"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are."—Nursery Rhymes.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are."
—Nursery Rhymes.
Three weeks after "The Lady of Lyons" episode Handy was once more in harness and equipped for the stage. He had captured what is technically known as "an angel" and was fairly well provided for another brief campaign. His friend Smith was engaged to accompany him and to officiate as general utility man in the broadest sense of the term. Fogg, who had been instrumental in lassoing the "angel," was engaged to be leading man of the new organization. An "angel" is one of those peculiar individuals who have stage aspirations, with money to burn; is ambitious to act, or try to, then fret a brief season behind the footlights, in nine cases out of ten fails and is never heard of more. The "angel" is generally a woman with a "friend." Her stock in trade to embark in an arduous profession requiring talent, industry, patience, intelligence, perseverance, and self-reliance consists chiefly in a good wardrobe, cheek, self-assurance, vanity, and ready cash.
It is a well-known fact that the capital stock of an "angel" melts, thaws, and resolves itself into disappointment after she has had a short practical experience on the boards. The exacting demands of the theatrical calling dims the luster that lured the deluded one recklessly to enter the seemingly attractive circle, to appear as the make-believe heroines of romance on the stage. A few weeks—perhaps not so long—at one of the theatrical factories to be found in nearly all of the large cities whereJulietsare prepared at short notice,Camillesmanufactured for immediate use, and actors in every department of the calling are turned out by some superfluous veteran of the stage at so much per lesson, generally in advance, fits the aspirant for a debut on a starring tour. How many enterprises of this character have started out, with thousands of dollars to back them, too, and returned to the city with rudely dispelled hopes and empty purses, it is difficult to estimate. Every season brings forth a fresh crop. The industry has grown with the times, and the appetite for theatric fame has not in the least diminished. The number of fallen "angels" scattered throughout the country would cut a respectable figure in a statistical report.
It is only a few short years ago, in one of the leading theatres of the country, a playhouse which was subsequently trampled out of existence by the march of trade, that fiveJulietsto oneRomeomade an afternoon pitiful by the incongruity of the representation of one of the sweetest plays of the immortal bard. Every act introduced a freshJuliet, as if to demonstrate the unfitness of each aspirant to present adequately even the slightest phase of a character which requires the art of a consummate artist to interpret properly.
Much has been said and written about the unworthiness of traveling companies in the country towns. While much of this may be true, even in the large cities as absurd exhibitions of acting may be witnessed as anywhere else. No one knew this better than Handy. To give him his due, he was usually careful in the selection of his companies. He never went half-way to work about it. When he desired to organize a troupe he endeavored to gather about him the best from his point of view.
"Indifferent and bumptious actors," said Handy to a friend, "are always looking for what they call big money. Their seasons, therefore, are short. They learn nothing from experience. They know it all. Yet they will hang on the ragged edge of starvation for weeks rather than come down in what they are pleased to name as their figures. A really good actor has little difficulty in securing an engagement at a reasonable salary. I know them, and they can't fool your uncle."
It must be admitted that Handy's experience in this line was somewhat extensive. To go into the detail of advance work and rehearsals is unnecessary. They may be left to the reader's imagination. They are, therefore, passed over in order to get more quickly to the opening night and the birth and death of a star.
"Camille" was the drama in which the "angel" decided to make her debut. The aspiring amateur, if a woman, generally makes choice of "La Dame aux Camellias." Why she does so, if not to bring to her aid a display of rich and elaborate costumes, it is difficult to say. In making such selection she unconsciously contrasts the possession of rich silk and satin frocks, together with valuable jewels, with the poverty of her histrionic resources.
The little town of Weston was the place selected as the scene of operations. The advance man, or press agent, had played his part well. "Camille" met the eye on every fence and blank wall in the place. Dodgers literally floated in the air and the town was so adorned with snipes that the uninitiated might reasonably conclude that paper costs nothing and printers worked for fun. To Handy's indefatigable exertions this was in a great measure due. Three nights he devoted to the work, and actually painted Weston red with "Camille."
"If you want to have a thing done well," he exclaimed, "you must do it yourself or see personally that it is done. There is no use in having printing unless you get it up where the public can see it. Billposters are peculiar people. They are in certain respects economical, and they have their own peculiar ideas of saving. That perhaps is the reason why you see so few posters stuck up for public edification and so many of them stowed away somewhere on out-of-the-way shelves in bill-posters' studios. They are queer fellows, these bill-posters. I've never been able to understand them. I've been, in various capacities, with many theatrical companies that were amply supplied with all kinds of printing to start out with, but when I went about town where we played looking for it I had to search pretty closely to find where it was pasted up. I therefore, in this case, determined to pay personal attention to that part of the business myself." This information or explanation was imparted toCamillethrough Fogg, by the way of a preliminary endorsement of Handy's remarkable energy.
Fogg was enthusiastic in praise of the manager's clever publicity display.
"I never saw a town so well billed in my life," said he, "and as you know, Mr. Handy, I have had some experience in such matters. Don't you agree with me, Miss De la Rue?" The last inquiry was addressed to the "angel" star, who was standing by his side, apparently as nervous and fidgety as if she was about to undergo an examination in a law court.
"Yes, indeed; I think the place is awfully well done," she replied, rather timidly, "but I didn't notice as many of my lithos around as I expected."
"What!" replied the manager in surprise. "Why, there ain't a saloon or cigar shop that ain't got them up. I know, for I've been in all of 'em."
Handy spoke the truth. It is a fact that cigar shops and liquor stores are the principal galleries in which the pictorial printing of theatrical celebrities and theatrical combinations are placed on exhibition. There is more money thrown away uselessly in such places, in the way of expensive printing and lithographs, than managers seem to realize. Even some of the shrewdest men in the business are not altogether free from the weakness of adorning these establishments with high-priced pictorial work. The practice at one time had at least the merit of novelty, but since it has become a regular thing it has lost much of its efficacy and ceased to be remunerative. But what is the use of objecting? Stars would be nothing more than mere rushlights if the highly colored lithos did not proclaim their prominence in the theatrical firmament to those who are ever ready to pledge women in song or story in the flowing bowl. Of course, in the interest of art.
"Do you think, Mr. Handy, that we shall have a good house?" inquired the "angel," as she stood on the stage before the performance, in a highly nervous, hesitating manner. "I should dislike to appear before a small audience; it is so discouraging, you know, to an artist."
"A good house?" echoed the optimistic manager. "We'll turn 'em away, and you can bank on it," he replied, with an air of confidence that reassured the bird of paradise and brought a smile to her face.
"I'm so glad to hear you say so! But I'm ashamed to admit it. But to you, of course, as my manager, I may confide and confess I feel awfully nervous."
"Happy to hear you tell me so, miss. Remember one thing, that all them as amounts to anything are taken that way on a first night. For instance, take Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she's a holy terror on a first night. There's Francis Wilson—well, it isn't safe to be near him when he comes off the stage of a first night. Then there's Joe Murphy, the great Irish comedian; when he plays a part, it is said, he becomes so nervous that he goes about giving every member of his company a ten-dollar bill. Sir Henry Irving was another of those so affected that he wanted to make a speech to the audience after every act, and only for the restraining influence of Bram Stoker, he would. Charley Wyndham, now Sir Charles, makes himself believe he is an incarnation of David Garrick. Nat Goodwin is that nervous of a first night that he wants to play 'Macbeth' with Maude Adams asLady Macbeththe next time he produces a new piece. All the result of nervousness, I assure you. I am affected that way myself on every first performance I appear in. It is, strange to say, the greatest evidence we have of the possession of that gift of what is regarded as genius. That's what's the matter!"
"You really think so? Oh, it is so consoling to hear you say so! I feel easier in my mind after you telling me and placing me on the same footing with the great ones of our profession. I'll go and dress now."
The "angel" star hurried off to her dressing-room. Smith, from among the manifold duties he was called upon to perform, had just returned from the front of the house, where he had been looking after things, as he himself put it. He approached Handy and in an enthusiastic manner informed him he thought the capacity of the house would be tested.
"Oh, that won't surprise me," replied Handy. "Give me 'Camille' every time for a country audience, providing the billing is all right. 'Camille' is old enough to be young."
"Do you think we're going to give a good show?"
"As to that, I'll speak to you later on. That's another proposition. Now, then, get a move on you. Hurry up and dress, and above all things, see that your props are all right."
Smith was property man as well as prompter—two important offices which in any well-regulated theatrical company would require the services of two men. In addition to these, he undertook to double a couple of the minor parts. He was an old hand at the work, and doubling and trebling did not in the slightest disturb him. He was not always as careful as he should be in the matter of detail, and in several instances his attempts at faking did not pan out as he originally planned them.
By eight o'clock the house was well filled. The signboard bearing the legend, "Standing Room Only" was put out in front to catch a few more. It was such an audience as would make any manager's heart rejoice. The curtain rose promptly on the first act. To say the act went off tamely would be simply admitting the truth. Camille was not only uncertain in her lines, but she was suffering from a bad attack of stage fright. Were it not for extraordinary exertions on the part of the principal members of the company—a confidence acquired of long experience—the star of the evening would have twinkled out of existence and "Camille" would have been presented in one act instead of five. The unfortunate "angel" realized for the first time in her life, possibly, that the calling she had selected to adopt was not all her fancy had painted it. The so-called coaching and training she had paid for proved of little or no practical value. She wasCamilleonly in costume—if in that; theCamilleof the dressmaker—nothing more. The audience, moreover, were not slow in recognizing this fact also. That day has gone by, apparently, when tyros may sally forth from the city and win country audiences with fine dresses, pretty faces, cheek, and inexperience. The theatre-going public knows the trick. The days of such barn-storming are passing away.
Mr. Fogg, who was theArmand, did not make a profound impression. The part suited him like an ill-fitted garment, and he felt it. The realization of that fact took all the vim out of him. If the real truth was known, he, no doubt, wished himself back in his little second-story back in the big city, gossiping of what he might, but could not, do if he had the chance. Handy was cast for the part of theCount de Varville. He was not great in the character, but he could wrestle with it. Was there a role in the whole range of the English drama he would decline to take a fall out of if circumstances demanded?
"Say, you'll have to throw more ginger into the part, old fellow," said Handy, as the hero of the carmine blouse of benefit memory walked across the stage, looking very disconsolate after the first act. Neither he nor the star received the slightest applause during their scenes.
"Wait until the fourth act, the great act of the piece," replied Fogg, "and I'll fetch 'em. You just watch me."
"All ready for the second act," cried out the call-boy. A few seconds later the curtain went up and the play proceeded. Nothing of particular moment transpired during the act. The audience sat through it as tamely as if listening to a funeral sermon.Camillewas painfully tame;Armandas harmless a lover as any respectable parent could desire. The remainder of the cast, influenced, no doubt, by the shortcomings of the principals, became listless and merely walked through their parts as they spoke their lines.
At the close of the act a number of people left the house. They evidently had had enough and did not care for more. The "angel" also had had enough of "Camille," and wished the whole thing was over. Fogg also had had enough ofArmand, and mentally avowed that never again would he undertake a stage lover to an "angel" without experience. In passing, it may be added that an experienced "angel" would not accept Fogg for aClaudeat any price. Handy had enough of both of them, with something to spare. In desperation he even expressed regret he did not have a hack atArmandhimself and infuse some life into it. If he had there would have been fun, for Handy's lovers were fearfully and wonderfully made.
The third act passed pretty much as the two preceding acts, only more so, with fewer people in the house to see it. A number of noticeable yawns evidenced the frame of mind of those who remained.
The curtain went up on the fourth act—that in which Fogg was going to do something. He had in the meantime been bracing up. When he made his entry and spoke, his manner of speech was somewhat thick, but his acting was more energetic. Fogg never could take anything stimulating without its going to his head, and as his brain exercised a peculiar influence over other members of his body, they all contributed their aid to illustrating his actual condition. He at length appeared to wake up to the actualities of the situation. So hadCamille, so had theCount de Varville, and so had the audience—particularly the audience. Fogg strenuously warmed up. The first genuine manifestation on the part of the audience occurred whenArmand, rising from the card-table and making a stage crossing, caught his foot in a hole in the carpet, caromed against the card-table, upset it, and measured his length on the boards. The audience burst into laughter. Audiences really enjoy such contretemps, cruel as such accidents or mishaps may be to the luckless player. Fogg arose and, wisely affecting not to notice the storm in front of the footlights, continued the scene. At length the moment was reached for him to shower gold onCamille, and by such insult endeavor to provoke a quarrel withde Varville. Hastily and clumsily drawing forth the property purse or bag of coin which Smith had prepared, he burst the fastening and showered the contents on the unfortunateCamille. Lo and behold! the property coin proved to be medium-sized brass buttons with long shanks. A far-sighted humorist among the audience caught sight of them and, with utter disregard of the dramatic situation and ignoring the consequences of his interference, unloosed his tongue and in a peculiar treble voice called out:
"Button, button; who has the button?"
The audience caught the ill-timed humor of the situation,Camillenearly collapsed, and the people on the stage with considerable difficulty restrained themselves from taking part in the prevailing hilarity. It was some time before the slightest semblance of order could be restored in front. Eventually, when something like quiet was restored, the act was played to a finish, in a somewhat fitful and highly nervous manner.
Behind the curtain there was a very lively condition of things.Armandwas furious;Camillewas engaged in giving a practical demonstration of hysterical stunts. She declared she would not go on any more. She was going to quit right there and then. It required all of Handy's persuasive eloquence to prevail on her to finish the performance.Camilleseemed to be firm in her resolve.
"'Tis only the dying scene," urged Handy. "It's dead easy, and the merit of it is that it is the best act of all for you. Only for those unfortunate buttons everything would have gone off all serene. We were getting into the spirit of the thing when the mishap broke everything all up. I'll kill that blithering property man when I lay hands on him."
Fogg had already started on the warpath after Smith, but Smith, having an intuitive knowledge that a meeting between himself and his leading man would result in strained relations, and not doubting for an instant that discretion is the better part of valor, beat a hasty retreat from the theatre, costumed and made up as he was, not even remaining long enough to wash the make-up from his face.
It was debatable for several minutes whether the "angel" would finishCamilleor some obliging member of the company would undertake the job. None of the ladies appeared ambitious to shuffle off the mortal coil of theLady of the Camellias. Finally, after a successful siege of coaxing, pleading, imploring, and entreating on the part of Handy, the "angel" consented. The curtain went up.Camille, under the circumstances, did the best she could in speaking the lines. An occasional titter from the audience conveyed only too plainly the information that the button incident was not yet forgotten. Notwithstanding, poorCamillestruggled bravely on. It was uphill work, but she persevered. At length the fateful moment arrived forArmandto make his entrance. No sooner did he set his foot on the stage in view of the audience then again the voice of the serio-comic humorist in front, in the same weird tone, was, it must have been drowned in the laughter of the assemblage.
"Ring down the curtain," piteously pleadedCamillein an undertone from her deathbed.
Handy stood in the wings, ready for any emergency likely to turn up, and in a very audible prompt whisper replied: "Go on, go on with the scene. Die as fast as you can. Don't give them any fancy dying frills, but croak at once and have done with it."
Whether the people in front overheard the manager's imperative prompting or that the echo of "button" was still ringing in their ears, the death scene ofCamillewas presented as it had never been before—with peals of laughter.Camillemade a final effort, and then fell back on the bed. There was something in the realistic manner of the act that caught the quick perception of the audience. The people on the stage also were attracted by it, and they gathered about the fallen star. The curtain was rung down on the double-quick. The poor girl remained motionless in the position she had fallen. The effort had proven too much, the strain too great—she had been completely overcome, had broken down and collapsed.
Handy and Fogg later in the night were seated together in a little back room of the hotel. Fogg was crestfallen—Handy thoughtful. Only a slight exchange of conversation passed between them. At length the silence was broken.
"Fogg," asked Handy, "do you believe in a hereafter?"
"What a singular question."
"Never mind about its singularity. Do you?"
"Certainly I do."
"In heaven, and all that kind of thing?"
"Yes."
"Then take a friend's advice. Never again undertake the support of an 'angel' until you reach heaven. They have no buttons there."
The humor was wasted on Fogg. He was too humiliated to relish any kind of a joke. After lingering a short time, he retired. The veteran remained thoughtful, taking some consolation from his briarwood and a steaming hot Scotch. For some minutes he continued in what for some reason or other is known as a brown study. How long he might have continued in that condition it is not necessary to speculate on. A tap at the window aroused him from his revery. He glanced in the direction from whence the sound came. There he beheld the well-known face of his first lieutenant, Smith. He motioned Handy to come to him. Handy was too comfortable where he was. He bade Smith come right in. Smith shook his head and pantomimed Handy to survey his get-up. The latter recognized the situation, swallowed the contents of his glass, and stepped outside. The meeting was not at first particularly cordial, but when Handy comprehended the predicament in which his friend had placed himself he laughed.
"You're a beaut, you are. It's a mighty lucky thing Fogg didn't catch you, let me tell you. If he had, it's dollars to doughnuts there would be a funeral in the Smith family in the near future; and what's more, you wouldn't have a word as to choice of vehicle in which you went to the cemetery. But say, why on earth are you masquerading about the streets in that get-up?"
"Oh, cut all that!" replied Smith, "and tell me how I'm going to get my street togs. They are in the dressing-room at the theatre, and I can't go gallivanting through the streets in this rig. Do you want to have me pinched and locked up, eh?"
"Didn't you come from there in 'em?"
"Sure I came in 'em. I had to. I would have come out without anything, I was so scared of that lunatic Fogg. But, say, you got through with the show all right."
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes! We got through with the show all—wrong, but——"
"But what?"
"The season is closed."
"Closed!" repeated Smith anxiously. "You don't mean it?"
"Yes, but I do mean it. The game is up. No more 'Camille.' The 'angel' has fallen. She has had all the starring she wants, and starts heavenwards to-morrow on the Pennsylvania limited for the Lord knows where."
"An' Fogg—whither goest he?"
"He accompanies her as a kind of guardian angel."
"An'—an'—a—the—salaries, what about them?"
"They remain."
"With whom?" asked Smith.
"They are all right. The 'angel' does the decent thing, and puts up for the entire week."
"An' then——"
"Oh, you want to know too much! Maybe I will try and fill in the dates myself. I don't exactly know yet, but for mercy sake, come in with me and run up to my room, wash the grease paint and make-up off your mug, and I will let you have my ulster to cover you while you go back to the theatre and get your clothes."
On his return, Smith rejoined his manager and they spent the night together. Next morning Handy was up early, and after a conference with Miss De la Rue and Mr. Fogg he called on the landlord and settled the hotel bill. He then accompanied the "angel" and Fogg to the station and saw them both safely on the train. The lady resolved to abandon all histrionic ambition, and never after sought the fickle fame of the footlights, and Fogg ever since shows an affected contempt for anyone who sees anything to laugh at over the button episode of his extraordinary one-night season with the "angel"Camille.
I am not an imposter that proclaimMyself against the level of my aim.—All's Well That Ends Well.
I am not an imposter that proclaimMyself against the level of my aim.
—All's Well That Ends Well.
After Handy returned to the hotel, having parted with his "angel" and his star at the station, the first man he met was his landlord, a somewhat smart and shrewd, speculative individual, who was not adverse at odd times to trying to turn an honest penny by occasional incursions into the alluring and fascinating domain of speculation. He had a weakness for the theatre, the race-track, the stock market, the trotting circuit, etc. He was willing, when the opportunity presented itself, to put a trifle into any of these hazards by way of a flyer, as he termed it, provided he thought he saw a chance to make a little something on the side. He had already made a small stake on stocks, secured a fair return from an investment in oil, and came out about even on the race-track. Up to this time, however, he had never indulged in the luxury of a theatrical venture, notwithstanding the hankering he had at times to dabble in that direction. As soon as he saw Handy he called him aside and began a little preliminary skirmishing, and in a roundabout way started in to lay bare the strenuous thoughts that were agitating his mind. He opened up the subject by inquiring when the company proposed to go back.
"On the 2.30 train," answered Handy, not knowing or caring whether there was a train at that particular hour or not. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I was just thinking"—and the landlord spoke with measured care—"I was just thinking, as I said, that perhaps you and I might be able to arrange some kind of a deal to give a show at Gotown, make a stake, and whack up on the profits. What do you say?"
"Gotown! Gotown!" replied Handy. "Never heard of it. No, I guess not. You see, times are pretty brisk now; good people are in demand, and if we remain away from the city for any length of time some of the company might lose the opportunity of a steady engagement for the season. No, I can't take the risk."
Handy was anxious, nevertheless, to make the venture, and he felt satisfied the company would stick by him.
"There's money in it for the two of us," urged mine host of the inn. "The outlay will not be much, and the profits will be all ours to split up. It will be the first show that was ever given in the place!"
"What!" exclaimed the veteran, in surprise.
"It will be the first show ever given in the town."
"You take my breath away. Say, you don't mean to tell me there is one town in the United States that has escaped the showman?"
"Yes. Gotown has, an' I'll gamble on it," said the landlord.
"Stay! There must be some kind of a rink there?"
"No."
"No rink."
"No."
"A museum, then—moving-pictures snap?"
"No."
"Has there been a circus there recently?"
"Never had a circus within miles of it."
Handy seemed puzzled. He looked at the landlord, and his face bore a quizzical expression as he said: "Say, mister, what in thunder kind of a place is this Gotown, anyway—a cemetery?"
The landlord laughed, Handy wondered, and neither spoke for some time. It perplexed the veteran to reconcile with his mind the fact that there happened to be hid away, a town in the United States that had not yet been tapped by the industrious and ubiquitous showman. Reflection, however, might have convinced him that it was not such an extraordinary circumstance, after all. In this glorious and growing country cities and towns spring up in an unprecedentedly brief period through the magic influence of intelligence and industry. The discovery of some product that for ages has laid sealed up in the secret laboratories of nature in a little time has transformed the seeming sterility of a wilderness into the productiveness of a cultivated garden. The labor of brains and hands, preceding the employment of energy and capital, breaks the silence of time and makes way for the music of practical development. Active brain and toiling hands had won from mother earth rich stores and transformed the apparent barrenness of the ground convenient to where Gotown sprang up into the nucleus of a flourishing city. Someone had struck oil.
"Is it a cemetery? you ask," said the landlord, after he had enjoyed Handy's amusing inquiry. "A cemetery, eh? Well, all I can say is that you'll find in Gotown the liveliest lot of ghosts you ever tackled in your life, if you visit the place. Gotown, a cemetery! Well, I'll be darned if that ain't the best I've heard in a blue moon!" and again he started in laughing. "Why, bless your soul, man, no one has had time to die there yet. Not on your life! Gotown will be Petroleum City before it gets out of its knickerbockers, or I'm a Dutchman."
Handy opened his eyes in surprise. The actual situation flashed suddenly on him.
"Struck oil there, eh?"
"Rich."
"Many wells?"
"Let me see! There's the Anna Held, the Billy Brady, the Bob Hilliard, the Peerless One, the Teddy on the Spot, the——"
"Oh, never mind the names. Skip them. Oil wells by any old names smell just the same. How many of them?"
"Ten, fifteen—maybe double that. Can't exactly tell. They are boring all the time and striking it rich."
"'Nuff sed. And you tell me they never had a show there?"
"Why, darn it, man! the town was only christened about a year ago."
"Then we'll confirm it and open its gates to the histrionic industry of the country. I'll have a talk with the company. But we will have to arrange about some printing."
The gleam that illumined the landlord's face at the mention of printing was a study. Handy was somewhat mystified, and he was still more surprised when the landlord, with a knowing look—a look all landlords seems to hold a patent on—bent over and said: "Leave that to me, and you'll be satisfied. We'll get the winter's supplies out of this snap. Come, let's have something." With this hospitable suggestion, both men made a flank movement in the direction of the café.
"Now, then," began Handy, "did I understand you to say you could fix the printing?"
"You did."
"How?"
"Well, I will put you wise in that direction. Will you smoke? All right. Now, then, light up an' we'll take a comfortable seat by the stove."
"Lead on, Macbeth, and—well, you know the rest of it."
Drawing up a couple of well-seasoned chairs, they both settled down for a practical business talk.
"I have," said the landlord, "in the storeroom a stack of printing. I came by it in this way. There was a show out here about a year ago. The company got stranded; could go no further, and, to make a long story short, when the troupe started to walk home the printing remained behind. Exhibit No. 1."
"I'm on. Proceed."
"Let me further elucidate. I had a partner who at one time was in the bill-posting profession—it is a profession now, isn't it?" Handy smiled. "Well, he had a bit of money—not a great deal, and he invested in the line of publicity. Well, he was called away suddenly. He didn't exactly die—but that's of no consequence, and his assets dropped into my hands for safe-keeping. Among the valuables was a lot of miscellaneous printing of all kinds, plain and colored—and of all sorts and sizes—a dandy assortment. Exhibit No. 2."
"Fire away!"
"Furthermore, old Phineas Pressman, the town printer here, owes me a bill. It isn't much, but little as it is I can't squeeze a red cent of ready money out of him, and I see no earthly way of getting square with him only by giving him an order for whatever new printing stuff we may require, and in that way change the balance of trade in my direction. Exhibit No. 3. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly."
"But you don't seem to enthuse over the prospects."
"No," answered Handy calmly. "No, I'm no enthuser. I was just turning over in my mind your proposition. As I have not seen your paper, how it would suit, I can't imagine what it looks like."
"What in thunder has that got to do with the case? Paper is paper, printing is printing, and pictures are pictures, ain't they?"
"Quite correct, my friend. But you must bear in mind that they might not fit any show that the company could do itself credit in."
"Stuff and nonsense! You make me slightly weary," replied the landlord. "Suppose it don't—what then? If the printing don't suit the play or the entertainment, what's the matter with the entertainment being made to fit in and suit the printing? Don't they all do it? What do you think printers and lithographers butt in and become theatrical managers for? For the sake and love of art, eh? Rot! You know as well as I do that this pictorial work you see stuck up all around hardly ever represents the thing they give on the stage and to see which the theatre-going public puts up its good coin to enjoy. Why, bless my soul, Mr. Handy, there's hardly a show on the road to-day that don't lay its managers liable to arraignment for obtaining money under false pretenses by the brilliancy of the printing and the stupidity and poverty of the performance."
"You talk like a reformer!"
"Reformers be hanged! I was about to tell you that some time ago there was a movement on foot in one or two of the Western States to secure the passage of a legal measure compelling showmen to actually present on the stage what their pictorial work on the dead walls and billboards promised. If the shows now going the rounds were half as good as their printing, they'd be works of art."
"Say, boss!" remarked Handy admiringly, "you have the real Simon pure theatrical managerial instinct in you, you have. You haven't always been in the hotel business?"
"Nix, I had at one time the candy privilege with a circus, and I had to keep my eyes open, I tell you."
"Shake, old man," as Handy extended his hand. "When you began talking printing I knew you were on to the racket and understood something about the theatrical biz. Why, you're one of us. You belong to the profesh."
"Oh, give us a rest with your nonsense! What are you chinning about? I am just a plain, common, every-day innkeeper."
"Suppose you are. Let it go at that, and let me tell you times are advancing. We live in a great age—a progressive and changeable age. There was a time when theatres and theatrical companies were managed or directed by men who were actors, or had been actors, or by men who had a love for the business, and had some particular talent or fitness for the trade; but nowadays all that is changed, and all sorts of chaps have butted in for the sake of what's in it for them. It is not, let me tell you, an unusual thing to find the druggist of yesterday, or the commercial drummer, or newspaper man of the week previous, become the impresario of an opera troupe or the manager of a playhouse the following week. This is a most changeable as well as progressive and strenuous age."
"You speak like a philosopher, Mr. Handy."
"Do they tell the truth?"
"They are credited with doing so."
"Then you can safely bet on my talk."
"Now, then—what about Gotown?"
"I'm with you. We'll tackle Gotown on miscellaneous paper. There's my hand on it."
That afternoon Handy and the landlord started for the scene of operations, to look the place over. Before going, Handy had an interview with the members of the company, unfolded his plans to them, and drew a flattering picture of the prospects of success. A few of them hesitated and decided to go home, but enough remained to enable the veteran to carry out his scheme. To Smith was entrusted the duty of ascertaining the strong points of the individual members of the troupe and finding in what particular line their talents would show to the best advantage.
"Try them in song and dance," were Handy's instructions to his lieutenant, "and all that kind of thing. We will have to fake this show in red-hot style. We are not going to play to any Metropolitan Opera House, Dan Frohman, or Dave Belasco audience. Don't forget, old man, we are going into a mining district where we will have the first go at it. Quantity not quality must be our motto. Remember, above all things, Smith, that the corned beef and cabbage of the menu will be more acceptable for a starter than the roast beef and plum pudding of dramatic art. Take your cue from the great far West. The young towns out there have all gone through a similar experience, until now they have become so fastidious that nothing less than grand opera, with a bunch of foreign stars, or a presentation of imported plays and play actors can satisfy their cultivated tastes. Let your show dish be well hashed and don't, above all things, neglect the histrionic pepper and mustard. The more highly seasoned it is the more kindly our patrons will take to the theatrical feast we will be compelled to give them."
"Leave that to me."
"I'll view the manners of the town,Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings."—Comedy of Errors.
"I'll view the manners of the town,Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings."
—Comedy of Errors.
Handy and the landlord spent the late afternoon and a good portion of the night in Gotown. It was a strange, straggling-looking arrangement of recently put together frame houses, cranes, derricks, and piles of lumber. So newly built were the habitations that many of them were devoid of paint. It was to all intents and purposes an active, stirring, busy little place—a hive of industry. Handy and his friend made a casual survey of the locality, paid visits to a number of saloons,—the town in that respect being well equipped,—and made several acquaintances. From what they had seen and heard they came to the conclusion they could "pull off" a fairly good-sized stake as the result of their venture.
Without going into detail to any great extent, the two men made the following agreement: Handy engaged to put up his experience and the services of the company against the landlord's capital. That is, mine host of the inn was to defray all the expenses of the undertaking, including cost of transportation, board, and lodging for the company that was to supply the entertainment. Of whatever came in the landlord was to take half and Handy the other half. From his share of the proceeds Handy was to make good to the company.
"It seems to me," remarked Handy, "we stand a purty fair chance to do something here. But, say, we haven't yet seen the hall or theatre or ranch we're goin' to show in."
"That's so," replied his companion. "Let's just cut across lots here and go and see Ed McGowan. This way," and they made a bee-line through a field.
"Ed McGowan," repeated Handy. "Who is he?"
"Big Ed? Why, he bosses the job of the crack gin-mill of the outfit, and runs things."
"A good man," says Handy, "to be on the right side of, if he's all right."
"Is it Ed? You bet! Why, Ed is the Pierpont Morgan of the whole lay-out. He's nobody now, apparently, but wait 'till he gets his fine work in an' he'll own the whole shooting-match. Mark what I'm a-tellin' you."
"Is the hall convenient to his laboratory?" quizzically inquired Handy.
"Darned if I know. When I was up here a couple of weeks or so ago Ed told me he was goin' to put up a hall or something where the boys, as he called them, could have a dance or a slugging match, or a show,—any old thing, in fact, that came along in the way of diversion and amusement."
"Say, boss," said Handy, somewhat puzzled, "are you serious or are you stringin' me?"
"I don't understand."
"We start even, then, for blow me if I understand you."
"Please explain yourself."
"I'll do my plainest!"
"Skip the prelims and get down to facts. I ask you to point out the hall we're to give the show in, and you treat me to a ghost story about some fellow named Ed McGowan who thinks about putting up one where the boys can have a dance, see a show, take part in a slugging match or indulge in any other eccentricities too superfluous to enumerate. I confess I have been on many wild-goose chases in my somewhat long and varied career, but this takes the gingerbread. Now let me ask you frankly, is there a hall at all, at all, in the place?"
"I don't know."
"Great Cæsar's ghost! What? Don't know? Say, is there an Ed McGowan, then? Boss, I'm growin' desperate," and the veteran looked as if he was.
"Sure there is," replied the landlord, with a laugh.
"Then for the Lord's sake lead me out of this wilderness of doubt into his presence."
Not another word was spoken until they crossed the threshold of Ed McGowan's barroom. It differed little from other places of its class, save that it had a bigger stove, a greater number of chairs, a more extensive counter for business purposes, and a more extensive display of glassware reflected in the mammoth mirror.
"Hello, hello, Weston, old fellow! Glad to see you!" was the salutation that rang out in a cheery voice after the newcomers had made their entry. "What in thunder brings you up to these diggin's?"
McGowan had a playful little way of addressing his friends by the name of the places from which they hailed. He was a good specimen of man, and could tip the scales at two hundred. Above middle height, he was a big, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, bow-windowed, good-natured kind of chap—one who would travel a long distance to do a good turn for a friend and travel equally far to get square with a foe. At the time of the entrance of the theatrical projectors, big Ed was vigorously employed in getting something like a shine or polish on the top of his bar.
"Just a minute an' I'll be with you," said the big fellow, after the first greetings were exchanged. "Let me get things a bit shipshape an' I'll join you," and with that he gave another strenuous sweep of his muscular arm along the woodwork. "I want to have things looking trim before the night services begin. What's your weakness now, Wes?" he added. "A little hot stuff, eh? I thought so. I knew how that proposition would strike you. I've got something on hand that'll warm the cockles of your heart. Got it in a week ago. It's the real thing—it is. And your friend—the same? Good. Patsy, make three nice hot Irishes. No, not that bottle—you know the one I mean. J.J. Yes! That's it."
By this time McGowan had completed his arduous labor and joined his comrades in front of the bar.
"Well, old man," he said, slapping Weston in a friendly manner on the shoulder, "how is the world treating you, anyhow? Ain't you lost a bit up here in these diggin's?"
"Oh, I have no kick coming," was the reply. "Mr. McGowan, I want you to shake hands with my friend, Mr. Handy, of New York."
"Glad to know Mr. Handy. You hail from the big city, eh? I'm a New Yorker myself—left there some time ago. A good many years have rolled on since then. I suppose I'd hardly know the place now. Set them over yonder, Patsy, near the stove. Come, boys, sit down. Just as cheap to sit as stand, and more comfortable. Well, here's my pious regards, and, as my old friend, Major Cullinan used to say, 'May the Lord take a liking to us, but not too soon.' New York, eh?" and McGowan's memory seemed, at the sound of the name, to wander back to old familiar scenes of days gone by.
"Yes," said Handy; "hail from there, but I travel about a good deal."
"A traveling man—a drummer, eh?"
"Well, I do play a bit on the drum at times," said Handy, with a smile, "but I'm only a poor devil of an actor, if I'm anything."
"An actor, and a New Yorker. Shake again. Put it there," as he extended his hand. Then looking at Handy closely for a moment, he turned to Weston and said: "Say, Wes, I know this man, though he don't seem to know me."
"Indeed, Mr. McGowan, you have the best of me."
"Sure," responded McGowan. "Well, here's to our noble selves," and the trio drained their cups. "An' now, Mr. Handy, to prove my words that I know you. You used to spout in the old Bowery Theatre? Ah, I thought so. Knew Bill Whalley? Of course you did. Poor Bill—he's dead. A good actor, but a better fellow. He was his own worst friend. And there was Eddy. Eddy. Eddy. He was a corker. Yes, he cashed in many years ago. Then there was Mrs. W. G. Jones. God bless her! Dead. God rest her soul. She was the salt of the earth. And what has become of J. B. Studley? Wasn't he a dandy, though, in Indian war plays? You bet! Jim McCloskey, I think, used to fix them up for him. And will you ever forget G. L.—Fox, I mean. There never was his equal in funny characters, and as a pantomimist no one ever took his place. They tell me the old spout shop is now turned into a Yiddish theatre. Well! well! well! How times are changed! I suppose the fellows I knew in days gone by are changed too—those of them that remain, I mean. The ones that are dead I know are."
"Yes," replied Handy, "you'd find New York a much changed city since then. It was, I believe, Dutch originally; then for a time the Irish had a hack at it; but all the nations of the earth having sent in their contributions of all sorts and sizes and tongues, it's purty hard now to make out what it is."
"Wonders will never stop ceasing, will they? Well, Wes"—and Big Ed turned and directed his attention to the landlord—"what did you come up here for? You came up after something. What's the little game? Want to buy land?"
"No. I'll tell you. Our friend here, Mr. Handy, at my suggestion, made this visit with me to see you on a little speculation of our own. Mr. Handy a week—not quite a week ago—came out to my town with a theatrical troupe to show for a week. The company played one night, when the staress grew tired and quit after the first heat and went home to mother. This brought the season to a premature close."
"Nothing particularly new in that," answered McGowan; "but continue."
"Well, under the circumstances we—Mr. Handy and myself—got our heads together and came to the conclusion to run up here and have a talk with you and see if we couldn't make some arrangements to bring the company up and give a show."
"I see. That's the racket, eh? Where did you propose to give it?"
"In that new hall of yours, of course."
"My new hall, eh?" replied McGowan, in surprise, and laughing. "Why, Wes, the gol-darned thing ain't built yet, but the men are at work on it. If it was ready I'd like nothin' better than inauguratin' the place with a show, for between ourselves I'm a bit stuck on theatre-acting myself. I'm sorry. The carpenters started in over a week ago and this is Tuesday."
"And is there no other place?"
"Let me see. No, I don't think so. Kaufman's barn was burned down last week, so you couldn't storm that now. Siegel's wouldn't be just the place, and, besides, they have other cattle there now, so that's out of the question. You might get a loan of the church—no, the church is not a church. We only call it so for respectability's sake. It is used for almost any old thing on week days, and on Sunday a dominie from an adjoining parish tackles sermons once in a while. But then, I hardly think it would suit. But hold on a minute—when did you expect to come here?"
"Well, we thought of getting here Saturday night."
"Saturday night!" exclaimed McGowan, in surprise. "Why didn't you say so at first?"
"What's the matter now?"
"Saturday night! Why, I thought you meant to descend on us to-morrow night. 'Nuff sed. Say no more. The academy will be ready for you."
"The what?"
"The Gotown Metropolitan Academy of Music will be ready for inauguration by a company of distinguished actors—all stars, more or less—from the principal theatres of the metropolis—next Saturday night," replied Big Ed in a grandiloquent outburst.
"You don't mean it, Ed?" said the Weston landlord, somewhat amazed at the suggestion.
"Can't be did," said Handy.
"Can't, eh?" remarked McGowan, with a smile of contempt on his cheery face. "You don't know Gotown, my friend. Come here," he continued, as he rose from his chair and moved toward the door and motioned his friends to follow. "It is purty dark outside, but no matter about that. Look out yonder and tell me what you see?"
"Not much of anything now, but the faint outlines of a bunch of houses, cranes, derricks, and things, and a lot of lights," replied Handy.
"Right you are in what you say. Now listen to me and hear what I have to say. Had you stood on this same spot you are now standing on, a year since, and in broad daylight, the only thing you'd have seen, barrin' the ground, would be the cattle in the field—and darned few of them, at that—and a few houses here and there, miles apart. A year ago, my friend, lacking a few days, Gotown didn't exist. Isn't what I'm tellin' him true, Myles?" said the speaker, appealing for corroboration of his statement to one who was evidently a steady patron of the McGowan establishment, and who was about to enter.
"That's about the size of the truth of it. A year ago, come next Saturday night, we christened her, all right, all right."
"What's that you said?" asked Handy, suddenly brightening up. "A year ago, did you say? Christopher Columbus! if we only had a place to show in we could celebrate the centennial anniversary of Gotown."
His hearers burst into laughter, and Big Ed concluded that the way Handy took in the situation was worthy of a treat on the house, to which the newcomer, Myles O'Hara, was specially invited.
"Say, Myles," inquired the boss, as they stood in front of the bar, "how long will it take to finish the Academy?"
"Inside and outside?"
"Yes. Both. Complete."
"Well, that depinds. As Rafferty has the contract, I should say three days."
"Three days!" exclaimed Handy and his friend from Weston.
"I'm spakin'!" replied Myles, in a consequential manner. "An' be the same token, I know what I'm talkin' about. Three days sure, an' mind yez, Ed, I don't say that bekase I work for Rafferty. I'm not that kind of a man."
"An' make a good job of it?" asked McGowan.
"Well, he may not give you much gingerbread work in the shape of decorations, but you'll have a dacint-lookin' house enuff for an academy of music."
"Ed," interposed the man from Weston, "if you could only get the place ready, what a Jim Dandy house-warming we'd have, in addition to the celebration commemorating the birthday of the town! Do you think the job can be put through on schedule time?"
This made Myles a trifle irritated. "Arrah, what are yez spakin' about? Look-a here, me frind, I'm givin' ye no ghost story. Didn't Rafferty put up ould Judge Flaherty's house inside of a week, and moved in the day it was finished, an' thin have a wake there the next evening," argued Myles, by the way of a clincher to his argument.
"All right, Myles, I know you know what men can do if it comes to a pinch," responded Big Ed, somewhat nervously. "But let me ask you, could a stage be put in the hall for the opening?"
"A stage—do yez main an omnibus?"
"No, I don't mean no omnibus," replied the big fellow, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
"A scaffoldin', thin, I persume ye main," continued Myles.
"Oh, darn it, no! I mean a stage—a stage for acting on."
"Oh, I see now. I comprehind. A stage for show actors," replied O'Hara, as if a sudden light had dawned upon his not particularly brilliant imagination. "Let me ask yez, what's the matter with a few impty beer-kegs standing up ag'in' the wall, an' in the middle, with beams stretched acrost them and fastened on with tin-pinny nails, and afther that some nice clain boords nailed on the top ov thim? Wouldn't thim be good enuff for show actin'?"
"Don't say another word, Myles," said McGowan. Then turning to Handy and his friend: "We'll guarantee to have everything all right on time, so far as the academy is concerned, and if you fellows do the rest and provide and arrange the entertainment, we'll make Gotown hum on Saturday night."
"You mean it, eh?" asked Weston.
"I'm chirpin', I am," replied McGowan.
"Next Saturday night?" inquired Myles.
"Sure."
"It's payday, too."
"So it is," said McGowan cheerily.
"An' yez know what payday means in a new town wid a show on the spot."
"I should say I did."
"Well, as I was about to say," continued Myles, "wid an entertainment on hand, indepindint of its bein' the anniversary to commimorate the foundashon of the place, I think Gotown will make a record for herself on that occasion."
"Myles, you've a great head," laughingly suggested Big Ed, at the same time slapping the speaker playfully on the shoulder. "Wouldn't you like to take a hand in the entertainment yourself, with Mr. Handy's consent, and make an opening address?"
"Ed McGowan, ye're very kind, but spakin' is not my stronghowld; but let me be afther tellin' yez I kin howld me own wid the best of 'em, no matter where they're from, in the line of a bit of dancin'," and O'Hara stepped out on the floor and illustrated his story with a few fancy steps of an Irish jig which made an instantaneous hit with the crowd.
McGowan laughed outright and applauded; Weston joined him in appreciative merriment, while Handy merely contented himself with a smile, as he was mentally absorbed in a study of Myles O'Hara. Handy was a man of emergencies. He thought quickly and acted promptly. He rarely missed a point he could turn to advantage. He fancied he saw in Myles O'Hara an auxiliary that might prove valuable. Handy's company was weak in terpsichorean talent, and he determined to strengthen it by securing local talent through the services of the representative from Gotown.
"Mr. O'Hara," said Handy, addressing Myles, "did I understand you to say that you were something of a dancer?"
"That you did, sir; an' so was my father afore me, God rest his sowl! Let me tell yez that at sixty-eight years the owld man was as light on his feet as a two-year-owld."
"Then, Mr. O'Hara, might I take the liberty to suggest that in honor of the day we are going to celebrate you will give your friends an exhibition of your skill at our entertainment next Saturday night?"
"Arrah, what the divil do you take me for? Is it a show actor you want to make out of me, I dunno?"
"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. O'Hara!" replied Handy, in his most complaisant manner of speech. "I would not undertake that job. But I thought on that eventful occasion——"
"And," broke in McGowan, "if you do, it will make you solid with the boys. You know they like you purty well as it is, but when they hear you are going to take part in the anniversary entertainment you can have anything you want from them."
"Are yez sayrious, I dunno, at all, at all?" inquired Myles, somewhat dubiously.
"Am I?" responded McGowan. "Now, Myles, you know I have always had a great regard for you, and do you think I'd speak as I have done unless I was in earnest?"
O'Hara reflected a moment, then turning to McGowan, said: "Ed, look-a here."
"Yes, Myles, what is it?"
"Bethune ourselves, an' on the level, what d'ye think the owld woman would say?"
"Be tickled to death over it."
"An' the childer—what about thim?"
"They'd be no standin' 'em. Why, man alive, they'd be as proud as peacocks."
"D'ye think so?"
"Think so, no; I know so, sure!"
"That settles it. Say, Mr. Handy,"—addressing the manager,—"have yez a good fiddler that can play Irish chunes?"
At this juncture Weston took a hand in the discussion, and, with an anxious desire to solve the musical problem, suggested: "We'll fix that all right, all right, as we intend to have the Weston Philharmonic Handel and Hayden Society—I think that's the name of the union—to operate as an orchestra, and Herr Heintzleman, the leader, who is a corking good fiddler, will play the dance music for you."
"Heintzleman!" repeated Myles, in apparent disgust. "No, sur! No Heintzleman for mine. Not much! What! Have a Pennsylvania Dutchman play an Irish jig for me? Arrah, what the divil are yez all dreamin' about?"
"Hold on, Myles, hold on! Don't get mad. Keep yer shirt on," interposed McGowan, as a peacemaker. "Myles, you and Dinny Dempsey, the blind piper, used to be good friends. Now, suppose we get Dinny. How will he suit you?"
"Now yez are spakin' something like rayson, Ed McGowan. If Dinny Dimpsey does the piping work, I'll do the dancin'."
"Is that a go, Myles?"
"There's me hand on it."
"Then Dempsey will be hired specially for you, even if I have to put up for him myself."
"But he must come on the flure wid me."
"Sure, Myles."
"An' another thing, he must come on sober. I won't shake a leg or do a step if Dinny has any drink in him beforehand. Yez had betther understhand that."
"That's a go. I promise you shall have Dempsey, and, what's more, I guarantee he will not have a sup of anything until after the show; but after the show is over he can have all he can conveniently put under his skin."
This brought the preliminary proceedings to an end. By the way of closing the bargain, all hands, on the invitation of the proprietor, stepped up to the bar and made another attack on McGowan's best. The evening was drawing to a close; night had set in, and Handy and Weston, having finished their business, were anxious to get away. Gotown was a short distance from the railroad station. After they had lighted their cigars they were ready to start homeward bound.
"Hold on a minute and I'll walk over with you to the train."
Patsy came from behind the bar and helped the boss on with his coat, and the three started away.
On their way across lots they talked of many things appertaining to the forthcoming entertainment.
"By the way, Mr. McGowan," said Handy, "is there any danger about the hall not being ready for us on Saturday night?"
"Make your mind easy on that score," replied McGowan, with confidence. "When I get back to the store and give it out that I must have the hall finished by noon on Saturday, in order to celebrate properly and in A-No. 1 style the anniversary with a show at night, why, man alive! I'll have more men to go to work to-morrow morning than would be wanted to finish two Gotown Metropolitan Academies of Music in the time specified. Yes, sir; when I tell you a thing like that you can bank on it. You don't know me yet, Mr. Handy. But see here, I won't promise to furnish the scenery and other fixin's. Another thing, we don't go much on paint up here. Ain't got no time to waste over ornamentation yet, but I suppose we'll have that weakness in due time. So you'll have to fix all trimmin's yourselves. Yez needn't be too particular. We'll have to make allowance for that. Give the boys plenty of fun and life and they'll excuse the pictures and gingerbread. If the acting is good and strong you need have no fear. It is only when the acting is weak and of an inferior quality that fine clothes and grand painted scenery is necessary to cover it up. At least them's my sentiments. You must have some stuff down in your town, Wes, in the theatre that'll help us out?"
"That'll be all right. I'll attend to that part of the job," replied Wes.
"Is there any particular style of entertainment you would suggest?" inquired Handy.
"No," answered Big Ed. "No, so long as it is good, plain, old-fashioned acting, it will be all right. Only don't attempt to give us any of the new style, the bread and butter and milk and water kind of thing they are dealing out in the theatres in the big cities these days. Let me put you wise. We don't go much on style—we believe in the simple life. But whatever you act, give it to them good and strong. Well, here we are and here's your train. Got your tickets? Yes! All right. Skip aboard. Saturday morning I'll be on the look-out for you. So long! Good-night! Safe home!"