CHAPTER X

ENGAGEMENT

The Hotel Laconia was one of those New Hampshire hostelries which do their best business in the summer. Snow-locked and forbidding during the winter months, it found economy necessary during the paying portion of the year; and it was due to this economy policy that the management had found itself without a dance orchestra at the height of its season.

The manager himself greeted the Vagabonds. He was a plump, rosy man with eyes like faded marbles appearing incongruously in the freshness of his face. Calling a bellboy to show them to their quarters, he asked Sport to visit his office later to complete the financial arrangements. When he left them, his hard eyes made them all extremely conscious of the fact that they had arrived in two very worn Fords.

"Just a pal," remarked Al Monroe, when the door had closed upon his well-tailored back. "And all I got to say is that we better deliver for this baby right from the opening note, or it'll be back to Waterville for little us."

"That's right," Sport agreed, "except that if we flop, I'll be willing to go most any place except back to Waterville. We can't muff this, gang! The way I talked us up, he'll be expecting nothing less than music like Whiteman's. So let's try and get off to a good start. Get your tuxes out and send them down to be pressed. You take care of mine, will you, Rudy?" he asked. "I'll chase down and talk money with our genial host."

Thus ten tuxedos made a double descent in the elevator of the Hotel Laconia that afternoon. Creased and wrinkled from packing, they first went down to the valet service in the basement; and carefully draped on the somewhat apprehensive frames of ten young men, the second time they stopped off at the main floor.

The manager met them at the desk and ushered them with their instruments to the orchestral platform in one corner of the long dining room. "We don't have any dancing during the dinner hour," he explained in answer to their mystified looks. "Tables are set on the floor in the middle of the room. Later those will be removed and the dancing will take place there."

As The Vagabonds arranged themselves, he added: "Of course that means that during the dinner hour we won't want the usual syncopation. Give us something quieter--a little more highbrow." He left them without another word.

The orchestra exchanged mutual glances of chagrin. "Holy cow!" ejaculated Sport, "and us without even a semi-classical number in our repertoire!"

"This is a swell time to be thinking of that!" Al Monroe growled. "If we break out in a red-hot-mama number some of these old crows are liable to choke on their bird-seed."

"Don't worry, gang," Rudy Bronson said quietly. "We can play the hot numbers softly--and I won't sing any of the choruses except the ballads. So far as that goes, Sport can play the piano, and I'll piece out with some solos until the dance hour."

In their moment of extremity they were willing to jump at any solution of the unexpected problem. "Atta boy, Rudy!" Sport cried. "And for the love of great crying catfish, try and come through!"

"Yeah," said Swiftie Clarke, "because we're just about anything but anxious to go home."

"O.K., gang! We'll start with 'Loveable and Sweet.' For the chorus, instead of having Rudy sing, I'll do a piano solo. I'll dress it all up until they'll think they're hearing Beethoven."

Somehow the dinner hour was passed. Although an occasional diner was seen to cast curious glances in the direction of the orchestra, the majority apparently were able to consume their meals without the indigestion said inevitably to accompany modern music.

[Illustration: A scene from the Radio Picture, "The Vagabond Lover," starring RUDY VALLEE.]

Rudy did a yeoman's service. As the band ran out of pieces which it could play in a manner that disguised a frankly jazz origin, he stepped into the breech with a long array of ballads. Most of these were popular, true enough, but by singing softly he was able to concentrate upon the sweetness of the music without calling much attention to the lyrics. When at last the floor was cleared for dancing, he sighed relievedly. Apparently they had come through the dangerous situation without difficulty.

He noted that the manager had been watching them closely, but the fellow's ever-present smile disguised whether he was pleased or inwardly raging. As the peppy music to which the boys were more accustomed allowed them to get on familiar ground, there seemed less room for worry. But the manner in which the manager kept his eye on them proved disconcerting to Sport.

"We haven't any more privacy than a lot of goldfish," he complained. "Take this next one big, boys. He's still watching."

"Let Rudy sing again," Sam suggested. "If he doesn't like that he wouldn't like his mother-in-law's life insurance."

Such assurances of good opinion are heartening to one's self-respect, and as the evening wore on Rudy gained in confidence. Knowing that his voice was not remarkably strong, he had hoped that its purity of tone would carry him over the shoal waters of criticism. This wish, to judge from the reaction of his fellow musicians, was being carried out in a manner that left nothing to be desired.

When the last number had been played, the orchestra gave a collective sigh of relief. "Well, at least that's over," said Sport. "And I don't think we were so rotten. But what a rehearsal we're going to have in the morning on semi-classical numbers!"

He was about to say more, when the appearance of the manager stopped him. "Ah, Mr. Loughboro, I hope you liked our music."

"Not bad," said the manager. "Not good--but not bad. Give the blond kid more numbers to sing. The women like him. I'd be sending for a new band to-night if it weren't for the fact that you had him with you." And with this cheering message he departed as abruptly as he had come.

Sport mopped his brow. "And just to think," he said, "that once I had some doubt about letting you play with us." He grinned at Rudy. "And now you save us our job."

"Such as it is," Rudy said coolly. "Don't worry, Sport. We're slated for bigger things than any country hotel. When we hit our stride there isn't a night club in New York that won't be busting its neck to get us."

"Well, I must say you've got confidence," commented Al Monroe.

"And," said Swiftie Clarke, "a voice that the ladies like. Which is more than I can say for nine other guys not very far from here."

"I'll say!" Sport agreed. "And it looks to me like its up to you to carry us through that dinner hour for the rest of the engagement, Rudy."

It was a truthful prophecy. With diligent morning practice, The Vagabonds were able to counterfeit a fair knowledge of semi-classical numbers for the dinner hour. But during this hour and those of the dancing period which followed, it was soon evident that Rudy's mellow voice was the cardinal point in their favor.

The two-week engagement closed on Saturday night. Sunday, no music was played, except that of a string quartet especially imported for the afternoon tea hour. On Monday the New York orchestra would arrive. As early as the middle of the first week, all hope had been abandoned that Mr. Loughboro would not bring the other band up from the city, and it was an unhappy group of young men who prepared for their last evening at the Hotel Laconia.

"It isn't that I hate leaving here so very much," Sport complained. "It's just that I hate having nowhere else to go--except home."

Rudy put two letters in his pocket, and straightened his tie. Both were from Waterville, one from his mother, the other from Ted Grant--the last letter he ever would receive from Grant as a pupil, for it signalized the completion of the course.

He was anything but happy. The hotel job had not led to the hoped-for future engagement, and return to Waterville seemed an impossibility. Both his mother's disappointment and the cackling of such tongues as old Hesper's would be equally unbearable. But what else was there to do?

The dinner hour passed uneventfully. With the two weeks of experience, the orchestra was able to put forth a nice medley of music suitable to the occasion, and Rudy appeared to be in even better voice than ever before. He had several encores, but refused to take a bow. "I'm just a part of the band," he said. "Let it go."

When the dance floor was cleared and the major business of the evening actually began, he strangely began to grow nervous. It was as if some secret voice were attempting to whisper of a coming event of peculiar significance. But shrugging off the premonition, he applied himself to the work prepared for him, refusing attention to anything save the immediate problem of making the Vagabonds seem a good orchestra.

With the evening nearing its close without anything of a startling nature having occurred, Rudy was tempted to wonder at the odd fancy which had affected him. And yet, it was at precisely the moment when he was scoffing the strongest at his strange hunch that he looked up to see Jean Whitehall entering the room with a party of friends.

His pulse quickened and his lips set tightly. So Sport had been right! Rudy found her more lovely than ever. She was so utterly desirable that he had to look determinedly to another section of the room. He remembered with what eagerness he had dreamed of finding her here at the Laconia. Now, in a flash, he wanted only to escape her notice. He had dreamed of success for the Vagabonds. They were not successes, however, as the fact that this was their last night testified. He had no wish to be seen in the ignominious role of saxophonist in a country town band that was not good enough to stay in even a summer hotel.

When he saw her party take a table out of a direct line of vision with the orchestra, Rudy's breath escaped in a little sigh of relief. She would not see him from her present position. Then he heard Sport say:

"You catch the chorus on this, Rudy."

Rudy mechanically set the music on his stand. To sing would surely be to draw Jean's attention. He shook his head as he silently made his decision. No, he couldn't do it--not if he wanted to, his throat was that constricted.

"No go, Sport," he said to that surprised individual.

"What's wrong?" Sport demanded.

"Throat's raw as a beefsteak. Let's stick to the music. It sounded good enough to-night."

Sport did not insist. Al Monroe, however, refused to let the moment pass without a word. "What's the matter? Afraid you'll crack and disappoint the ladies?"

"I'll say I'm afraid," Rudy grinned mirthlessly.

Jean danced several times. Once or twice she glanced in the direction of the orchestra platform; but he knew that from her distance its members were nothing more than an impersonal blur. And for this he was as thankful as that Sport had failed to notice her in the crowd.

Without appearing to do so, Rudy watched her party closely. They were older people, suggesting the thought that she must be visiting in the district. He was grateful for the pronounced age of one of the men in her party who apparently wished to leave. Evidently this gentleman had the authority to cause his wishes to be respected, for presently they gathered their forces and went toward the doorway.

Rudy was relieved, but saddened, too. There went Jean again! Must she always be going away from him? Going away! Would there ever be a time when he could meet her on the footing which he hoped for--when she must recognize him as a social equal? His hands clenched. That time _must_ come!

Subconsciously he heard the orchestra launch into "I Love You, Believe Me, I Love You." His mind traveled back to the night when he had stood on Sorority Row, singing to the girl whom he believed had not heard him.

"I'll take the next chorus," he called to Sport.

Jean already had left the room. Rudy saw her crossing the verandah to a waiting motor. The elderly gentleman saw her into the ear and then entered with her. Slowly the motor moved away. Rudy closed his eyes and opened his lips. A limpid flow of golden notes that only emphasized the sincerity of his words filled the room:

"You'll be my one inspiration, You've changed my whole life from the start, I love you, believe me, I love you, This theme is the dream of my heart."

The last words of the song drifted away. The Vagabonds were through. It took but a moment to gather up their instruments and scores. They were gone and the big room quite deserted when a girl rushed back from the verandah. It was Jean. Her car had been delayed by a traffic snarl; Rudy's song had reached her ears as clearly as it had reached them the night of the dance.

"The orchestra has left," she said in evident disappointment to her escort.

He smiled tolerantly. "You'll hear it again, Jean."

"It was the singer," she admitted. "His voice sounded so familiar."

Upstairs in his room, Rudy slumped down into a chair. Sport looked at him inquiringly. "What's wrong?"

"She was out there to-night--Jean," he muttered unhappily. "She didn't see me, though--fortunately."

"Say!" Sport cried. "What's the idea? You almost put us in the ditch when I tipped you off that she might blow into this hotel some night. And now you say you didn't want her to see you. What _is_ this?"

"You don't understand, Sport. I was a bust in school, and to-night I'm playing the sax in a punk little band that couldn't hold a job in a country hotel. When I meet her, she won't have to apologize for me to her friends; she'll be proud of me--proud. I've got just two ideas--and she's one of them. I've got to amount to something, Sport. And I will!"

Sport looked at him soberly.

"You will," he declared without hesitation. "And don't ever forget that it was Sport O'Malley who discovered you!"