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Title: A Christmas Star
Author: Fred M White
* A Project Gutenberg Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 1601351.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: Dec 2016
Date most recently updated: Dec 2016

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------------------------------------------------------------------------

Title: A Christmas Star
Author: Fred M White



A CHRISTMAS STAR


By


FRED M. WHITE



Published in the Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), Thursday 8
December 1932.



NOTHING but dire necessity would have induced Tom Webb and his wife to
allow little Heather to appear in pantomime on the stage of the Cosmos
Theatre. But what was a man to do who had lost his job owing to the
amalgamation of two great daily papers and found himself facing the
world with no means of supporting them beyond the fleeting emoluments
derived from free-lance journalism?

It was only when Tom was down to his last half-crown, with no prospect
of further income that he consented to listen to the suggestion made by
a one-time celebrated actor that little Heather was born for the stage.

"I'm only a back number now and waiting for the end, with a small
pension to keep me from the workhouse," Penfold told Tom. "But my
opinion goes. Mossop, of the Cosmos, is one of the few moderns who
pay any attention to what I say, laddie, though I do live in a dingy
bed-sitting room on thirty shillings a week. Only yesterday he was
moaning over the fact that he couldn't find the exact type of child he
needed for pantomime. Going into rehearsal almost at once, so he tells
me. So I told him that I could put my hand on the little lady he is
seeking."

"What--meaning Heather?" Tom asked.

"Nobody else, dear boy. The loveliest child I ever saw. Her
brightness and intelligence, her combination of velvet-black eyes and
honey-colored hair! And a born mimic. I tell you, she is born for
the stage. Let's be frank Tom. We are both down and out, and even
a few shillings a week make all the difference. If you consent to
my suggestion, Heather is sure of a shop for three months, counting
rehearsals, to say nothing of a salary of 5 a week."

Five pounds a week! Why, it meant salvation. The awful arrears of rent,
for instance. A matter of shillings more or less, but as far out of
reach as so many millions. Was it possible that a girl-child in her
tenth year could work something in the nature of a miracle?

But old Crawford Penfold had not spoken in vain. Came a visit to the
Cosmos, and after that two or three interviews with the god in the car,
otherwise Gladwyn Mossop. Little Heather dancing attendance, thrilled
to the marrow as she watched a preliminary rehearsal in progress.

"Like to be one of them?" Mossop asked.

Heather's eyes danced like little wavelets in the sun.

"Oh, oh, if I only could!" she cried.

Within the next few days she was. Mossop was delighted. Nor did he
demur when terms were mentioned. He would have a scene "written up" in
which Heather was to play the star part. He would pay for rehearsals,
too.

And so it came about the five blessed treasury notes trickled into that
desperately poverty-stricken household, and the rent nightmare was no
more. It was like a gift from heaven, and Tom so regarded it coupled
with a certain shame which he could not quite shake off. He and his
wife were still desperately poor, but there was enough. And there was
the pleasure in watching little Heather and seeing how happy she was in
her work.

"Makes me feel infernally ashamed of myself," Tom told Mary, his wife.
"One can't but feel grateful to a wise and kindly providence, but
anyone with an atom of self-respect must feel that----"

"I think it is wonderful," Mary Webb cried. "My dear boy we ought to
feel nothing but thankfulness. Besides, what a chance it gives you
to turn round. Now you can have the new shoes and suit you need so
terribly. And I am sure that you will write better short stories now
that your mind is not so much on the rack."

Tom took that pretty, brave little wife in his arms and kissed her
fondly.

"What on earth could I do without you?" he murmured. "Never thinking
about yourself, darling. Let us hope that all this excitement and
flattery won't unsettle Heather. Will she fret when the pantomime comes
to an end?"

"Don't meet trouble half way," Mary smiled. "There may be better things
in store for the darling yet."

So Tom had to let it go at that. Still, he fretted and worried over the
matter of the new outfit, knowing from bitter experience that rags were
at as great a discount in Fleet street as anywhere else. Wonderful what
a difference a good suit of clothes meant in dealing with editors and
other gods on the high Olympus of journalism. He was wishing with all
his heart now that he had taken that New York offer which had come his
way four years ago.

Still, he was much easier in his mind now. He could sit at his desk,
and give his mind free rein without dread for the immediate future.

There was nothing to worry about either between little Heather and the
theatre. Old Penfold had seen to all that. He loved the child for her
beauty and intelligence, and that utter lack of self-consciousness
which was not the least of her charm.

It was the old man's pleasure to undertake the duties of chaperon to
and from the theatre, and to sit watching her in an atmosphere which
was the breath of life to him.

"She's a wonder, she's a fair knock-out," he enthused to Heather's
parents. "And, egad, beginning to be talked about, too. The finest
child actress the stage has seen since the days of the Terrys. And
she don't know it. Takes it all for granted. And the way she picks up
business! Just marvellous! Bless those lovely black eyes of hers."

"Seems to me that we are all responsible for a genius between us,
Mary," Tom smiled. "When I came down from Cambridge full of hope and
ambition, I little dreamed that within a few years I should be beholden
for my daily bread to a tender offspring. That's what hurts, old man."

"Cheap, old bean, cheap," the old actor laughed. "It isn't as if you
had been anything but model parents to the little one. And you a young
man yet."

"Well, there's that," Tom agreed. "I must come down to one of these
rehearsals and see for myself what a genius of a daughter I possess."

Those rehearsals were well in progress ere Tom found himself in a
darkened auditorium watching the progress of matters on the stage. And
when Heather came on more or less dressed for her part, Tom hardly knew
her. There were other children in a sort of fairy scene reminiscent of
Peter Pan, in which Heather took the lead as if it were her natural
place. The child seemed to dominate the stage, her voice rang out loud
and clear. Something like a tear of pride shone on Tom's face. Little
Heather! Well, well.

Tom rose to leave presently. He wanted to get back to what he called
home, and tell Mary what he had seen. She must come and watch for
herself--never could he explain to her the amazing personality of their
child.

He was quitting the theatre when a stranger accosted him; a tall, thin
man with a thrust-out jaw and a huge cigar in the corner of his mouth.

"Guess your name is Webb," he drawled in an accent not altogether
unpleasing. "If that's so, stranger, I'd like to have a mouthful of
words with you."

"Quite at your service, sir," Tom said politely.

The big man led the way into a sort of office which had apparently
been placed at his disposal. That he was a person of some importance
there Tom did not doubt. In the office somebody had hung up a bough
of mistletoe, and, with a shock, Tom suddenly remembered that it was
Christmas Eve. But then, what was Christmas Eve to him?

"My name's Amos P. Salsman," the big man said. "Guess that it strikes a
familiar chord."

It did indeed. The head of the famous Salsman-Kobe film company.
With practically Hollywood in his pocket. The "big" noise in picture
photography. A millionaire 20 times over--and conscious of it.

"Waal, I'm out for business only," the great man went on as Tom bowed.
"I know what I want when I want it, and I usually want it now. That's
why I am here in this lil' old town looking for a spot of child
personality that don't seem to thrive in the States."

"I wish you success," Tom murmured.

"I calculate it's in your hands, stranger."

"Mine?" Tom cried. "What have I to do with it?"

"Now listen," the magnate proceeded. "It's that lil' gel of yours. I
got money in this show, and I come here looking for a sort of Jackie
Coogan in petticoats. In fact, there's a world-beating film depending
on my finding the only thing I am looking for. And that kid of your is
IT. I want her in Hollywood right now. Is it a deal?"

"But the pantomime," Tom stammered. "Her engagement to the manager
here. And she's only ten years old."

"I should smile," said Salsman. "Suppose I want to kidnap the babe?
Gangster work, eh?"

"I'm a poor man," Tom declared. "A poor man out of a job. But if you
think you can separate me from my child you're mistaken. And, as to my
wife----"

"Cut it out," Salsman growled. "You and your dame can come along if
you like. Bit of an author, ain't you? Very well, then. You can both
come along, and I'll fix you up a job in Hollywood within a week. What
Salsman says goes. And don't you forget it."

A job. A home and occupation in a perfect climate! Tom's mind reeled
before the prospect. Surely some good fairy was watching over his
humble roof this Christmastide.

"Call it a day, what?" the big man went on. "I sure thought you would.
That's why I had the contract drawn up directly I heard you were in the
theatre. Got 'em here in my pocket. That's the sort of business man I
am."

Before Tom's dazed eyes Salsman produced two sheets of paper partly
printed, with blanks here and there, and laid them on the table before
him.

"Five years' contract," he went on. "Sliding scale of payment. All
expenses paid for the lot of you. Starting the kid somewhere around
thirty-five."

"What!" Tom cried. "Thirty-five! I suppose, being poor, you can play on
my poverty."

"Come off the roof," Salsman jibed. "Fifty, then, if that suits your
book better."

With that the big man bent over the sheets of paper and seemed to be
inking in certain figures.

"Well, there you are, then," he said. "And my signature to the
contract. You sign the counterpart and the thing is done. The kid can
stay and carry out her panto engagement so long as she--and you--come
back home when the show comes off. Now what's biting you?"

Tom Webb said nothing--he was past words. Ere he could pull himself
together a head was projected into the room and a voice asked for
Salsman's presence elsewhere.

"Only keep you a minute," the voice said. "Very important and urgent."

With a gesture of impatience Salsman left the room, and in a dazed
way, Tom took up his half of the proposed contract and in a sort of
dream, appended his signature. Then, after a hurried glance, stowed the
Salsman signed counterpart in his breast pocket.

"Good enough," Salsman smiled as he returned to the room. He was a
picture of smiling amiability now.

"A bit rough just now," he half apologised. "My way in business till
the deal is through. You won't see me again until you reach Hollywood,
but my London secretary will do the needful when you call on him at our
city office. Now what about wardrobe for the kid and yourselves? Better
take this as a sort of premium on the contract."

From his hip pocket Salsman produced a thick wad of notes. He rapidly
peeled off a handful and thrust them into the hands of the wondering
Tom.

"There!" he said. "My best day of work for years. And yours, too. Mr.
Webb. So long."

He was gone, actually gone, before Tom could say another word. And in
Tom's hand were five Bank of England notes for ten pounds each. Enough
to fit out the family, and leave a substantial margin behind. Amazing!

He was clear of the theatre at length with Heather by his side, taking
her home himself for once in a way without calling on the good offices
of the old actor.

"Christmas Eve," he pointed out. "I'm going to take Heather round
to look at the shops. I might even manage to get her a toy or two.
You look in late this evening, and I will tell you something rather
startling."

Once he had the freedom of the street, Tom called a passing taxi, at
which little Heather opened her eyes. She had never been inside such a
vehicle before.

"What's it mean, Daddy?" she asked. "Have you come into a fortune or
something?"

"Fairies," Tom laughed. "Wonderful beings, fairies. You don't believe
in them? Much too old for that sort of thing, eh? But I do, darling.
Because the most wonderful fairy in London this Christmas Eve is my own
little girl."

"Guess I give that one up," Heather said, sedately.

The streets were thronged with people, all on Christmas shopping bent.
The shops one long dream of dazzling delight. Everyone smiling and
happy as if poverty and distress had ceased to exist.

"It must be lovely to have money to spend Daddy," the child said
wistfully. "Money you can spare. If I had it, I would buy up a whole
shop and give presents to all the poor children I could find."

"And nothing for yourself, darling?" Tom asked.

"Well, perhaps one little thing, Daddy. But what is the driver stopping
for?"

The cab had pulled up before one of London's mammoth stores, and Tom
alighted telling the taximan to wait. And then followed half an hour
of sheer delight. When the two emerged it was with a pile of parcels
that filled the cab almost to overflowing, and was crowned with a large
turkey that made Heather gasp with delight.

"But where did all the money come from?" she asked.

"That fairy," Tom said. "Yes, really and truly."

And Heather was fain to be content.

"Won't Mummy be pleased?" she crowed.

Mummy was pleased and puzzled, and remained so until it grew late
and Heather was at length in bed there to await the joys of her most
perfect Christmas Day. Not till then did Tom explain to Mary all that
had happened on that red-letter day. Her heart shone in her eyes.

"The cream of the whole thing is this," Tom explained. "When Salsman
offered what he called thirty-five for the contract I refused it so he
jumped to fifty. And I was fool enough to think that he meant shillings
instead of pounds. And, in our dire need, I was prepared to take it."



THE END.


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