I think it's absurd at this stage of things for him to put on an enormous revue...”

“Revue?” Miss Winch stopped in the act of gnawing her gum. “What revue?” She flung up her arms. “I shall have to swallow this gum,” she said. “You can't chew with your head going round. Are you putting on a revue too?”

Fillmore was buttoning and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He had a hounded look.

“Certainly, certainly,” he replied in a tone of some feverishness. “I wish you girls would leave me to manage...”

“Dippy!” said Miss Winch once more. “Telegraphic address: Tea-Pot, Matteawan.” She swivelled round to Sally again. “Say, listen! This boy must be stopped. We must form a gang in his best interests and get him put away. What do you think he proposes doing? I'll give you three guesses. Oh, what's the use? You'd never hit it. This poor wandering lad has got it all fixed up to star me—me—in a new show!”

Fillmore removed a hand from his waistcoat buttons and waved it protestingly.

“I have used my own judgment...”

“Yes, sir!” proceeded Miss Winch, riding over the interruption. “That's what he's planning to spring on an unsuspicious public. I'm sitting peacefully in my room at the hotel in Chicago, pronging a few cents' worth of scrambled eggs and reading the morning paper, when the telephone rings. Gentleman below would like to see me. Oh, ask him to wait. Business of flinging on a few clothes. Down in elevator. Bright sunrise effects in lobby.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“The gentleman had a head of red hair which had to be seen to be believed,” explained Miss Winch. “Lit up the lobby. Management had switched off all the electrics for sake of economy. An Englishman he was. Nice fellow. Named Kemp.”

“Oh, is Ginger in Chicago?” said Sally. “I wondered why he wasn't on his little chair in the outer office.

“I sent Kemp to Chicago,” said Fillmore, “to have a look at the show. It is my policy, if I am unable to pay periodical visits myself, to send a representative...”

“Save it up for the long winter evenings,” advised Miss Winch, cutting in on this statement of managerial tactics. “Mr. Kemp may have been there to look at the show, but his chief reason for coming was to tell me to beat it back to New York to enter into my kingdom. Fillmore wanted me on the spot, he told me, so that I could sit around in this office here, interviewing my supporting company. Me! Can you or can you not,” inquired Miss Winch frankly, “tie it?”

“Well...” Sally hesitated.

“Don't say it! I know it just as well as you do. It's too sad for words.”

“You persist in underestimating your abilities, Gladys,” said Fillmore reproachfully. “I have had a certain amount of experience in theatrical matters—I have seen a good deal of acting—and I assure you that as a character-actress you...”

Miss Winch rose swiftly from her seat, kissed Fillmore energetically, and sat down again. She produced another stick of chewing-gum, then shook her head and replaced it in her bag.

“You're a darling old thing to talk like that,” she said, “and I hate to wake you out of your daydreams, but, honestly, Fillmore, dear, do just step out of the padded cell for one moment