CHAPTER III

BRAVADO

Rudy Bronson was that most astonishing of youths, a sensitive boy who, goaded into a hated situation, would go through with the task before him with a totally unsuspected power.

Balancing Bennie's saxophone in his hands, he was taken by a sense of capability regarding the instrument which heretofore had been totally alien to him. This was a real Ted Grant sax! How different it was from his own clumsy instrument; how delicate and yet how strong it felt beneath his touch.

"Just play anything that you like, Mr. O'Malley," he heard the plump proprietor of The Magic Lantern say. "Anything at all will be a treat."

Glancing toward Bennie, Rudy thought he noted a shade of malice in the orchestra leader's narrowly watching eyes. It suddenly was borne upon him that Bennie's offer to let him play a solo had been prompted by no other desire than that which he had stated--the chance to observe at close range some of the celebrated Ted Grant technique in operation.

Well, there was no backing out now. A wave of fright passed over Rudy at the thought. He looked over the floor of upturned faces beneath him. Faces waiting to be entertained; and if he failed them in that, ready to criticize, to give him the sort of razzing which he had received the day of the try-out for the school band.

Oh, why had he acted upon the crazy impulse which had caused Mm to fall in with Bland's wishes! Certainly it was absurd to think that he could offer a brand of playing equal to that of the old man's regular saxophonist. Bennie was good; of that there was no doubt. But here he was--and there now was nothing to do but play.

The first elements of the Ted Grant technique were a clean, rapid tongueing, accompanied by a similar nicety of fingering. With his old saxophone he often had sought for the precision in these attributes upon which his lessons had been so insistent. With this marvelous bit of metal within his hand, he felt that such skill would not only be possible, but inevitable.

Raising the mouthpiece to his lips, he blew gently and was gratified at the clear, melodious tone which ensued. Emboldened, he began one of the newer fox-trots, a lilting, catchy melody which he had been practicing for hours in his room without any great degree of success. But with the wonderful Ted Grant saxophone within his grasp, he did not feel that there could be a piece in the whole literature of syncopation beyond his capabilities. Not one.

As he played, he occasionally heard a note that did not seem to be quite all that it should be. But with closed eyes, deeply engrossed in the operation of the instrument he had come to love, he paid no heed to the world about him. He was in a world alone with his music--and the thought that beyond all things he wished that Jean Whitehall was there to hear him.

And with that wish was born the determination which one day was to bear surprising fruit. Sometime, some place, he vowed, he would play for Jean; would sing to her all the love songs which he had been keeping for the one girl in all the world for him.

With the last note of the number, he lowered the saxophone and bowed to an amount of applause quite unbecoming to a star pupil of Ted Grant. In fact, the only applause he received seemed to be that supplied by Sport O'Malley and his friends. Mr. Bland and Bennie clapped perfunctorily, and the head-waiter turned away without committing himself.

"Perhaps you had some difficulty with the strange instrument?" Bennie asked.

"To the contrary," Rudy answered, smiling his pleasure. "I found it the best sax I've ever played."

The leader frowned. "That's funny," he commented. "It sounded to me as if you were off key about two-thirds of the time."

Rudy bit his lip, flushing painfully. But before he could open his mouth to speak, the smooth voice of Sport O'Malley interposed: "You small-town yokels ought to get wise to yourselves," he said tartly. "Is that anyway to treat a guest star? Here my brother is, doing his stuff for you for nothing--and just because you don't know that the new Ted Grant technique calls for a tone just off key, you have the nerve to make a smart crack! It's an outrage, Mr. Bland!"

But the old proprietor had been listening to syncopation long enough not to be fooled by any such facile explanation. "Run along, Sport. I can thank your brother without any help from you." He turned to the unhappy Rudy, evidently taken by the boy's quiet and unassuming manner. "Good or bad, I thank you, Mr. O'Malley. And whether you're a good musician or a rotten one--if you always try as sincerely as you were doing up there just now, I don't see how anybody's got a right to complain."

"Thank you, Mr. Bland," Rudy answered. "That was mighty decent of you to say, if you thought I was rotten. Personally, I thought I never sounded better. But that's just an honest difference of opinion."

"Sure," interrupted Sport, "and now Rudy, my lad, we will go to yon table where await our convivial friends and pledge thee in a beaker of--" he glanced suddenly at Mr. Bland--"ginger ale!"

The convivial friends greeted Rudy boisterously. It was apparent that they were illuminated by spirits somewhat stronger than those naturally induced by the occasion. But loud as were their assurances that Rudy was the greatest saxophonist in the world, he was unable to derive much pleasure from their praise.

So he had been rotten, terrible! Even with a Ted Grant saxophone, he had been unable to play through one simple piece in a manner worthy of high recommendation other than that of a lot of half-boiled night owls. Rudy sat unhappily staring at the glass which had been placed before them. But he'd show them! He'd show them all--this crowd of kidders, that smirking little Bennie, Sport, yes, and Jean Whitehall, too, that he could bring as sweet a melody out of a saxophone as any man that ever lived!

"Drink up, Rudy!" Sport called. "This is your big night."

Smiling to cover his grim frame of mind, Rudy Bronson lifted his glass. His big night, indeed--though probably not in the manner which Sport had meant. But big nevertheless; because it was the night which had fired him with a definite ambition, given him a mark at which to shoot, had set for him a goal!

He got to his feet, his face alight with the flame of his newly fired purpose. "To my big night, men! Here's how!"

Caught by the ringing sincerity of his tone, there was a moment of silence as the little ring of young men answered his toast. Then Sport O'Malley shattered the seriousness of the tableau with a shouted "Skoal!" And the party was on.