The seventh shot

It was twelve o’clock—a hot, sunny noon in the latter part of August. Broadway blazed with the last fiery effort of the passing summer; there was a steady stream of humanity pouring up and down on either side of the clanging cars, and occasionally swirling between them. In spite of the temperature, New York was as fervently busy as usual, especially here on what is affectionately known as the Rialto. For in nearly every theater in the Forties rehearsals had begun, and those actors who were not already employed were frantically hunting jobs. Gone the brief weeks in which they had forgotten calcium and make-up boxes; it was nearly September—time to work.

Chorus girls, half dead from three hours of ceaseless dancing, came hurrying from stage doors, wiping their dripping faces and talking shrilly of new steps, tired legs, and the brutalities of their stage managers. “Principals,” in scarcely less haste, repaired to one of the big restaurants for a cold buffet lunch, wearing the blank, concentrated expression that is born of trying to memorize lines or to estimate the cost of new costumes. Clean-shaven young men, all dressed precisely alike, forgathered on street corners or plunged pallidly into cafés. Shabby little actresses, out of work and wearing their best clothes of last year, scurried anxiously from agent to agent.

A few stars sank wearily into touring cars or limousines and flew homeward for an hour and a half of rest and refreshment before the long, grinding, sweltering afternoon. Stage managers, with scripts sticking out of their pockets and a grim and absent glare in their eyes, strode along, mentally blue-penciling the prompt book and cursing the company. Authors crept miserably away to eat without appetite and wonder if there would be any play at all left by the date of the opening. In short, theatrical Broadway was at one of its most vigorous seasons of activity, and to walk along it was like turning the pages of a dramatic newspaper.

At the side door of one of the big, cool, luxurious hotels extensively patronized by the profession when it has enough money in its pockets, two young women nearly ran into each other, laughed, and exchanged greetings:

“Miss Legaye! How nice to see you again!”

“It has been ages, hasn’t it? Are you lunching here, too, Miss Merivale?”

“I hardly know,” returned the younger and taller girl, adding, with a frank laugh: “I was wondering whether it would be too sinfully extravagant to blow myself to a gilt-edged meal all alone. However, I believe I had about succumbed to temptation; I have a manager to see this afternoon, and I really think I should fortify myself.”

“Lunch with me,” suggested Kitty Legaye. “I hate my own society, and I am all alone.”

“For a wonder!” laughed the other. “Yes, I’d love to, if you’ll let it be Dutch. I’ve been up and down a thousand pairs of stairs this morning, and I’m nearly dead.”

They went together into one of the most comfortable dining rooms in the city. They chose a little table so placed that an electric fan, artificially hidden behind flowering plants, swept it with a very fair imitation of aromatic summer winds.

Miss Legaye, who always knew exactly what she wanted, waved aside the menu proffered by the waiter and rapidly ordered: “Brook trout in aspic for two. I’ll tell you the rest later.”

Then she tossed off her fur neckpiece and turned to the other girl.

“I never asked you if you liked trout!” she exclaimed, in a sweet, rather high voice which her admirers called “larklike.” “Now, that’s so like me! Do you?”

“Very much,” said her companion, smiling. “I don’t often get it, though. You are looking awfully well, Miss Legaye!”

“I am always well,” replied Kitty Legaye.