



Produced by Duncan Harrod.  HTML version by Al Haines.









Half A Rogue


By

Harold MacGrath




To The Memory Of My Mother




Half A Rogue




Chapter I


It was Warrington's invariable habit--when no business or social
engagement pressed him to go elsewhere--to drop into a certain quaint
little restaurant just off Broadway for his dinners. It was out of the
way; the throb and rattle of the great commercial artery became like
the far-off murmur of the sea, restful rather than annoying. He always
made it a point to dine alone, undisturbed. The proprietor nor his
silent-footed waiters had the slightest idea who Warrington was. To
them he was simply a profitable customer who signified that he dined
there in order to be alone. His table was up stairs. Below, there was
always the usual dinner crowd till theater time; and the music had the
faculty of luring his thoughts astray, being, as he was, fonder of
music than of work. As a matter of fact, it was in this little
restaurant that he winnowed the day's ideas, revamped scenes, trimmed
the rough edges of his climaxes, revised this epigram or rejected this
or that line; all on the backs of envelopes and on the margins of
newspapers. In his den at his bachelor apartments, he worked; but here
he dreamed, usually behind the soothing, opalescent veil of Madame
Nicotine.

What a marvelous thing a good after-dinner cigar is! In the smoke of
it the poor man sees his ships come in, the poet sees his muse
beckoning with hands full of largess, the millionaire reverts to his
early struggles, and the lover sees his divinity in a thousand
graceful poses.

To-night, however, Warrington's cigar was without magic. He was out of
sorts. Things had gone wrong at the rehearsal that morning. The star
had demanded the removal of certain lines which gave the leading man
an opportunity to shine in the climax of the third act. He had labored
a whole month over this climax, and he revolted at the thought of
changing it to suit the whim of a capricious woman.

Everybody had agreed that this climax was the best the young dramatist
had yet constructed. A critic who had been invited to a reading had
declared that it lacked little of being great. And at this late hour
the star wanted it changed in order to bring her alone in the
lime-light! It was preposterous. As Warrington was on the first wave
of popularity, the business manager and the stage manager both agreed
to leave the matter wholly in the dramatist's hands. He resolutely
declined to make a single alteration in the scene. There was a fine
storm. The star declared that if the change was not made at once she
would leave the company. In making this declaration she knew her
strength. Her husband was rich; a contract was nothing to her. There
was not another actress of her ability to be found; the season was too
late. There was not another woman available, nor would any other
manager lend one. As the opening performance was but two weeks hence,
you will realize why Warrington's mood this night was anything but
amiable.

He scowled at his cigar. There was always something, some sacrifice to
make, and seldom for art's sake. It is all very well to witness a play
from the other side of the footlights; everything appears to work out
so smoothly, easily and without effort. To this phenomenon is due the
amateur dramatist--because it looks simple. A play is not written; it
is built, like a house. In most cases the dramatist is simply the
architect. The novelist has comparatively an easy road to travel. The
dramatist is beset from all sides, now the business manager--that is
to say, the box-office--now the stage manager, now the star, now the
leading man or woman. Jealousy's green eyes peer from behind every
scene. The dramatist's ideal, when finally presented to the public,
resembles those mutilated marbles that decorate the museums of Rome
and Naples. Only there is this difference: the public can easily
imagine what the sculptor was about, but seldom the dramatist.

Warrington was a young man, tolerably good-looking, noticeably well
set up. When they have good features, a cleft chin and a generous
nose, clean-shaven men are good to look at. He had fine eyes, in the
corners of which always lurked mirth and mischief