All hands, at Handy's request, turned in early, as he was determined to make an early start down the Sound. He had not yet decided where his next stand should be. The selection lay between Stonington and New London. If fortune continued to favor him he felt confident of accomplishing something worth seeking for in either place. There were certain reasons, however, why one of them should be steered clear of; but Handy's memory as to names was somewhat vague, so he resolved to sleep on the thought before he determined on his course.
Handy was the first man up and stirring next morning. The others, however, were not far behind. The wind was favorable and the indications were all that a sailor could wish for. After a hearty breakfast the anchor was weighed and theGemwas once more under way, with all sails set. The Little 'Un was somewhat timorous and apprehensive of a repetition of the trouble that overcame him the night before they played the Long Island town on the circus man's paper, but he appeared to be satisfied by Handy's assurance that it never stormed on the Sound in the daylight. His looks indicated that he had doubts as to the truth of the assurance.
The run down the Sound was uneventful. There was no one sick on board, and all were in a cheerful mood when they came to anchor in the Thames River, off New London, the town in which Handy finally determined next to try his fortune. The company had been out at this time nearly two weeks. Though all its members were strong and hearty, their sunburnt looks and somewhat dilapidated apparel did not contribute to the elegance of their personal appearance. Most of them looked like well-seasoned tramps. Handy recognized this. He also knew that though the Nutmeg State was at that time regarded as a paradise of tramps, the inhabitants did not, as a rule, take kindly to the knights of the road. This may be uncharitable and unchristianlike, but people have got to accept the situation as they find it.
No one went ashore until after nightfall. Then Handy and Smith made a landing in the small boat, and surveyed the situation. An available vacant lot was picked out. Ascertaining there was to be an agricultural fair there the following Thursday, that night was selected for the Strollers' next effort. On the prospectors' return to the vessel a council of war was held, at which the plan of operations and course of action were freely discussed.
"It won't do," said Handy, "to try them on 'Uncle Tom,' and I hardly think they'd stand for 'Humpty Dumpty' as we give it. I've been here in the good old summer days before many a time and oft, and I am conversant with the kind of audience we've got to stack up against. On mature reflection, I have come to the conclusion that a variety or vaudeville entertainment this trip will be most likely to appeal to their sensibilities. Song and dance, imitations of celebrated histrionic celebrities, coon acts, legerdemain exhibitions, the famous Indian box trick, and——"
"Easy there," interrupted the dwarf. "Who's goin' to do the box trick?"
"Why, you, of course," replied Handy.
"Not on your life. Count me out on that stunt, Mister Manager. New London is a seaport town. There are vessels in port and sailors on shore. My Newport experience has taught me a lesson. The sailor men there tied me up so darned tight that you'll never get me to undertake any such job as that again within a hundred miles of seawater."
"But——"
"No buts about it. I know when I've had enough. Skip me."
"Then I'll do the act myself," retorted Handy, with a slight exhibition of feeling.
"K'rect, old man. You're welcome to the stunt. I pass every time when there's any rope-tying business in a seawater town."
"Smith, you can give them a banjo solo, do a clog dance, and afterwards wrestle with your celebrated imitations you know so well, and do so badly, of John Drew, Dave Warfield, Nat Goodwin, Sarah Bernhardt, and Sir Henry Irving."
"But I never saw Irving or Bernhardt," interposed Smith.
"Neither did the audience. What's the matter with you? And for a wind-up you can give them a stump speech, and I'll bill you as Lew Dockstader, second. We have got to make up our programme, please remember. If you don't want to take a shy at Dockstader, name someone else equally prominent. It's all the same to me. When I do that Indian box trick I propose to bill myself as Hermann XI. Darn it, man, we have to have names! This company, bear in mind, is made up of an all-star cast."
"All right then, say no more," said Smith.
"Say," continued Handy, addressing the ambitious young man of the troupe, "don't you think you could manage to take off Billy Crane? And give them some exhibitions of his genius in scenes from his many-sided repertory, and we'll star you on the bills."
"Excuse me," replied the comparatively juvenile and promising artist, "but might I inquire who is going to look after my wife and the kid if that New London congregation should tumble to the joke? No, sir. Mr. Crane, permit me to inform you, is a fearless and experienced yachtsman; every hair in his head, nautically speaking, is a rope yarn. He is, as well, a good actor, and New London is a yachting port. Not on your life! Billy Crane is too well known here, so in justice to my physical welfare I must decline the honor of being so presented."
"Well, gentlemen," returned Handy somewhat dejectedly, "these unseasonable, frivolous, and unbusinesslike objections are really disheartening and unworthy of a conscientious member of the histrionic calling. Let me tell you that you are the first actor I ever heard of ever having declined the distinction of being elevated to the position of a star. In the words of the immortal bard, 'Can such things be and overcome us like a summer's dream without our special wonder?' Go to. Were it not that my hair is red and I have no suitable wig—and what would Sweet William be without a wig?—I'd do Crane myself."
After further discussion on minor details the programme was arranged for Thursday night. The next day posters were in evidence all through the town. The fair grounds were literally strewn with handbills. Handy was a great believer in printer's ink, and he used his paper with a lavish hand. The show was announced for two nights—Thursday and Saturday. The variety entertainment was billed for Thursday night, and "Pinafore," with an all-star cast, was promised for Saturday evening. The company had no knowledge about the "Pinafore" scheme. When Handy was questioned about it, he satisfied his questioners with the assurance that it was all right, and he would explain matters later on. His assurance was sufficient. The company knew their man.
Wednesday night the tent was put up. That day Handy succeeded, for a consideration, in inducing the country band that played during the day at the fair to perform a like office for his show at night, and do the duty of an orchestra for the performance.
The afternoon of the day of the show an unexpected storm loomed up, which threatened the enterprise with destruction. It seems that Handy had visited New London before with a somewhat similar venture, and had been compelled by financial circumstances which he was unable to control to depart the town in a hurry, leaving behind him an unpaid printer's bill. Now a slight omission of that character very easily escaped Handy's memory. The printer, on the contrary, being a thoughtful man, on finding that Handy was the manager of the new all-star theatrical outfit, made his appearance with the sheriff and a writ of attachment. For a time the aspect of affairs was anything but cheering. The printer was as mad as the traditional hatter. Fortunately the sheriff, who was an old Bowery man in days past, and a pretty decent and sympathetic kind of a fellow, discovered in Handy an old acquaintance, and magnanimously came to the rescue and volunteered to help him out of his difficulties. The kind-hearted official guaranteed the payment of the printer's bill, to be taken out of the first receipts that came in at the box office. This arrangement being mutually agreed upon, the preliminary work progressed actively.
The night brought a crowd, composed mainly of the country people who had attended the fair. It was the biggest, best natured, and most easily entertained audience a theatrical company ever played to. There were more bucolic auditors gathered together in the tent than the troupe had seen previously. Handy had the country band well in hand. He made them play down the main street and parade up to the tent. Then he got them inside and astonished his auditors with such a liberal manifestation of music that those present could not well decide whether they had come to listen to a concert or have an opportunity to see the real "theayter" actors. Handy evidently was determined to furnish them with music sufficient to last them until the next Fair day. The band played so long that the town element among the audience became somewhat unwelcomely demonstrative.
The curtain at last arose, and the variety portion of the entertainment began. The tent was well filled,—the front rows of seats being unpleasantly near the stage. The minstrel act in the first part was something unique and original. The country people took it seriously, but the town contingent, recognizing the fake element, started in to indulge in guying the performers. This incensed the countrymen. They had paid their good money to see the show without being subjected to annoyance from the town fellows. One particularly strenuous young New London dude had his derby smashed by an excited rustic who determined that his Phoebe Ann should enjoy the entertainment even if he himself had to make peace by teaching the city chap the way to behave himself and keep quiet. He evidently meant business and apparently had many friends who were not only ready, but willing, to assist him.
All the acts were short—very short—and between each of the acts there was more music by the band. At length the performance was brought to a close. Before the curtain fell Handy came forward, and, after thanking the audience heartily for the magnificent attendance and generous support, announced that on Saturday evening he would have great pleasure in presenting, providing negotiations in contemplation were perfected, for their consideration, the melodious and tuneful grand comic opera, "Pinafore," in the presentation of which the company would be reinforced by several valuable additions, who were expected to arrive early on Saturday from the Metropolitan Grand Opera House.
"Great Scott—'Pinafore!' You don't mean to say," asked a friend a short time after hearing of Handy's moving adventures by land and water, "you had the nerve to attempt 'Pinafore' with your small band of strolling players, eh?"
"Play 'Pinafore'!" replied the irrepressible Handy, with a smile. "Of course, not. Never intended to. You see this was the situation; and the man who isn't equal to the position in which he places himself is bound to come out at the wrong side of the account book, when he is compelled to settle up. The 'Pinafore' announcement was for the edification of the New Londoners. I recognized the fact that the country people in their innocence and goodness of heart would take kindly to the entertainment we had prepared for them, but for the town chaps it was an altogether different proposition. When I announced 'Pinafore' I felt satisfied they would defer their energies and lay low for the 'Merry, Merry Maiden and the Tar,' determining to have a little fun of their own kind with us on Saturday; but after the performance we struck tent and by early morning we were once more out on the Sound for fresh fields and pastures new."
If the "boys" of New London looked forward to having a good old summer time with Handy and his all-star company the following Saturday evening, they were wofully out in their reckoning. Though "Pinafore" was announced with due managerial formality, perhaps somewhat ambiguous, for that particular occasion, when the time for presentation arrived there was not a vestige of either tent or performers. After the entertainment on the night of the fair the company went aboard theGem of the Ocean. Handy alone remained ashore. As he had been manager, advance and press agent, and principal performer, he concluded to add another to his many responsibilities and become night watchman. The tent, stage properties, etc., had to be guarded, and he undertook the duties of guardian.
"Let no one turn in until I get aboard," said he to Smith, "and you row ashore in an hour's time. Mind, don't be later than that, and you needn't get here sooner. Tell the boys I have some work for them to do before they lay down to rest. Take a bite and a sup and join me here in an hour."
The two men parted; one with his companions for the boat at the end of the pier and the other to play the part of watchman over his outfit. A few of the town chaps lingered in the neighborhood of the tent.
In the country, as in the city, it is remarkable what a fascinating influence players exercise over young fellows who are ambitious to be regarded as the knowing ones regarding everything appertaining to the playhouse. How glibly the beardlings of the twenties or thereabouts will use the names of actors with whom perhaps they have never exchanged a word, in the silly belief they are raising themselves in the estimation of their auditors. It is an odd conceit, yet it prevails with the would-be fast young men of the present day. To hear some of these mollycoddles prate one who was not acquainted with their weaknesses would imagine these chaps were on intimate terms with players—who, as a rule, are slow to cultivate new acquaintances, attend strictly to their own business, and do not particularly relish that particular class of hanger-on. No man knew this type better than Handy. However, he never antagonized them. That he considered would not be wise policy. He good-naturedly humored them with much superficial gossip that really meant nothing. His good nature never forsook him, and he always had his temper well under control. He knew to a nicety the side his bread was buttered on. That happy-go-lucky disposition of his stood him in good stead many a time, and his free-and-easy manner of drawing people out frequently served as an aid to determine his future course of action. The limited exchange of conversation he had with the loungers satisfied him that he was right in his estimate that there would be a hot time in the old town on Saturday night if he remained. Finally the last dallier had his say, and, after an exchange of cordial good nights, departed.
Smith was at this time about due, and as he was noted for his promptitude, he was on hand to keep his date when the hour expired.
"What's the lay now, Handy, old man?" inquired Smith, as he joined his manager.
"Only this, and nothing more," replied the veteran melodramatically. "There's blood upon the face of the moon, an' blow my buttons, if your Uncle Rube is going to supply the gore. See!"
The answer was not altogether satisfactory, and Smith apparently was unable to grapple with the problem. It puzzled him; but then Handy himself was at all times more or less of a conundrum to him.
"Now then, bear a hand, send the boat back and get the company ashore as speedily as possible. We have a few good hours' work on hand before we turn in."
Smith made quick time, and it was not long before the members of the all-star combination began to materialize out of the obscurity of the night as noiselessly as shadows.
"Say, boys," began Handy, in a low tone of voice confidentially, "we move to-night, and I want you to strike tent, pack and get everything aboard without delay. I'll explain all later on."
"Move to-night!" repeated Smith. "Don't we play here Saturday night?"
"Nary a play," responded the manager.
"But you announced 'Pinafore' from the stage!"
"Of that fact I am well aware," replied Handy, "but don't you know that 'Pinafore' is an opera, and let me further inform you that disappointments in opera are quite the regular thing. In fact, an impresario cannot get along legitimately, my boy, in grand opera or in fact any old kind of opera, without disappointments every now and then. The public expect operatic disappointments. They come naturally, and sometimes come as a godsend. You never can tell when a particular opera is announced what you are going to get."
"Then why don't you substitute something in place of 'Pinafore?'" meekly suggested the Little 'Un.
"Pardon me, my unthinking friend, but you lose sight of the fact that substitutions are always unsatisfactory, if not positively dangerous. Besides, they are strong evidences of weakness. We are nothing if not strong and resourceful. Suppose I substituted 'Faust,' for instance, and announced it with Melba asMarguerite, and suppose again that the famous Astralasian prima donna caught an attack of the American grip that same afternoon, it would hardly do to substitute Marie Cahill or May Irwin to take her place, that is, provided we could have induced either of those distinguished artists to become the great diva's substitute. Oh, no! 'Tis out of the question. But, come, get a move on you. Let us be just to a public that has treated us well."
The members of Handy's company were under good discipline. They were satisfied that he had valid reasons for this sudden change of base, and therefore, went cheerfully to work. Handy himself started for the water-side, and after a brief absence was once more among them, doing the work of two men and encouraging his companions by energetic action and example. Their task was accomplished without the aid of light save that which was afforded them by the bright stars overhead. It was an hour before dawn when everything was placed on board and the tired strollers had gone below to court the rest and repose they both longed for and needed.
"Let her swing out in the stream away from the dock, captain," ordered Handy, when they were ready to start. "The tide is nearly flood and we can drop down the river with the first of the ebb. We can get outside early and then determine where next we'll make for."
"Aye, aye, sir," replied the skipper.
Next morning when the company appeared they were not a little surprised to find themselves far out to sea. The day was bright and all hands were in a cheerful mood. The first question asked of the energetic manager was "Where next?" He turned toward the inquirer and replied he never discussed business on an empty stomach when he had the opportunity of doing so on a full one.
"Lay her course south by east, cap," was his brief order to the sailing master. "Rather fancy we'll run in somewhere near Oyster Bay—where, I'll tell you later on."
When breakfast was served ample justice was done to the repast. Here, be it said, the company lived well. The best the market afforded was not too good for them. Handy was as capable a judge of a beefsteak as any man on the boards, and he bought the best. His companions knew it, and were willing at all times to go with a commission to the shop.
"Were you ever in the market, governor?" inquired the Little 'Un at the close of the meal.
"Yes, sir. I have frequently been in the market," was the prompt reply, "but like many other willing and anxious individuals somehow or other, no one ever reached my price."
"Oh, I didn't mean that, old man. I simply meant were you ever employed in a meat market, for that was as nice a piece of steak as I ever tackled, it was so tender and juicy. Unless a fellow was a judge he never could have picked out such a choice cut."
"Oh, I did not quite comprehend you! I now catch on. Well, you all, of course, know that I served in the army and——"
"I told you," whispered Smith, in a humorous aside, "he was a butcher."
"And, as I was about to remark, I had much experience in the commissariat depart——"
"Say," interposed the Little 'Un, who had frequently been an unwilling and tired listener to very many of Handy's well-worn war stories, "are you agoing to ring in a war story on us, old pard?"
"Well, I was merely about to explain that in keeping with my army experience that——"
"Nuff sed," remarked the dwarf, rising from his seat. "Good morning!"
"Some other morning" echoed Smith, and he too rose from his seat.
"Me, too. Ta ta! Tra la la!" lilted the light comedy man, as he pushed his empty plate to one side, and one by one the remainder of the Pleiades rose in solemn silence before Handy had time to realize that his war stories were away below par among the members of his company.
Handy remained alone for some time below, probably turning over in his mind the problem of the next venture, and then went on deck. He found his companions taking things easy in free and easy positions aft. It was a forenoon to satisfy every desire of those who love the open air. The wind was light—a nice sailing breeze—and the sun was not too warm. Few words were spoken, save inconsequent remarks now and then on some passing sail. The monotony of the situation was finally broken by the manager, as he proceeded to unburden himself of his intentions for the next entertainment.
"Our next move will be to play Saturday night, that is, to-morrow, in one of these little towns near by on the Long Island shore, and with that performance bring our tour to a close, return to the city, get a few more good people and lay out a new route. We have done fairly well, all things considered, on this trip, and we can afford to strengthen our organization and give the public something better, if not stronger. The pieces we have been presenting are rather ancient,—almost too classic,—though I must admit we offered them in a somewhat original manner. We must, however, keep pace with the times—be up to date. The simple life is all very fine in books, but, my friends, 'tis the strenuous life that produces the stuff. Excuse slang, but it is much employed nowadays, and vigorous emphasis is used even by the most refined. If we don't get new attractions I am afraid we may have to resort to giving away souvenirs. Souvenirs have, in their day, had all the potency of a bargain counter in a popular department store well advertised. Personally, I do not take kindly to the souvenir business. It isn't professional."
"That's all right," conceded Smith, "but an old piece frequently becomes new when you subject it to unique treatment. Now, for example, I don't think anyone has any kick coming at the original manner in which we gave 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' and 'Humpty Dumpty.' No one ever saw them so presented before. Of course, if we had one of these modern Shakespeares, that the commercial managers keep on tap, we could have a piece written for us while we were under way to the next night stand. But that's out of the question. I would like, in common with the rest of the push, to know what is going to be our next offering."
"Let me see. Just a moment's pause," replied Handy thoughtfully. "We might do a bit of a tragedy if we had the props, but we haven't got them. Besides, the trouble with most tragedies, as a rule, is the long cast, and in addition they do not give a compact all-star organization such as ours a chance to show what we really can do. We gave them our version ofUncle Tomnearly two weeks ago; and outside of Brooklyn, I conscientiously believe that once a year is often enough for the remainder of Long Island. On mature consideration, therefore, I have come to the conclusion that our best offering would be a minstrel grand opera concert entertainment. We have made an impression in that direction, and I am in favor of that which will sustain the reputation we have so admirably earned."
"Who's going to sing the solos, old man?" asked the Little 'Un. "You know, boss, the boys ain't much on the sing. They can work along all right with a good strong chorus when they once get started and warmed up, but when it comes down to the fine single throat work I am afraid we'll get in the soup."
"He's dead right," put in Smith, "the single singing—solos, I believe they call them—in the first part will be a hard nut to crack. We can't give a minstrel show without a first part. They'd never believe we were operatic minstrels without it, even if we didn't black up."
"Hold! Enough!" cried Handy, in his favorite Macbeth voice. "You make me a bit tired with this kind of baby talk. Haven't you fellows got common sense enough to know that it is not absolutely necessary to have a voice to be a singer? Suppose a singer once had a voice and lost it, would that be a good and sufficient reason for him or her to get out of the business? How many of them do it, eh? It is just the same with the singing trade as it is in our overcrowded profession. How many of the so-called actors that inundate the stage quit the boards when they know—if they know anything—they have no talent for it. You fellows give me a pain. Voices and singing! Pshaw! I'll fix all that! I'll give a couple of you good high-sounding Eyetalian names, and I'll announce you as hailing from the Royal Imperial Conservatory of Stockholm, and I'd like to see the Long Island jay that will say you couldn't sing, even if you had as little music in your voice as the acrobatic star of a comic opera company."
"And now will you be good?" playfully chirruped in Smith.
"Now, Nibsy, you will have to tackle a solo; and as you are to be announced as a foreigner, you must treat your audience to something different from anything they have heard before. As you will sing it, of course, none of those present, with, possibly, the exceptions of a few, will undertake to understand what you are driving at. A few will pretend they do—there are know-alls in every audience; the majority will take their cue from them, and that will settle the matter."
"I tumble. But might I ask if you have any choice in the operatic selection."
"No; none in particular, only that you must avoid any of the very familiar airs from 'Faust,' 'Trovatore,' or 'Lohengrin.' These great works have been so hackneyed by frequent repetitions at the Metropolitan Opera House and Hammerstein's, and Sunday sacred concerts, that they have been worn threadbare and become as commonplace as 'Mr. Dooley' or 'Harrigan.' Now let me think. Ah, yes! Have you heard that comparatively new opera by Punch and Ella called 'Golcondo?'"
"Search me. No."
"Well, then, I don't think the audience have either," replied Handy, "so your first solo will be from that delightful composition!"
"And for the encore, what?"
"The last part over again, if you can remember it, and we'll help you out in the chorus."
"Say, can't you let me know the name I am going to honor? And, by the way, there's one thing more I wish to be enlightened on. Will it be necessary for me to speak with a foreign accent before the show, in case I come across any of the inhabitants of the town before I go on?"
"Oh, no! That is not absolutely necessary. Don't you know that many of the Eyetalian opera singers in these days are Irish, some are English, a big bunch are Dutch, Poles or Scandinavians, and quite a sprinkling of them Americans. No, it isn't essential to use the accent in private. You will be announced as Signor Nibsinsky!"
"Is that an Eyetalian name?"
"Oh, Nibs, don't be so specific. Nibsinsky is as valid a name as any artist might select to adopt. I give it the Russian smack because of my Russian proclivities."
"Say no more, old man. Let it go at that."
"So far as the chorus is concerned, we know where we stand and what we can do—and the audience will before the show is over. As for jokes and funny business—they are easy. But, say, we ought to ring in a couple of instrumental solos. The banjo, of course, will do for one. It is new, because it is very old. So that's all right. For the other—now, let me think. By Jove, I've struck it! Little 'Un, you can do a violin solo in great shape."
"What! Me do a violin solo," answered the dwarf. "Why, you know very well I can only play a little bit, and only in an amateur way. Oh, no! Oh, no! Not this trip."
"Easy there, my festive fiddler. Easy there, and loan me your ear. I'll arrange that all right. You will be announced as a pupil of the great Ysaye, and of course, being a pupil of that wonderful magician of the violin, you must start in with a classical selection from one of those old masters. Which of them there's no use wasting time over. They won't be recognized. Then when it comes for you to get in your classic work, all you've got to do is to play as crazy as you can, bend your body, hug your fiddle, make your bow saw wood over the strings, look at times as if you were going into a trance or a fit, do any blame thing that may appear eccentric—for that, you know, is one of the characteristics of genius and originality—and you'll catch the crowd every time."
"But, say, Handy, what about the wig?"
"Oh, that's all serene. We've got it. You don't for a moment imagine I would have you go on as a star fiddler without a bushy head of hair! Not much. As the poet sings—'There's music in the hair.'"
"That settles it. My mind is easier now."
"But that's not all. When you get through with your classical gymnastics on the instrument, I will come down to the front and announce that you will kindly give an imitation of an amateur player wrestling with 'Home, Sweet Home.' There will be your great opportunity. The worse you play it the more successful you will be, for, don't you see, you will be closer to nature. I think that will be a great stunt. Don't you, boys?"
They all thought it would be immense; at least, so they said. The Little 'Un himself fairly chuckled with glee at the prospects of being an amateur virtuoso of the fiddle, even for one night only. The remainder of the programme was quickly made up. One or two brief sketches and a rather rough and tumble arrangement for the close, which the enterprising managers designated as "The Strollers' Melange," completed the night's entertainment.
"All places that the eye of Heaven visitsAre to the wise man ports and happy havens."—Richard II.
"All places that the eye of Heaven visitsAre to the wise man ports and happy havens."
—Richard II.
By midday theGem of the Ocean, aided by a favoring wind, made good time and Handy determined to run in to a convenient little cove near Oyster Bay. He knew the locality and felt satisfied that if he had his usual share of luck he could make good and therefore add something to the company's treasury. By one o'clock the anchor was dropped and he and Smith made a landing and both started to do the usual prospecting. They were successful beyond their expectations. The little town which they proposed to honor with a visit was not far from the water. A small grove and a hill shut it out from a view of the Sound. The main road ran down to a narrow inlet which served as a kind of harbor for fishing boats, oyster sloops and clammers. Handy's well-trained eye lighted on an eligible site for the tent. It was a nice level plot with a fence about it. A good-natured Irishman named McGuiness owned the property, and Handy lost no time in opening negotiations and getting on his right side.
"An' yez want the use of the lot for a concert minstrel entertainment?" inquired the proprietor.
"Yes," replied Handy, "and for to-morrow night."
"An' yez are going to give the show under the cover of a tint?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Have yez got the tint?"
"We have, and the show that goes with it, and what's more, after you have witnessed the performance you'll say it is the best that ever struck the town. Moreover, I want you to bring your whole family with you and have seats in the first row for all of them."
"Well," said McGuiness, "I don't mind lettin' yez have the use of the lot, an' I'll do all I kin, in a quiet way, to help yez along, but there's one thing I want to be afther tellin' yez, an' it is this, that I'm thinkin' there will be the divil to pay whin Mr. Dandelion finds out there's going to be a minstrel entertainment here."
"How's that?" inquired Handy, "and who is Mr. Dandelion?"
"He's a very dacint kind of man, as min run at present," replied McGuiness, "even if he is a Methodist preacher, but he hates showmin like snakes. He don't seem to want the young people to have any fun or amusement at all, at all, shure. That's why I'm afraid he will raise ould Harry when he finds yez here. An' then again, don't yez see, there's a fair goin' on in his church, an' to-morrow is to be the big day, and iv yez are goin' to have your show to-morrow night, don't yez see he may think you would draw off some of his customers? Well, I don't go to his church, God help me, so yez kin have the use of the ground. But looka heer. Whisper, if it's all the same to you, don't put up the tint till after nightfall. I'll see yez again. I'm goin' home now," and Mr. McGuiness walked slowly up the road.
"Smith, me boy," spoke Handy, as soon as Mr. McGuiness was out of hearing, "we have struck a bonanza. Are we in it? Well, this is the best ever! Say, old fellow, when that sky-pilot casts his eyes on that tent of ours to-morrow morning there will be something doing about these diggins, and don't you forget it. Why, the amount of advertising he will give the show will do us more service than if we planted twenty acres of posters all over the fences that adorn the smiling landscape of this peaceful and prosperous community. Let us go aboard at once. The main biz is done. It's a dead sure cinch, Horatio."
No move was made on board until ten o'clock. The place was then as still as a country church-yard, and scarcely a light was to be seen in any of the houses when Handy and his company took possession of the lot and began the preliminaries for the following day's operations.
A few hours of energetic work and the tent was set up, and later on the stage properties, costumes and musical instruments were all safely lodged under the cover of the canvas. Two of the organization remained on guard and the others returned to theGem.
The unexpected appearance of the tent next morning took the inhabitants completely by surprise. No one could tell how it got there. Like a mushroom it came up overnight. The farm-hands on their way to work halted to look it over; the oystermen and clammers on the way to their boats loitered near the spot to inspect it, and by nine o'clock most of the boys and girls within a mile of the place spread the news broadcast that there was an actors' show in town. About ten o'clock the news had reached the dominie, and half an hour later he was in consultation with the leading lights of his congregation. The consensus of views induced them to call upon Mr. McGuiness. The tent was on his property, and he, they concluded, when appealed to would no doubt order the trespassers off. They considered it an abomination, from their standpoint, for him to permit show-actors to offer an entertainment, and more especially on the last day of the church fair, when a numerous gathering was expected. A committee was accordingly appointed to wait on Mr. McGuiness, but unfortunately that gentleman was nowhere to be found.
At two o'clock in the afternoon Handy gave a free concert in front of the tent. The audience, it is needless to say, was not a critical one and was easily pleased. When it was over and the energetic manager announced a display of fireworks in the evening, both before and after the performance, there wasn't a youngster within the sound of his voice who did not spread the cheering information far and wide. Those who came to attend the fair in the little church performed that duty early in the afternoon and afterward arranged to visit the tent show of the actors later on in the evening. The display of fireworks was not what one might expect to witness at Manhattan Beach in the height of the season, when that popular resort was swept by ocean breezes and when the renowned Pain was there, but there was sufficient red fire burned to light up the surrounding country. There was a crowd outside and when the doors were opened there was a rush for seats.
The house or tent was filled in a short time, and the audience was treated to a polyglot entertainment of the most remarkable character. Nibsinsky's Eyetalian selections were listened to with some degree of attention and a considerable measure of perplexity. He could not be considered a success and no inducements could compel him to repeat the performance. But these things will occasionally happen even with some of the latest edition of stars! Ysaye's musical prodigy made some extraordinary exhibitions with his classical contortions, but his imitations of an amateur violinist with "Home, Sweet Home" won the approval of all present and brought down the house. It was voted the best thing of the whole show. The familiar choruses too pleased the young folks, so much so that they all joined in and had a jolly time. The grown people laughed heartily over all the threadbare jokes that were given, and which have been passing current in every minstrel show and country circus from the days of Dan Rice down to Lew Dockstader.
"It was, I have an idea, the worst show we ever gave," declared Handy a few days after while speaking of it, "but the people seemed to like it. Just as it is in New York, it is a difficult matter to strike public taste. That's what makes the manager's life like unto that of a policeman's—not a happy one. The people who paid to see the show made no complaint, and I don't think that I should."
"Do you think the dominie's opposition hurt your entertainment much?"
"Hurt it! Not in the slightest. On the contrary, I believe it benefited it. His opposition advertised the entertainment, and, by the way, advertising is another of these vexed problems most difficult of solution. I felt I owed his reverence something for what he unintentionally accomplished in our behalf, so how do you think I got square with him?"
"That's too much for me, old chap," answered his friend. "How?"
"Well, the next day was Sunday, and before we got away I called on Mr. McGuiness, to return him thanks for the way he treated us. 'Mr. McGuiness,' said I, 'you have been kind and generous to my little company of players, who are doing their best to make an honest living in their own peculiar way. I now come again to you to ask that you do me one more favor.' 'What is it?' said he. 'It is this,' said I. 'Will you accompany me to call on the dominie? He helped me with his opposition last night, and I want to get square with him if I can.' McGuiness hesitated. 'Oh, don't fear,' I assured him. 'I mean no harm. The fair at the little church, I learned, was to swell the fund that's being raised to help the widow and orphan. I want you to go with me to ask the dominie to accept the offering of a few poor strolling players to increase the fund.' McGuiness thrust his hand toward me, but said nothing. I could see he was affected, for there was a watery look in his eyes. We walked together in silence down the road until we reached the little church."
"And the dominie?"
"He met us like a man. And when I explained my errand, and handed him our little dole, and turned as if to leave, big, good-hearted McGuiness, his voice somewhat affected by his feelings, said, 'Howld on a minnit; I don't know, dominie, what he's givin' you, and what's more I don't care, but you can count on me, dominie, for double the amount.'
"I don't know when I felt so happy, as I walked down to the shore, between the dominie and McGuiness, for I felt we had done an act that men might well feel an honest pride in, while we made two men friends in that little village who might otherwise have remained estranged."
The sun was making a golden set behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan as theGem of the Oceantied up to a wharf in the East River. The cruise was at an end. Taken as a whole, the venture had been successful. Those who embarked in it were once more back in sight of the great city, with lighter hearts and heavier pockets than when they left not quite a month before. All had had an agreeable time, and, what was of more importance, a profitable experience. Anxious ones were awaiting them. The strolling players, contrary to the practice of many of their guild who start out on similar ventures, did not return empty-handed. They had practical results to vouch for and explain their absence. Their endeavors had not resulted in all work and no pay. If they had anxious moments and at times hard work, they had their recompense and earned their reward, and there were homes in which assistance was needed. They were solicitous, too, to hasten to the cherished ones who were waiting to welcome them, for strange as it may appear to the unthinking, the poor players who fret and strut their brief hours upon the stage have homes—homes that they prize beyond aught else and which to many of them are perhaps more dearly prized than is the marble palace by the millionaire. No one knew this better than Handy. He therefore lost no time in bringing his craft into port.
"We can't complain, boys," he exclaimed, "after all is said and done, of our undertaking. Here we are again under the lee of the big city, with money in our pockets and our homes close at hand. You are not sorry you took the chances," he continued, as the company gathered together before separating. "May good fortune always smile upon enterprise."
"Amen!" responded Smith, who regarded that ejaculation as the proper climax to his manager's peroration.
In half an hour the company were all ashore, each member homeward bound, and possibly turning over in his mind the many eventful episodes of the trip preparatory to relating them to those who might question them about the exploit. Stories of this character lose nothing by repetition.
Handy and his fellow-craftsmen had not been home a week when their adventures became the talk of the town, especially among the theatrical fraternity. As usual in somewhat similar cases, every impecunious player became desirous of immediately starting out upon the uncertain sea of theatricals. They reasoned that if a man like Handy could succeed, why could not they also turn the trick? Could they not even improve on his tactics? Of course they could! Were they not, they argued, better actors and had they not more experience as managers? Of course they were, and had! Where Handy had made twenties and fifties, might not they pick up hundreds? Of course there could be no doubt on that score. All this kind of speculation in words, however, ended only in talk. Those who indulged in it were mere theorists—not men of action and active brain like the commander of theGem of the Oceanexpedition, who put into execution his plans after he had well considered them.
When the veteran made his reappearance on the Rialto he looked as if he might be at peace with all mankind. He had nothing worse than a smile, even for his enemies. But then his enemies were few. His proverbial good humor and honesty of purpose disarmed the envious. The influence of kindly smiles and generous impulses go further in this matter-of-fact world than many people are willing to acknowledge. A cheerful and encouraging word frequently helps in the accomplishment of a task which without its influence might fall flat. Handy's dominant quality was his uniform good nature. He rarely looked on the dark side of life. He, no doubt, knew what it meant, but he never paraded his hardships before the world or bored friends or acquaintances with the hard luck of his lot. At times he was blue—what man at odd times is not so?—but at such periods he veiled his heart, face, and feelings and drew the sunshine of a smile between his disappointments and the outside world. With such a disposition success, as a rule, is but a question of time.
When he made his first appearance among his confrères his manner was a study. His face, from constant exposure in the sun, was bronzed and ruddy and his general get up was what his old friend Smith pronounced "regardless." In fact, Handy looked so well he scarcely recognized himself. He generally felt well, but to look the part and feel it is altogether a different proposition. His adventures with his all-star company had been so freely discussed in every haunt where actors most do congregate that inside of a week after the Pleiades returned the frequenters of the Rialto had the story by heart.
The grand comic opera episode at Oyster Bay especially appealed to a number of Handy's admirers. There were several who intimated that he go right in for grand polyglot opera and try and get hold of the Metropolitan Opera House. He smiled knowingly at the suggestion, and furthermore gave his volunteer advisers to understand that, in his estimation, that institution was under the control of much more accomplished fakers than his ambition aimed to reach. Besides, he reasoned, he was not the kind of man to attempt to take the bread and butter away from some other fellow. "My policy," said he, "is to live and let live; and if you cannot get enough people with the long green, as they call it, to at least guarantee the rent for the sake of art, fashion, and display—or as the English song puts it, 'for England, home, and booty'—the next best thing to do is to buy, borrow, or beg a tent and start out and go it alone in the open."
One evening as Handy was on his way homewards he accidentally ran across a friend who, as the saying goes, had seen better days, and who had at various times a widespread acquaintance with the ups and downs of theatrical life. This man's name was Fogg—Philander Fogg. In his way he was as much a character as Handy himself. The ways of each, though, were dissimilar. Fogg was what the Hon. Bardwell Slote would designate as a Q K (curious cuss). He on one occasion distinguished himself as an amateur actor, and barely escaped with his life in New Jersey for attempting to playOthelloas a professional. In person he was tall, very slim, very bald, slightly deaf, and as fresh as a daisy. He had a general and miscellaneous acquaintance. His friends liked him because of his inability to see a joke. The consequence was they had many amusing experiences at Fogg's expense. The gossip of the stage he cherished and cultivated. This made him a favorite with a large circle of female acquaintances who go in for all that kind of thing. People living, as it were, on the fringe of society, who lay the flattering unction to their souls that they are living in Bohemia, and they are never so happy as when they are settled in the company of some pseudo-player discussing the drama and ventilating the small talk of the stage.
When Handy encountered Fogg the latter appeared in a hurry. There was nothing new in that, however. No one who had any acquaintance with him knew him to be otherwise. There are such people to be met every day and everywhere. He was a type.
"The very man I was looking for," was his greeting, on meeting Handy. "I want you to help me out. Great scheme! I'll take you in. I'm in a great hurry now to keep an appointment. Important, very important! Where can I meet you to-morrow forenoon? How have you been? Are you up in Beausant—no, Col Damas, I mean? Don't you do anything until you see me! Can you get Smith to——"
"Hold! Enough!" interposed Handy. "Fogg, what do you take me for? A mind reader or a lightning calculator? Now, then, one thing at a time! What's up?"
"I am going to have a testimonial benefit, and I want you to manage the stage and play a part. Do you catch on?"
"Business," answered Handy. "Anything in it, or is it a thank-you job?"
"Why, my boy, there's a cold five hundred plunks in it. Society ladies on the committee. They will dispose of the tickets. One of them wants to act. I've promised to let her try and give her the opening. 'The Lady of Lyons' will be the play, and I will be theClaude."
"Well, Fogg, may the Lord have mercy on the audience—as well as onMelnotte."
"Oh, hold up, old chap. Don't be rough on a fellow. You know very well I have played much more difficult roles. Haven't I playedHamlet?"
"You have, indeed," answered Handy, "and played the devil with him, too."
"This is positively rude," replied Fogg, "and only that I am aware you mean no real unkindness I would feel very much put out. I know you don't really mean it."
"Of course I don't. It was spoken in the way of fun. Now, let me know in what way I can help you and you can count me in. Business is business, old pal, and I know you will do the square thing."
"There's my hand on it. Now I must be off. Meet me at my apartment to-morrow forenoon at eleven and we'll go over the details."
"Count on me. I will be there. So long."