CHAPTER VIII

THE OLD HOME TOWN

The Bronson family lived on one of Waterville's less pretentious residential streets, in a house which was known to have passed its zenith of liveability. But the salary which the elder Bronson commanded as town clerk was scarcely sufficient to allow the two elderly people to move to one of the newer and finer districts.

This fact, however, was to them little reason for distress. They had lived in the old neighborhood for years, and they liked it. People of simple needs, they considered what had been good enough for them last year was good enough this, and therefore they made no attempt to pull up the roots put down by time.

But Rudy was of another generation--younger, desirous of the best that life had to offer, determined to achieve that which America always has held out to the ambitious and the strong. That which satisfied his parents was not satisfactory to him. He saw in their genteel poverty but an added spur to the ambition which now constantly was with him.

Mr. and Mrs. Bronson had taken his academic failure at the University with the good humor of fond parents. "Well, I never had a college education," said his father, "and I can't say that I've suffered greatly from the fact."

"Perhaps it is just as well," Mrs. Bronson added. "Rudy didn't know definitely what he wanted to do in the University. Probably it's a good thing that he's out. Now he can look around and find what he wants to do with himself."

"But I do know what I want, Mother!" Rudy exclaimed. "And that's why I'm not particularly cut up about having to leave the U. I want to go in for music!"

"Music?" they said in chorus.

"Yes, modern music--syncopation. Like Paul Whiteman, and Ted Lewis, and Ted Grant! When I was in school I started a correspondence course with Grant. You only have to pay a little down and a little a month," he explained hastily. "And I'm getting along fine. He writes that I'm one of his best pupils. I've decided to keep on with it."

"But where are you going to use it?" Mr. Bronson demanded. "We haven't any jazz bands here in Waterville."

"But you're going to have! Sport O'Malley is going to organize one."

"Sport O'Malley!" Mrs. Bronson raised her hands despairingly. "When there's any wild ideas hereabouts it seems that Sport O'Malley is responsible for them."

"But this isn't a wild idea!" Rudy protested. "It's a darned good one. The country is mad over syncopation. The old styles of orchestration have been routed completely. If we get in on the ground floor with a good band before there is too much competition, we'll make a name for ourselves that'll be a knockout. And say! If we do get there, don't fool yourself about the money that we'll make. Why, good bands make so much money nowadays that they're thinking of starting a new mint--just to print money for musicians alone!"

"Well, go to it," Mr. Bronson counseled. "You seem to have your heart set on it, and I've always figured that a real wish to do a thing had that thing already half accomplished. But in case you don't start making all this money right at the start, old Hesper was telling me this afternoon that he wanted a smart young man to run his soda fountain."

Rudy grinned. Hesper's drug store was the meeting place of most of the musically inclined youths of Waterville. He often had sat at the marble counter with a group of them, lending his soft sweet tenor to renditions of popular numbers of the hour. Nothing would please him more than to be close to this atmosphere of song and good fellowship for hours a day.

Hurrying down the shaded streets in the direction of Hesper's place of business, Rudy congratulated himself upon the fact that the old man always had seemed to like him. If another soda dispenser had not already been hired, he had small doubts but that Hesper would favor him. Several times he had helped out flurried workers behind the counter during an unusual rush of business, and he knew that his proficiency with the syrups and creams of the trade now should stand him in good stead.

Nor was he mistaken. "I was thinking about you, Rudy," old Hesper answered his inquiry concerning the job. "You always pitched in and helped the other boys when they needed it, and I was wondering if you might not be a good boy for the job when I asked your father if you were coming home. Sure, I'll try you. You'll find an apron in the closet and the salary is fifteen dollars a week."

Fifteen dollars a week! Rudy almost laughed aloud at the sum. But a moment of thought checked his desire for mirth. He was well aware that summer jobs were distressingly scarce in Waterville. The good ones doubtless had already been taken. Except for the smallness of the salary old Hesper offered to pay, Rudy could not list the job as unpromising.

"You've hired me, Mr. Hesper," he said. "When shall I go to work?"

"Right away, if you can. I'm shorthanded here, and that counter is driving me crazy. Why, it seems as though a pharmacist these days also has to be a master sandwich maker!"

Rudy laughed, going behind the counter. Hesper, with his salty observations on the town's people and affairs, long had been one of his interests. He felt that employment under the old fellow would be as palatable as would any that had nothing to do with music. The fifteen dollars, too, upon consideration, took on a friendlier aspect. He knew that his father had certain rigid ideas about being the head of the house. The elder Bronson felt himself capable of supporting his small family, and therefore no part of Rudy's wages would be asked for room and board.

Why, with that money coming in steadily every week, he soon would have enough to buy a Ted Grant saxophone, one of those beautiful instruments such as had been possessed by the orchestra leader at The Magic Lantern! His heart swelled with anticipation. With an instrument such as that, and steady application to his lessons and his singing, the end of the summer might see him well on the way to the top of the musical ladder.

In quest of a cool drink, Sport O'Malley drifted into the store late in the afternoon. His face shone with enthusiasm, and after congratulating Rudy on so promptly finding a job, he launched into a happy explanation of his smiles:

"Boy, you sure were right about that band. I've hunted up Sam and Swiftie Clarke and Al Monroe, and they're all keen about the idea. It seems that all they needed was an organizer, somebody with the executive ability for which I am justly celebrated. They fell for the idea of an orchestra like a ton of bricks. We're going to get together to-night to talk more about it."

He finished his drink and flipped a coin on the marble counter. "Over at my place 'bout nine, Rudy. Bring your sax, because we might want to go through a couple of numbers just to sort of get acquainted with each other."

"Sure." Rudy expertly removed the ring left by Sport's glass on the counter and rang up the coin. "I'll be there with bells on."

"O.K." Sport went on his leisurely way, leaving Rudy, despite his attempt at calm, the prey to an overwhelming fear. What if he should prove a bust? These chaps would be fully as critical of his ability as had been those of the University. Perhaps more so, for there was the added fact of his year away at school. They were just town boys, and ever eager to discover assumptions of superiority on the part of those with educational advantages greater than their own.

Rudy had no thought of trying to appear superior with them. Sam McMahon, Swiftie Clarke, Al Monroe and the others were as far from receiving any air of condescension from him as they would be from the most ardent democrat. But Rudy was, nevertheless, quick to appreciate that any slip on his part would be the signal for a never very deeply hidden dislike.

He squared his shoulders defiantly. Let them razz him, if they could! He might not as yet have attained top form, true enough. But he rapidly was doing so. Why, Ted Grant, in his last letter, had remarked on his gratifying progress! It would not be long before there would be nothing but general acclaim for his skill. And then--well, the sky was the limit.

It was after nine o'clock when he hurried up the front steps of Sport's home. He had been detained by a late rush of the thirsty at the fountain, but he hoped that, due to late-comers and the natural tendency of new projects to be slow in getting started, he had not missed much of the meeting.

This he found to be the case. Sport answered his ring and led him into the living room where the prospective band lounged. He apparently was the last member to arrive, for they greeted him with the usual sarcastic remarks which are the portion of the late-comer. Then, as if prompted by some latent sense of good manners, they clustered around him to tell him that they were glad he was back from the University.

They were a promising-looking bunch. With scarcely an exception, they could have been set down on the campus Rudy so recently had quitted, and attracted no more notice than that usually bestowed on the customary undergraduate. With movies, the radio, good roads and the automobile, the young, small-town yokel largely has become a thing of the past on the American scene. These boys were fully aware and in touch with that which was transpiring beyond the horizon of their particular community. This became evident by the serious manner in which they now settled to the business of organizing their band.

"Sport's right, fellows," said Swiftie Clarke. "The jazz orchestra of to-day has about the best chance to lift young men into the big dough of any racket there is. If we work hard, and figure out a campaign carefully, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't make the grade inside of a year!"

"First we've got to have a name," Sport said. "How about calling ourself 'Sport O'Malley and his Playboys'?"

There was an immediate dissension to this. "I guess there's no argument about you being the best musician of us all, Sport," said Al Monroe, "but I can't see why the orchestra should take your name, just because of that. Oh, you'll be the manager, all right. But I think it would be better if we just used the last part of that name--called ourselves The Playboys."

As a chorus of assent greeted this suggestion, Sport yielded gracefully. "Sure," he agreed. "I just thought it would label us a little more definitely. But whatever you guys say is all right with me." He paused. "You say I'm manager. That's O.K., too. And the first thing I'll do is to call a practise--right now. I told you all to bring your instruments. So break them out, laddies, and let's go!"

The young men promptly obeyed, and after a few minutes of adjustment were seated in a semicircle facing Sport at the piano. He passed out a wad of single sheets, professional copies of some of the latest numbers such as are used by musicians the musical world over. "Suppose we run through 'Texas Moon,'" he suggested. "It will give us sort of a warming-up exercise, and let us know a little of what we can expect from one another."

With a signal he led the way into the fox-trot and the others followed with a surprising agility. Even Rudy, who ordinarily had difficulty with strange pieces, acquitted himself without mishap. Sport's expression was pleased as the number closed. "That's fine!" he exclaimed. "What I mean, of course, is that it was bum. But for a gang who've never played together before, it wasn't bad at all."

"It would have been better if we'd had the chorus taken up vocally," Sam observed. "We've got to get a good voice, Sport. That's half the battle in an orchestra nowadays."

"Sure is," Sport said. "But I don't remember any of you guys having much in the way of voices. And I know darned well I haven't." He looked at Rudy. "I guess you're our best bet there, Rudy."

"I hope he's good at something," Al Monroe said surprisingly. "'Cause he sure can find a lot of flat notes on that sax of his."

"Who?" Rudy asked. "Me?"

"Yes," said Al, "you. You remind me of Fritz Kreisler."

"But Kreisler's no saxophone player!"

"Well, it doesn't sound to me like you are either."

Rudy reddened darkly at the thrust. To his own ears he had stayed on pitch with an unaccustomed fidelity, and the criticism therefore cut all the more deeply. Sport saw his chagrin and leaped quickly to his defense:

"Quit your kidding, Al. Rudy hasn't been playing as long as we have, but the way he's going I'll bet he shows us all up in the long run." He turned to Rudy. "I wouldn't pay any attention to a hyena like Al, Rudy. He wouldn't know a grace note if he heard one.... And say, do you know the vocalization on this number?"

Rudy nodded. "I'll sing the chorus. Take it through from the start and then all of you cork off except the piano. I can't sing against a whole orchestra."

With a flash of his hand, Sport once more started the piece. The band moved through the verse, and at the refrain Rudy dropped the saxophone from his lips and began to sing. He did not sing at all in the manner which from previous experience with orchestra singers, his companions expected. Rather, in a plaintive, persuasive manner, he crooned rather than sang. His voice was not very strong, but it was surpassingly pleasant and sweet, and when the number was done they all knew that that portion of their problem was settled.

"Great stuff, Rudy," Sport cried. "I bet when the dames hear you singing like that they won't know if they're afoot or horseback!"

"Yeah," said Al Monroe, "what a pity it is he can't handle the high notes on a saxophone the same way. Gee, on some of those passages it sounded as if we were passing through a vinegar mill."

"Don't you worry about that, big boy," Rudy told him with a trace of grimness. "I'm improving all the time--and I'll get there. I'm studying under Ted Grant, and if you know anything at all you know that he's the man who taught Ben Bernie and Ted Lewis. Just wait! One of these days people will be adding that he taught Rudy Bronson, too!"