CHAPTER XIV

A PERSONAL APPEARANCE

As if by common consent, the Vagabonds moved into the living room. Rudy turned to Sport, his eyes blazing.

"Why did you tell them I was Ted Grant?" he demanded.

Sport shivered. "I hate jails. They're so damp."

"That's what my cousin said," interjected McMahon.

"But that was a deliberate deception," Rudy protested. "A lie. I hate doing a thing like that."

"Don't hand us any of that!" Al Monroe jeered. "Say, when that girl said she was crazy to meet Ted Grant, I bet you looked more like him than he looks like himself!"

Rudy nodded. "I'm as much to blame as anybody. I entered this thing deliberately. That's why I feel so rotten now. I don't know why I didn't say we were impostors when there was a chance."

"What do you mean?" Sport demanded.

"That we could have told the truth--explained."

"Not to that cop!"

But Rudy refused to yield. "Yes, we could," he insisted. "But I stood for it because--well, because I wanted to make a hit with that girl."

Rudy paused and surveyed them frankly. "Boys," he went on, "there's no sense in keeping the truth from you; Sport knows and the rest of you may as well. I love that girl. We were at the University together," he went on. "She never heard of me, a scrub freshman. Varsity captains were her speed. When I left school I told Sport I was going to make something of myself because of her. I wanted her to be proud to know me."

He stopped, shaking his head. "Well, I surely made a mess of it. You remember that last night at the Laconia? She was there. She didn't see me. I was glad. I wanted to be big--like Ted Grant--before she met me."

Sport put his arm around Rudy affectionately. "Don't worry, son, you came through for Molly and me and I'll come through for you. Whoever would have thought she'd be living next door to Ted Grant?"

"He can square everything when he comes," Sam declared in an effort to cheer Rudy. "All we gotta do is wait."

"I'm not so sure about that," Rudy said hopelessly; "but I've got only myself to blame. I know I'm a boob. She'll never have anything to do with me now. In trying to make a hit with her, I had to let her think I was somebody else. I've made a boob of myself with her for life. I must have been crazy, to try and impress her by thinking I was Ted Grant; crazy to try and put myself over under false colors. And now I've gone and balled up everything forever."

As he sank down on a chair, Sport placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"No you haven't, old boy." He thought for a moment, then continued quickly with:

"I tell you what we'll do. We'll play at this trick party to-night because, because--well, because we have to now. Then we'll stay here until things quiet down, and that sleuth is off guard--and then we'll climb in the flivvers and hike!"

Sam McMahon applauded. "The farther we get away from this guy Tuttle, the sooner I'll feel safe."

"Aw, why be scared of a small town dick?" asked Harry Ables. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Of course not," seconded Al Monroe; "by this time he's probably back in the firehouse, fast asleep."

Bud Dwight had been peeking cautiously through the window for some time. Now he called to them.

"Come here, you wise guys, and take a look."

They approached the window, and peered through the draperies into the gardens. Tuttle was still outside, looking thoughtfully at the house.

"Well," said Sport, "at least that washes up the thought of ducking out now. The only thing for us to do is to get our glad rags out of the cars, get dressed, and when the time comes to go over to Mrs. Whitehall's--to go!"

"Fellows, I can't go through with this ghastly joke," Rudy announced with a grim air of finality.

"But you've got to go through with it now," Sam insisted for the others. "You can't give us away! We'll be arrested if you do!"

"He's right," Sport agreed. "We'll play at Mrs. Whitehall's--let them think we are really Ted Grant and his band--and then beat it! When they learn the truth, it will be a laugh, that's all. Why, it's simple as rolling off a log."

"Too simple, if you ask me," said Al Monroe.

"I don't ask you to think of me and what this means personally--losing her and all the rest of it--but aside from that, we're imposing on Mr. Grant. He may not think it's a joke."

"But he won't be back until Tuesday--the note says so," Sport flung back. "It will be too late for him to do anything but like it. But you're borrowing trouble. After all, Rudy," he went on cheerfully, "you're a graduate of the Ted Grant Correspondence School--and what a graduate! Why, when he can play a sax like you can, he'll knock them all cold!"

Rudy failed to respond to the good-humored raillery of his friends. He made an effort not to appear too serious, but his mood grew heavier with each moment, a weight which their developing light-heartedness increased and which successfully bore down on any attempt at anything but misery over the situation.

Nor did he feel much better when, with Tuttle at last gone and the suitcases brought into the house, he started dressing for the musicale. The Vagabonds had not been long in making themselves at home.

Swiftie Clarke and Al Monroe, much against the earnest advice of Sam McMahon, had invaded the kitchen and there plundered the ice box and cupboard. When "dinner" was called, the others descended in various stages of undress, to find a table spread with a motley array of opened cans, weirdly sliced bread, coffee, a ham, and several glasses of jelly.

In proceeding upon it, even the objections of Sam McMahon disappeared. Rudy ate but little, unable to lift himself from the thought of his deception. But even the small amount of food he took had something of a cheering effect upon him, and as he finished dressing he was able to view the approaching visit to Jean's home with something of a freer spirit.

At least, he reflected, under whatever conditions the entry was being made, he would be able to spend an evening under the same roof that sheltered her--an opportunity that would surely never be his again.

Shortly after eight o'clock, The Vagabonds, dressed in their shining best, gathered their instruments and started across the lawn toward Mrs. Whitehall's house.

Did they but know it, that lady herself was at that moment congratulating herself on the nearness of their appearance. She was sitting with her social enemy, a thin, hawk-faced woman who always seemed to be a little cold. And at every opportunity this Mrs. Todhunter was doing her best to make Mrs. Whitehall feel that she, Mrs. Whitehall, as a social climber had but ascended the lowest rungs of the ladder.

As a plump operatic star finished a particularly gaudy number, Mrs. Whitehall leaned forward with a feigned cordiality.

"Dear Mrs. Todhunter," she said, "your friends sing beautifully."

Mrs. Todhunter made a slight and condescending movement of her well-groomed head.

"Really, they have made quite an occasion of your little party, haven't they, Mrs. Whitehall?"

Mrs. Whitehall flushed. "I almost feel as if it were your party, my dear."

"Well," Mrs. Todhunter admitted, "there is no use in denying that it does brighten a soirée if one can count among one's guests a few of the people who really amount to something."

"Yourself, for example, my dear Mrs. Todhunter," Mrs. Whitehall managed to say.

But the other woman appeared totally unconscious of any intent at malice.

"So nice of you to say so, my dear," she murmured. "By the way, I believe the pianist is trying to catch your eye."

Mrs. Whitehall rose. "Oh, yes, I must announce some other singers."

"Don't tell me that you, too, have some famous artist for us, Mrs. Whitehall!" Mrs. Todhunter exclaimed with a mocking lift of the eyebrows.

"Oh, no," Mrs. Whitehall said chokingly. "Just some poor little orphans. I thought if they sang it might help advertise our benefit to-morrow."

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Todhunter admitted. "It is difficult to make a program for these little musicales unless one knows the right people."

At that moment, Mrs. Whitehall caught a glimpse of Rudy and his musicians on the other side of the room, in Jean's care. She smiled gratefully. Indeed, to her harassed eyes, after the pointed remarks of Mrs. Todhunter, the newcomers seemed to her as more than friends in need. They seemed like saviors. What would this catty woman have to say when she announced that she had secured the great Ted Grant to play!

She bowed to Mrs. Todhunter, triumph in her eyes, as there had been when Rudy had agreed to appear.

"Precisely, my dear," she said. "Precisely."

Hurrying across the room, she mounted a small platform and called for the attention of the assembled guests. The drawing-room of Mrs. Whitehall's house reflected her social aspirations. The room itself was extremely ornate, with a wide arch opening into the hallway leading to the street door. At the rear another arch was suggested; this being to differentiate the drawing-room from a large library into which it gave access.

Both these rooms were crowded with people, smartly clothed, and rather bored by the entertainment thus far provided. Mrs. Whitehall had noted this, and her feeling of anticipation mounted. Just wait until they heard Ted Grant! But first the orphans must sing.

"Friends, friends," she called. "Ladies and gentlemen. I wish to announce as our next number some little girls from the orphans' home. As you know, to-morrow sees the opening of our benefit for these little children. A varied program each and every night in the week in the garden amphitheater so graciously donated by Mrs. Todhunter."

She paused to allow a little ripple of satisfaction to cross the room. Then she continued with:

"The benefit committee, of which _I_ am chairman, hopes you will buy a great many tickets and bring your friends, for it must be a complete success or the orphanage cannot continue its work for this year."

With a bow she introduced the three rather frightened little girls who were to sing.

"The little children----"

The little children were cute, but scarcely musical. As their childish, strident voices rose in a song devoted to the doings of a modern Georgie Porgie, there was a noticeable movement in the direction of the supper-laden buffet and the punch bowl.

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

Here the members of The Vagabonds, having rid themselves of an initial nervousness, were attending to a hunger left unsatisfied by the sketchy meal in the Grant kitchen.

Only Sport O'Malley seemed unworried by the need of more food. Surrounded by a clump of girls, he was explaining the difficulties and joys of being a great musician.

"Well, no, girls," he admitted, "I wouldn't say I was marvelous at _all_ kinds of music. Only at love songs. Sentiment."

"Why is that?" a blond debutante asked him with wide, appealing eyes.

"A musician can only put into his instrument what he has in himself," Sport told her.

"And what's that?" a second girl demanded eagerly.

Al Monroe removed a sandwich from his mouth long enough to say "Wind!"

"Wind!" the girl exclaimed.

Sport took her gently by the arm, drawing her away.

"Let's go some place where there aren't so many annoying people," he said. "Then I'll explain it all to you--with illustrations."

As they moved away, Jean, on a near-by bench with Rudy, smiled.

"They're cute, aren't they!"

Rudy looked at her in surprise. "You mean Sport? The boys?"

Jean shook her head, laughing. "No, those kiddies up there singing. I just love children."

"I guess we like about the same things," Rudy told her. "So do I."

"Oh, I do hope this benefit for the orphanage will be a success, Mr. Grant. I am so afraid that something may happen to spoil it."

"You think a lot of this orphanage fund, don't you?" Rudy inquired.

"It means so much to the children. So very, very much."

"You know," Rudy said slowly, "I've never met a girl like you before, so interested in a thing like a charity benefit."

"And I've never met a man like you before," Jean replied. "You're not at all the way I thought you would be," she confided. "Not a bit like a famous jazz band leader."

"Well," said Rudy, "you're a great deal better than I thought you'd be."

Jean's brow wrinkled in perplexity.

"I?" she asked. "Why you couldn't have thought of me before, you didn't even know that I was on earth!"

Realizing his slip, Rudy blushed desperately. But with a calm voice, he explained:

"Oh yes, I did. I always knew that I was going to meet a girl like you some day. You see----"

At that moment, his glance fell upon the members of The Vagabonds. Under the guidance of Mrs. Whitehall they were with their instruments being shepherded toward the platform on which they were to play. Rudy stood up quickly.

"I wrote a song about that girl," he said. "We'll play it. And when we get to the chorus, I'll sing."

He hesitated. "Perhaps when you hear it, you'll understand what I mean. Will you listen? Will you listen to what I have to say?"

For a long moment, Jean studied his handsome, anxious face. Then she slowly nodded her head.

"I'll listen," she murmured softly. She paused in hesitation. "By the way, Mr. Grant, I wanted to tell you that there is something hauntingly familiar about your voice--your singing, I mean."

Rudy stared at her uncertainly, not knowing what was coming. "You've heard Ted Grant on the radio----"

"I don't mean that. I mean that your singing reminds me of someone else--a boy back at school," she finished.

Rudy's pulse quickened as she continued: "I only heard him once. It was the last night of the year. We were having a dance at the house. He sang as he passed--the very song you sang this afternoon, 'I Love You.'"

She looked away. "There was something so plaintive and sincere about it that I shall never forget him."

With his lips sealed against telling her that it was he who sang, Rudy contented himself with a small, grim smile. "I hope you never do," he said.