# Our Little Girl/Chapter 11

XI
SWEET ARE THE USES OF PUBLICITY
Dorothy’s reflections on the sudden and violent change in the demeanor of Tommy came to an end before evening. Arnold’s automobile stopped before 137 West 88th Street and its owner marched up the stairs to the door, whistling whatever he could remember of “Dardanella” jauntily yet sentimentally. Dorothy was delighted to see Arnold. He was a dependable sort. He wasn’t fearfully smooth, like Maxwell, or fearfully rough, like Harper or—like Tommy. She didn’t feel at home in the offices of the Underwood Concert Corporation. Things happened too rapidly for comfort. You spoke to Maxwell, who seemed more interested in giving a lecture based on his experiences than in listening to you. Harper welcomed you in a boisterous way, and amiably but decisively imposed his will on you. Even Tommy, who never had been a difficult problem socially, became distant and mysteriously breezy professionally. Then there were such people as Elsie Freron—but she wouldn’t have to have anything to do with that woman. She looked positively disgusting. Dorothy disliked Maxwell’s way of calling the Freron woman “Elsie.” It was too intimate.
“Come out for a little spin and I'll tell you great news!” invited Arnold.
“But don’t be away too long because we have to have a talk with Uncle Elliott later on,” added Mrs. Loamford.
“Muffle up well,’ she added in a warning way. “Remember you have to take care of your voice now.”
Arnold looked at Dorothy questioningly. ​"I’m going to make my début at Aeolian Hall,” ex- plained Dorothy, “on the second Saturday in October.”
“Great!” exclaimed Arnold. “You can bet I'll be there.”
He placed a blanket over Dorothy and started the car.
“What I wanted to tell you,” he said, as they cut through Eighty-eighth Street to Riverside Drive, “is that I’m going in for myself.”
“How wonderful!”
“Well, I had to do it. You can’t get anywhere working on a salary, although I got a lot of raises down there this year. A lot of men would be satisfied to keep on going for what I’ve been getting, but that’s not my way. I’m looking ahead. I want to have an income big enough so I can do—well, anything. So I quit today.”
He noted Dorothy’s startled look with pleasure.
“Yes, I quit today,” he repeated. “Mr. Goldberg— that’s the president of the firm, you know—said, ‘T don’t like to see you doing this,’ and I said, ‘I know, Mr. Goldberg, but I’m thinking about the future.’ ‘Arnold, my boy,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a great future here. You know that.” ‘I do, Mr. Goldberg,’ I said, ‘but I want to branch out for myself. You'd do the same thing, too, if you were in my place.’ Well, he talked a little more, but he saw the way I felt about it, so he said all right, he wouldn’t stand in my way. ‘Arnold,’ he said, ‘I wish you all the luck in the world. ‘And don’t forget this,’ he said, “if you ever feel like coming back, there’ll be room for you right here.’ Well, I was sorry to leave, but I couldn’t stay there all my life, so I left.”
He made a sudden turn to avoid a bus.
“Well, what I’m going to do now,” he went on, “is be a bond-trader. That’s where the big money is on the Street. It takes a little nerve, but it’s a sure thing if you know the ropes, and I guess I know the ropes about as well as ​anybody down there. I know fellows making a thousand dollars a day sometimes with only an hour’s work. Some of them aren’t bright, either. You've got to know the ropes, that’s all. I tried it out-on my own last month, and-"
For the rest of the ride, which took them to 157th Street and back, Dorothy learned about corporate securities.
“____and I feel sorry for the fellows who keep on working for somebody else all their lives,” Arnold concluded, as he brought his car up at 137 West 88th Street. “Some of them make good money, but I can make more working where I please, and take a good long vacation or a little run over to Europe—well, here you are.”
Dorothy thanked him for the lovely ride.
“Take you out again tomorrow, if you like,” he offered.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to work on my program all the time until my recital,” she said. “But——”
She considered.
“Let me take you wherever you want to go in the morning,” he suggested.
“I have to go to the Underwood office at ten.”
“The typewriter people?”
“The concert bureau.”
“I'll be here at nine forty-five. All right?”
“It’'ll be lovely of you. But won’t it be too much trouble?”
“No trouble at all. Nine forty-five tomorrow.”
A good friend, thought Dorothy, as the car swung about and headed for Broadway. And he had more of that “something” than she had suspected.
Dorothy selected one of her most charming dresses for her visit to the managers. Arnold gazed on her approvingly.
​“You're getting prettier every day,” he commented. “You ought to be a real hit. Josie McNair told me-"
“Who?"
“Josephine McNair. She’s in musical comedy. Thought I told you about her. I met her at lunch with one of the boys. A very nice girl in her way. She lives with her mother. She does—she does a little business with us. So I’ve seen her now and then. She says she hasn't enough voice for concert, but she’s sure she’d make a hit if she had because if you look good all the critics fall for you. Look at Farrar. Personally, I don’t know why they make so much fuss about her or any of those opera singers, but opera’s something I don’t care much about. I get pretty tired some days, working all day, and I like tunes. I don’t mind a good concert now and then, though.”
He pointed out a billboard.
“That’s where Josie sings. Haven’t seen it? I'll take you sometime. Just let me know when you want to go and I’ll fix it so we get the best seats in the house.”
“Has she a big part?”
“Well—not very big—yet. I hear she’s going into the lead later on. She understudies now.”
“She’s in the chorus?”
“Well, she sings with the chorus to learn the routine, but she’s not a chorus girl, although some chorus girls are very nice. I know one who supports a brother in college-"
“You know quite a few, don’t you?”
Arnold’s familiarity with such people wasn’t so nice.
“I know some theatrical people—yes. One meets all kinds of people in Wall Street, you know.”
“They must pay pretty well in the chorus.”
Arnold looked up sharply. ​I’m not—intimate with any of them,” he explained quickly. “I have to see some of them in a business way,”
He lapsed into silence.
“T don’t really go with Josie —Miss McNair,” he re- marked suddenly, as he stopped his car at the building which contained the house of Underwood. “I just know her—well, in a friendly way.”
“The office is on the tenth floor,” said Dorothy.
“Shall I go with you?”
“You must have things to do this morning.”
“Not a thing. I'll be glad to go with you, if you-"
“All right. It’s very nice of you, only I don’t want to keep you from anything you ought to do.”
He entered the elevator with Dorothy.
“T won’t be long,” she said.
“No hurry. We can have lunch afterwards.”
The proprietress of the switchboard greeted them cordially.
“Mr. Borge left word you were to see him when you came,” she said. “Wait a minute—lI’ll see if he’s busy,”
Tommy evidently wasn’t busy.
Dorothy opened the door to the Press Department and found Tommy at his desk in consultation with Miss Gray.
“Hello, Arnold,” snapped out Tommy, as he observed Dorothy’s companion. “Are you giving a recital, too?”
Arnold acknowledged the salutation with a flapping of the hand.
“Got your program and your pictures?” demanded Tommy.
Dorothy placed a long blue sheet of paper and a few photographs on his desk. Tommy glanced quickly at the photographs. He picked up two and tossed them across the desk to Miss Gray.
“Have ten of each copied,” he ordered. “And get them ​around as soon as you can. By the way, meet Mr. Deer- ing. He’s not, Miss Reitz’s husband.”
Dorothy looked uncomfortable. Tommy was too fresh. Arnold bowed to Miss Gray. Tommy handed the remaining pictures to Dorothy.
“Try these on your piano,” he suggested.
“I always liked this one,” demurred Dorothy, pointing out a view of herself reflected in a mirror.
“I don’t doubt it,” retorted Tommy, “only, you'll find it difficult to impress editors with it. They simply have no taste!”
Miss Gray laughed. The laugh irritated Dorothy. It was a verdict for Tommy as against her.
“Miss Gray knows,’ added Tommy. “Miss Gray— tell Mr. Deering what Mr. Eaton or Mr. Johnston or Mr. Torrey would say about that picture.”
He held it up and smiled pityingly.
“So much for pictures,” continued Tommy. “Let’s see the program.”
“I thought Mr. Harper wanted to see it.”
“He will—after we get through with it.”
He inspected the blue sheet with a quizzical grin.
“Well, it’s your recital,” he murmured, a little unpleasantly.
“Isn’t it all right?” asked Dorothy anxiously. “I made it up with Madame Graaberg.”
Tommy tossed it to Miss Gray.
“If you think the same as I do,” he said, “don’t say anything.”
Miss Gray returned it.
“I think the same as you do,” she remarked pleasantly. “But it’s a perfectly safe program.”
“Took here, Dot,’ said Tommy abruptly. “Are you coaching for this recital?”
​His manner captured her attention.
“Why—I’m practising.”
“No—I mean coaching.”
“No—ought I?”
“Tt wouldn’t be a bad idea. We can let this program ride. But it’ll help you a lot to go over it with some competent coach.”
“Won’t Madame Graaberg do?”
“She might. I’d take somebody bigger. Say Soedlich.”
“But they say-"
The suggestion was grateful, but Tommy mustn’t command her!
“They say a lot. Listen, my dear young woman: You're old enough to take care of yourself. If you feel timid about going to Soedlich’s studio alone, you might take brother Arnold with you.”
Dorothy had nothing to say for a moment. Tommy never had addressed her as “my dear young woman” in the old days. He had been almost obsequious. His present attitude was hardly nice. Probably the influence of Harper. And the reference to Arnold was anything but nice.
Tommy handed the program to Miss Gray.
“Get out a leaflet,” he said. “Make it pretty. You've got a good subject this time.”
“Ought I to see Mr. Maxwell?” inquired Dorothy.
Tommy took up his telephone.
“The boss,” he said. “Say, Mr. Maxwell, you don’t want to see Miss Reitz now, do you?”
He replaced the receiver.
“You needn’t see him,” he concluded. “Now you'd better get hold of Soedlich and go over the program with him. Harper’s made arrangements with Goldstein to ac- company you. You'll hear from him. Your recital starts at three. And now you know everything.”
​He rose and took his hat and coat from a rack.
“You'll pardon me,” he said. “Miss Gray can take care of anything you need. Miss Gray, please entertain Miss Reitz and Mr. Deering. I’m going over to the Met to have a talk with Bill Guard. Good-bye, Arnold. S’long, Dot.”
He marched out, lighting a cigarette.
Dorothy and Arnold bade Miss Gray a pleasant morning and made their way to the elevators.
“Isn’t he the most conceited goof you ever saw?” asked Arnold indignantly.
“He seemed to be a little queer. He’s changed since he’s been with the concert bureau.”
“He was always conceited.”
“He may have been, but——”
“You used to see a good deal of him, didn’t you?”
“Oh, he called now and then; that was all."
“He liked you, didn’t he?”
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders. Was Arnold jealous?
“Well, let’s take a little spin.”
It was pleasant, riding around with Arnold. He was sympathetic. He knew nice places to visit. He was a good dancer. He was very nice.
Tommy’s advice about Soedlich lingered with Dorothy. Her mother, she knew, would raise a terrible ado if she ever imagined that her daughter was going to the studio of “that man.” Yet Soedlich’s reputation was enormous. She had noticed a small announcement in the Musical Cosmos, listing some of the singers who had coached with Soedlich in the past year. The catalogue was long and included almost all of the current concert celebrities. There was no doubt that Dorothy ought to coach with Soedlich. But what would mother say?
Mother would say nothing, Dorothy decided. Mother ​would not know. She telephoned to Soedlich’s studio from a drugstore booth.
A languid female voice identified itself as Mr. Soedlich’s secretary. Mr. Soedlich had little time free. Who was this? Did Mr. Soedlich know her? She was recommended by the Underwood Concert Corporation? A week from today at 6:30 in the evening was the only open time. No; there was positively no other time available. No; it would be no use to let them know later. The time prob- ably would be taken up by then. Very good. The name again, please? Miss R-E-I-T-Z. A week from today at 6:30. Thank you.
Dorothy spent several hours daily rehearsing with the monosyllabic Goldstein. He charged little for his services and he played better than any accompanist she had ever had. Now and then he would suggest a transposition to bring a song within her best range. He was impersonal and agreeable. He knew his business and he knew his place. There should have been more men like him in the concert field.
The Press Department sent her an envelope of leaflets containing her picture and her program. She was pleased with the announcement. She shoved it into the frame of her boudoir mirror. It was a good-looking leaflet. Her picture had come out beautifully. Oughtn’t she to phone Tommy and thank him? She didn’t know. Probably just as good not to. She put a few in one of her buff envelopes and sent them anonymously to Arnold. He’d like to see them.
Mrs. Loamford bestowed unqualified approval on the leaflet.
“I looked like that at your age,” she smiled.
She held up the printed sheet and admired it at arm’s length. ​“ ‘Recital of Songs by Dorothy Reitz, soprano,’” she read. “ ‘DeWitt Goldstein at the piano. Champion piano. Seats fifty cents to two dollars. Boxes fifteen dollars. Plus ten per cent tax. Now at box office.’”
She kissed Dorothy.
“At last!” she exclaimed. “At last!”
Her enthusiasm mounted on Sunday, when Uncle EI- liott showed her the amusement section of the Times. Mrs. Loamford and her brother read aloud in unison the copy which had been inserted.
Recital of Songs by Dorothy
R E I T Z
Soprano
Tickets 55c to $2.20. Now at Box Office.
(Champion piano)
Mgt. Underwood Concert Corp.
Arnold telephoned to announce that he had discovered an item about Dorothy in the Tribune. All crowded about the receiver to hear him read it.
“Dorothy Reitz, a young American soprano,’ ” came Arnold’s voice, “ ‘will be heard in a program of songs at Aeolian Hall two weeks from Saturday.’ ”
Mrs. Loamford immediately sent out for a dozen copies of the Tribune.
“And tomorrow,” she added, “we'll get a scrap-book— and a big one, too!”
Early Monday morning arrived Miss Weatherby from the Musical Cosmos. She was a singularly lovely girl. Her complexion was so fresh and ruddy that Dorothy sus- pected her of cosmetics, but a close scrutiny betrayed ​nothing. Miss Weatherby was obviously in haste.
“I have to see Fritz Kreisler this morning,” she explained, “and I’m to have an early luncheon with some Metropolitan singers. However, if I didn’t get here today, I wouldn’t have been able to get you into the Cosmos for this week, and Mr. Borge was so very anxious to have an interview with you before your recital that I just hurried in.”
Dorothy expected Miss Weatherby to produce a notebook and a pencil, but there were no symptoms of these aids.
“Shall I get you some note-paper?” suggested Dorothy.
“Oh, I never take notes,” laughed Miss Weatherby. “Mr. Borge told me a great deal about you. He certainly knows his artists. You’re most fortunate to have him handling your publicity. He’s wonderful! Our editor says that if all press agents wrote like Mr. Borge, he’d fire all the staff and turn the paper over to the press agents. I sometimes wonder why a brilliant man like Mr. Borge stays with a concert bureau. He’s wasted there. But do you know—he’s considered the cleverest publicity man in the musical field and I think he’s the youngest, too.
“Now, Mr. Borge told me all about you and your family and where you studied, and I have your program and your picture. Now, is there anything you’d like to say particularly?”
“Why—I don’t know-"
She should have said something clever, but Miss Weatherby’s animation unnerved her. Miss Weatherby pulled down a fetching turban somewhat more snugly over her smooth, copper-colored hair.
“T think people like to read about personality,” she said, “and I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of yours. Mr. Borge told me all about it. I sometimes think he can ​see right through people, but he’s so modest, he won’t talk about it. He once took me to a vaudeville show—I suppose you think that’s terribly lowbrow, but I like it —and there was a dancing team. They were working very hard, but there wasn’t any applause. Tom—Mr. Borge turned to me and said, ‘If they'll continue that whirl they’re doing till they reach the footlight, they’ll get a hand.’ Sure enough—before he’d hardly finished what he was saying, the team did just that and the audience applauded. He’s got a wonderful sense of such things. That’s why he’s so valuable to Mr. Maxwell. I don’t know what they’d do without him over there.
“But really, I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Thank you so much. I hope we'll meet again, and I wish you a most successful recital. I’ve enjoyed meeting you a lot.”
Before Dorothy was aware of it, Miss Weatherby had vanished.
She wondered what sort of interview Miss Weatherby would make of this conversation. The interviewer had done all of the talking. And all about Tommy Borge. So Tommy was a great man! And modest! Well-
Tuesday brought a short item in the Globe, announcing a recital by Dorothy Reitz. Uncle Elfiott brought three copies of the paper with him.
“That’s the stuff!” he said. “Keep your name before the public. How much do you think we appropriate annually for advertising? You'd fall dead if I told you! Keep on pounding in the name of your product and the public will ask for it. That’s the best business principle I know. It doesn’t matter what you're selling. You can put a concert over just as well as you can move a line of fedora hats, if you get behind it and push. People have seen the name of Reitz so much that when they think of ​a man’s hat they think of Reitz. It’s the same way with a concert. When they see ‘Dorothy Reitz’ often enough, they know it. Then, when they think of music, they think of Dorothy Reitz.”
He chewed his cigar viciously.
“Yes, ma’am!” he concluded. “Keep your name before the public—and you'll sell ’em!”
As Dorothy was riding home from Madame Graaberg’s studio the next day, she noticed a familiar picture in an evening paper which a girl opposite her in the car was reading. She bent over to examine the picture. It was a large photograph of herself. Across the top of it she could read the headline:
HAT KING’S NIECE TO BE DIVA
She was stunned for a moment. She tried to read the few lines of black type below the picture, but the owner of the paper turned to another page.
Dorothy left the car at the nearest news-stand and bought a copy of the paper.
She crumpled the paper in finding the page from which her photograph greeted the world.
HAT KING’S NIECE TO BE DIVA
Here it was. It was a good picture of her, too.
She scanned the black type:
“From lids to Liszt is a big jump, but charming Dorothy Reitz has done it. Miss Reitz, who is the niece of Elliott Reitz, the hat king, is soon to make her New York début in concert. Her recital, it is rumored, will be unlike her famous uncle’s product: it will not go over the heads of the audience.”
Dorothy folded the paper together angrily. So this was ​how the newspapers treated the efforts of dignified artists ! A commercial note was run into her concert plans. She would see that a retraction was published. Everyone would read this. Everyone would read this. . . perhaps it might attract an audience.
Her mother fumed for ten minutes over the picture, and then sent out for twenty extra copies of the paper. Arnold telephoned excitedly. The telephone kept ringing all afternoon. Apparently everyone had seen the picture. Her mother’s friends cried out that they were thrilled—positively thrilled to see Dorothy’s picture in print. They were sure that everyone would want to hear the recital now.
Dorothy felt that everyone who passed the house would point up and say, “Yes, that’s where the hat king’s niece, the singer, lives.” Although only her mother was about, she felt unwontedly conspicuous. By the end of the after~ noon, she had a formula for thanking her mother’s friends who telephoned congratulations and who wanted to speak to the little diva.
Shortly before six, Uncle Elliott arrived.
“Took here!” he shouted as he entered. “Who did this?”
He waved a copy of the paner excitedly.
“Who did this?” he boomed ferociously. “What do you call this? How dare they~"
He stormed up the stairs into the sitting-room and thrust the paper on Mrs. Loamford.
“Isn't this the limit?’ he cried. “This is smart—ah, that’s smart. Why, I'll take this up with my lawyer. It makes me ridiculous!”
He noticed his sister edging to the table. His eyes followed her—and he saw twenty copies of the paper, with the picture displayed on each. ​“That’s right!” he sneered. “Buy ’em all up. Next thing you'll be sending ’em out to your friends!”
Dorothy suddenly laughed merrily.
“What’s funny about it?” he demanded, thumping the table. “What’s the joke? Tell me where the joke is!”
His voice dropped a trifle.
“I can take a joke as well as the next fellow, but-"
Suddenly he shouted again.
“It’s an outrage—that’s all. I don’t care who hears me. It’s a hell of a way to do things!”