II

You can begin your theatrical career in the box-office of Hooley's Theater in Brooklyn. Take a ferry and look at the theater. Hooley is going to rent it to us for the summer. Your work will begin as ticket-seller. You will have to sell 25, 50, and 75 cent tickets, and they will all be hard tickets, that is, no reserved seats. Get some pasteboard slips or a pack of cards and practise handling them. Your success will lie in the swiftness with which you can hand them out. With these rehearsals you will be able to do your work well and look like a professional.

Charles immediately bought a pack of the thickest playing-cards he could find and began to practise with them. Soon he became an expert shuffler. Often he used his father's cigar counter for a make-believe box-office sill, and across it he handed out the pasteboards to imaginary patrons. A dozen times he went over to Brooklyn and gazed with eager expectancy at the old theater, destined, by reason of his association with it, to be a historic landmark in the annals of American amusement.

He wrote Gustave almost immediately:

I will be ready when the time comes.

That great moment arrived the first Monday in August, 1874. Charles could scarcely contain his impatience. So well had the publicity work for the performance been done by the new advance-agent that when the boy (he was just fourteen) raised the window of the box-office at seven o'clock there was a long line waiting to buy tickets. The final word of injunction from Gustave was:

"Remember, Charley, you must be careful, because you will be personally responsible for any shortage in cash when you balance up."

The house was sold out. When Gustave asked him, after the count-up, if he was short, the eager-faced lad replied:

"I am not short—I am fifty cents over!"

"Then you can keep that as a reward for your good work," said Gustave.

Callender was on hand the opening night. He watched the boy in the box-office with, an amused and lively interest. When Charles had finished selling tickets, Callender stepped up to him with a smile on his face and said:

"Young fellow, I like your looks and your ways. You and I will be doing business some day."

During this engagement, and with the customary spirit of family co-operation, Gustave said to Charles:

"You can give your sister Rachel all the pennies that come in at the Wednesday matinée." At this engagement very little was expected in the way of receipts at a midweek matinée.

But Gustave did not reckon with Charles. With an almost uncanny sense of exploitation which afterward enabled him to attract millions of theater-goers, the boy kept the brass-band playing outside the theater half an hour longer than usual. This drew many children just home from school, and they paid their way in pennies. The receipts, therefore, were unexpectedly large. When sister Rachel came over that day her beaming brother filled her bag with coppers.

The summer of 1874 was a strenuous one for Charles Frohman. By day he worked inThe Graphicoffice, only getting off for the matinées; at night he was in the box-office at Hooley's in Brooklyn, his smiling face beaming like a moon through the window. He was in his element at last and supremely happy. When the season ended the Callender Minstrels resumed their tour on the road and Charles went back to the routine ofThe Graphicundisturbed by the thrill of the theater.

He was developing rapidly. Daily he became more efficient. The following year he was put in charge of a branch office established byThe Graphicin Philadelphia. Now came his second business contact with the theater. Callender's Minstrels played an engagement at Wood's Museum, and Daniel came on ahead to bill the show. Charles immediately offered his services. His advice about the location of favorite "stands" was of great service in getting posters displayed to the best advantage. It was the initial expression of what later amounted to a positive genius in the art of well-directed bill-board posting.

While prowling around Philadelphia in search of amusement novelty—a desire that remained with him all his life—Charles encountered a unique form of public entertainment which had considerable vogue. It was Pepper's "Ghost Show," and was being shown in a small hall in Chestnut Street.

The "Ghost Show" was an illusion. The actors seemed to be on the stage. In reality, they were under the stage, and their reflection was sent up by refracting mirrors. This enabled them (in the sight of the audience) to appear and disappear in the most extraordinary fashion. People apparently walked through one another, had their heads cut off, were shown with daggers plunged in their breasts. The whole effect was weird and thrilling.

This show impressed Charles greatly, as the unusual invariably did. It gave him an idea. When Charles Callender joined his minstrel show at Philadelphia, young Frohman went to him with this proposition:

"I believe," he said with great earnestness, "that there is money in the 'Ghost Show.' The trouble with it now is that it is not being properly advertised. If you will let me have a hundred dollars, I will take charge of it and I think we can make some money out of it. It won't interfere with my work withThe Graphic."

Charles, who seldom left anything to chance, had already made an arrangement with the manager of the show to become his advertising agent.

Callender, who liked the boy immensely, readily consented and gave him the required money, thus embarking Charles on his first venture with any sort of capital.

Unfortunately, the show failed. Charles maintained that the Philadelphians lacked imagination, but with his usual optimism he was certain that it would succeed on the road. When he approached Callender again and offered to take it out on the road the minstrel magnate slapped him on the shoulder and said:

"All right, my boy. If you say so, I believe you. You can take the show out and I'll back you."

Charles counseled with Gustave, who continued as his theatrical monitor. Eagerly he said:

"I've got a great chance. Callender is going to back me on the road with the 'Ghost Show.'"

"No," said Gustave, firmly, "your time has not come. Wait, as I told you before, until you can go out ahead of a show as agent."

Bitter as was the ordeal, Charles took his brother's advice, and the "Ghost Show" was abandoned to its fate.

EARLY HARDSHIPS ON THE ROAD

TheChristmas of 1876 was not a particularly merry one for Charles Frohman. The ardent boy, whose brief experience in Hooley's box-office had fastened the germ of the theater in his system, chafed at the restraint that kept him at a routine task. But his deliverance was at hand.

Shortly before the close of the old year Gustave quit the Callender Minstrels. With a capital of fifty-seven dollars he remained in Chicago, waiting for something to turn up. One day as he sat in the lobby of the old Sherman House he was accosted by J. H. Wallick, an actor-manager who had just landed in town with a theatrical combination headed by John Dillon, a well-known Western comedian of the time. They were stranded and looking for a backer.

"Will you take charge of the company?" asked Wallick.

"I've only got fifty-seven dollars," said Gustave, "but I'll take a chance."

Between them they raised a little capital and started on a tour of the Middle West that was destined to play a significant part in shaping the career of Charles. In the company besides John Dillon were his wife, Louise Dillon (afterward the ingénue of Daniel Frohman's Lyceum Company); George W. Stoddart, brother of J. H. Stoddart of A. M. Palmer's Company, his wife and his daughter, Polly Stoddart, who married Neil Burgess; John F. Germon; Mrs. E. M. Post, and Wesley Sisson. Their repertory consisted of two well-worn but always amusing plays, "Our Boys" and "Married Life."

Gustave was to remain with the company until they reached Clinton, Iowa. After that he was to go ahead while Wallick was to remain with the company. When Gustave was about to leave, the company protested. He had won their confidence, and they threatened to strike. What to do with Wallick was the problem.

"Why not make him stage-manager?" suggested Dillon.

"All right," said Gustave, "but who is to go ahead of the show?"

The company was gathered on the stage of the Davis Opera House. Gustave scratched his head. Then he turned quickly on the group of stage folk and said:

"I've got some one for you. I'll wire my brother Charles to come on and be advance-agent."

Thus it came about that from a little Iowa town there flashed back to New York on a memorable morning in January, 1877, the following telegram from Gustave to Charles Frohman:

Your time has come at last. Am wiring money for ticket to St. Paul, where you begin as agent for John Dillon. Will meet you 2 A.M. at Winona, where you change cars and where I will instruct.

Charles happened to be at home when this telegram came. It was the first he had ever received. With trembling hands he tore it open, his rosy face broke into a seraphic smile, and the tears came into his eyes. He rushed to his mother, threw his arms around her, and gasped:

"At last I'm in the business!"

He lost no time in starting. With a single grip-sack, which contained his modest wardrobe, the eager boy started on his first railroad journey of any length into the great West. It was the initial step of what, from this time on, was to be a continuous march of ever-widening importance.

Begrimed but radiant, the boy stepped from a day-coach at two o'clock in the morning at Winona. No scene could have been more desolate. Save for the station-master and a solitary brakeman there was only one other person on hand, and that individual was the faithful Gustave, who advanced swiftly through the gloom and greeted his brother enthusiastically.

Charles was all excitement. He had not slept a wink. It was perhaps the longest and most irksome journey he ever took. He was bubbling with the desire to get to work.

The two brothers went to a hotel where Gustave had a room, and there they sat for four hours. It is a picture well worth keeping in mind: the pleased older boy, eager to get his brother started right; the younger lad all ears, and his eyes big with wonder and anticipation. There was no thought of food or rest. Gustave was enthusiastic about the company. He said to his brother:

"Why, Charley, we've got real New York actors, and our leading lady, Louise Dillon, has a genuine sealskin coat. That coat will get us out of any town. You've got no 'Ghost Show' amateurs to handle now, but real actors and actresses."

Then came an announcement that startled the boy, for Gustave continued:

"Your salary is to be twenty-five dollars a week and hotel bills, but you must not spend more than one dollar and a half a day for meals and room."

In this dingy room of an obscure hotel in a country town Charles Frohman got his first instructions in practical theatrical work. Perhaps the most important of this related to bill-posting. In those days it was a tradition in theatrical advertising that whoever did the most effective bill-posting in a town got the audience. Most of the publicity was done with posters. An advance-agent had to be a practical bill-poster himself. To get the most conspicuous sites for bills and to keep those bills up until the attraction played became the chief task of the advance-agent. The provincial bill-posters were fickle and easily swayed. The agent with the most persuasive personality, sometimes with the greatest drinking capacity, won the day.

All this advice, and much more, was poured by Gustave into the willing ears of the youthful Charles. No injunction laid on that keen-eyed boy in the gray dawn of that historic morning back in the 'seventies was more significant than these words from his elder brother:

"Your success in handling the bill-poster does not lie through a barroom door. Give him all the passes he wants, but never buy him a drink."

That those words sank deeply into Charles Frohman is shown by the fact that he seldom drank liquor. His chief tipple through all the coming crowded years was never stronger than sarsaparilla, soda-water, or lemonade.

The task ahead of Charles would have staggered any but the most dauntless enthusiasm. Among other things, as Gustave discovered, there was no route for the company after St. Paul, which was to be played the following week.

"You must discover new towns and bill them," he said. "Get what printing you want. The printers have been instructed to fill orders from you."

The hours sped on. Charles asked a thousand questions, and Gustave filled him with facts as dawn broke and day came. It was nearly seven o'clock, time for his train for St. Paul to leave. Charles would not hear of having breakfast. He was too full of desire to get to work.

Among other things, Charles carried a letter from Gustave to Wallick, who was temporarily ahead of the show, which said:

This is my brother Charles, who will take the advance in your place.

The first word that came from the young advance-agent announced action, for he wired:

All right with Wallick. Have discovered River Falls.

River Falls, it happened, had been "discovered" before and abandoned, but Charles thought he was making route history.

Charles immediately set to work with the extraordinary energy that always characterized him. The chief bill-poster in St. Paul was named Haines. Charles captured him with his engaging smile, and he became a willing slave. It was Haines who taught him how to post bills. Later on when Gustave arrived with the show, he spoke of the boy with intense pride. He said:

"I have taught your brother Charley how to post bills. He took to it like a duck to water. He didn't mind how much paste he spattered over himself. His one desire was to know how to do the job thoroughly. I am going to make him the greatest theatrical agent in the world."

Curiously enough, Haines lived to be a very old man, and in the later years of his life he was able to stick up the twenty-eight-sheet stands that bore in large type the name of the little chubby protégé he had introduced to the art of bill-posting back in the long ago.

At St. Paul Charles had opposition—a big musical event at Ingersoll Hall—and this immediately tested his resource. He got his printing posted in the best places, went around to the newspaper offices and got such good notices that John Dillon was inspired to remark that he had never had such efficient advance work. It is interesting to remember that at this time Charles Frohman was not yet eighteen years old.

Now came the first evidence of that initiative which was such a conspicuous trait in the young man. He had come back to see the performances of his company, and had watched them with swelling pride. Several times he said, and with pardonable importance:

"Whatweneed is a new play.Wemust have something fresh to advertise."

The net result of this suggestion was that his brother obtained the manuscript of "Lemons," a comedy that, under the title of "Wedlock for Seven," had been first produced at Augustin Daly's New Fifth Avenue Theater in New York. A copy of the play was sent on to Charles to enable him to prepare the presswork for it, and it was the first play manuscript he ever read. "Lemons" vindicated Charles's suggestion, because it added to the strength of the repertory and brought considerable new business.

Charles took an infinite pride in his work. He was eager for suggestions, he worked early and late, and when the season closed at the end of June he was a full-fledged and experienced advance-agent. With his brother he reached Chicago July 4th. In the lobby of Hooley's Theater he was introduced to R. M. Hooley, who, after various hardships, again controlled the theater which bore his name, now Powers' Theater. Out of that chance meeting came a long friendship and a connection that helped in later years to give Charles Frohman his first spectacular success, for it was Mr. Hooley who helped to back "Shenandoah."

On July 5th, six months after he had left the East for his first start, Charles appeared at his mother's home in New York, none the worse for his first experience on the road.

Charles was soon eager for the next season. Gustave had signed a contract with John Dillon to take him out again, this time as part owner of the company. He and George Stoddart agreed to put up two hundred and fifty dollars each to launch the tour of the Stoddart Comedy Company with John Dillon as star. Charles was to continue as advance-agent.

It was a long summer for the boy. When August arrived and the time came to start west there was a financial council of war. Gustave counted on getting his capital from members of the family, but no money was forthcoming. Daniel had received no salary from Callender, and the great road project seemed on the verge of failure. Charles was disconsolate. But the mother of the boys, ever mindful of their interest, said, in her serene way:

"I can get enough money to send you to Chicago and I will put up some lunches for you."

Charles was eagerly impatient to start. He nagged at his brother:

"Gus, when do we start for Chicago? Do we walk?"

He was sent down-town to find out the cheapest route, and he returned in great excitement, saying:

"The cheapest way is over the Baltimore & Ohio, second class, but it is the longest ride. We can ride in the day-coach, and even if we have no place to wash we will get to Chicago, and that is the main thing."

When they reached Chicago the first of the long chain of disasters that was to attend them on this enterprise developed.

Stoddart was penniless. The two hundred and fifty dollars that he expected to contribute to the capital of the new combination was swept away in the failure of the Fidelity Bank. He had looked forward to Gustave for help, and all the while Gustave, on that long, toilsome journey west, was hoping that his partner would provide the first railroad fares. So they sat down and pooled their woes, wondering how they could start their tour, with Charles as an interested listener.

Every now and then he would chirp up with the question:

"How do I get out of town?"

Finally Gustave, always resourceful, said:

"You don't need any money, Charley. I've got railroad passes for you, and you can give the hotels orders on me for your board and lodging."

It was a custom in those days for advance-agents to give orders for their obligations—hotel, rent of hall, bill-posting, and baggage—upon the company that followed. Hotels in particular were willing to accept orders on the treasurer of a theatrical company about to play a date, because, in the event of complete failure, there was always baggage to seize and hold.

So, armed with passes and with the optimism of youth and anticipation, Charles set forth on what became in many respects the most memorable road experience in his life. The first town he billed was Streator, Illinois. Then he hurried on to Ottawa and Peoria, where they were to play during fair week, which was the big week of the year. Misfortune descended at Streator, for despite the lavish display of posters and the ample advance notice that Charles lured the local editors into publishing, the total receipts on the first night were seventy-seven dollars. This, and more, had already been pledged before the curtain went up, and Gustave was not even able to pay John Dillon his seven dollars and seventy cents, which represented his ten per cent, of the gross receipts.

By "traveling on their baggage," which was one of the expedients of the time and a custom which has not entirely passed out of use, the company got to Ottawa, where Charles joined them. Here, in a comic circumstance, he first developed the amazing influence that he was able to exert on people.

Although an admirable actor with a large following and the most delightful and companionable of men, John Dillon had one unfortunate failing. He was addicted to drink, and, regardless of consequences, he would periodically succumb to this weakness. At Ottawa, the town crowded with visitors for the annual fair, Dillon fell from grace. The bill for the evening was "Lemons," and there was every indication that the house would be sold out. The receipts were badly needed, too.

Late in the afternoon came the terrifying news that Dillon lay stupefied from liquor in his room. Everybody save Charles was in despair. Dillon had conceived a great fancy for Charles, and he was deputized to take the actor in hand, get him to the theater, and coerce him through the play.

Charles responded nobly. He aroused the star, took him to the theater in a carriage, and stood in the wings throughout the whole performance, coaching and inspiring his intoxicated star. By an amusing circumstance, Dillon was required to play a drunken scene in "Lemons." He performed this part with so much realism that the audience gave him a great ovation. The real savior of that performance was the chubby lad who stood in the wings with beating heart, fearful every moment that Dillon would succumb.

New and heavier responsibilities now faced Charles Frohman. The company was booked to play a week in Memphis, Tennessee, the longest and most important stand of the tour. In those days the printers who supplied the traveling companies with advertising matter were powers to be reckoned with. When the supply of printing was cut off the company was helpless.

Charles H. McConnell, of the National Printing Company, who supplied the Stoddart Company with paper, was none too confident of the success of that organization. When he heard of the Memphis engagement he insisted that Gustave, who was older and more experienced, be sent ahead to pave the way. Charles was sent back to manage the company, and now came his first attempt at handling actors. He rose to the emergency with all his characteristic ingenuity.

He began at Champaign, Illinois. The first test of his resource came at a one-night stand—Waupaca, Iowa—where "Lemons" was billed as a feature. The prospects for a big house were good. Board and railroad fare seemed assured, when just before supper-time John F. Germon, one of the company, approached Charles in great perturbation.

"We can't play to-night. Mrs. Post is sick."

Mrs. Post played the part of the old woman in the play, and it was a very important rôle.

Charles Frohman only smiled, as he always did in an emergency. Then he said to Germon:

"You're a member of the well-known Germon family, aren't you? Then live up to its reputation and play the part yourself."

"But how about my mustache?" asked Germon.

"I will pay for having it shaved off," replied Frohman.

The net result was that Germon sacrificed his mustache, played the part acceptably without any one in the audience discovering that he was a man masquerading as an old woman. Charles put Wallick, who was acting as stage-manager, in Germon's part. Thus the house was saved and the company was able to proceed.

With his attractive ways and eternal thoughtfulness Charles captivated the company. He supplied the women with candy and bought peanuts for the men. On that trip he developed his fondness for peanuts that never forsook him. He almost invariably carried a bag in his pocket. When he could not get peanuts he took to candy.

A great friendship struck up between Frohman and Stoddart, who, in a way, was a character. He played the violin, and when business was bad and the company got in the dumps Stoddart added to their misfortunes by playing doleful tunes on his fiddle. But that fiddle had a virtue not to be despised, because it was Stoddart's bank. In its hollow box he secreted his modest savings, and in more than one emergency they were drawn on for company bed and board. When the organization reached Memphis Charles had so completely won the affections of the company that they urged him to stay on with them. But business was business, and he had to go on in advance.

Charles now went ahead to "bill" Texas. The reason for the expedition was this:

In Memphis business was so bad that the manager of the theater there advised Gustave to send the company through Texas, where, he assured them, there would be no opposition, and they would have the state to themselves. This advice proved to be only too true, for the company not only had the state to itself, but the state for a time held the company fast—in the unwilling bonds of financial misfortune.

The plan was to play the best towns in Texas and then go back through the Middle West, where John Dillon had a strong following, and where it was hoped the season could close with full pockets. Up to this time the company had received salaries with some degree of regularity. But from this time on they were to have a constantly diminishing acquaintance with money, for hard luck descended upon them the moment they crossed the frontiers of the Lone Star State.

It was about this time that Charles Callender, at the solicitation of Gustave, purchased an interest in the Stoddart Comedy Company for a hundred-dollar bill. This bill was given to Charles as a "prop." In those days the financial integrity of the legitimate theatrical combination was sometimes questioned by hard-hearted hotel-keepers. The less esthetic "variety" troupes, minstrel shows, and circuses enjoyed a much higher credit. An advance-agent like Charles sometimes found difficulty in persuading the hotel people to accept orders on the company's treasurer.

With characteristic enterprise Charles used the hundred-dollar bill as a symbol of solvency. He flashed it on hotel-keepers and railway agents in the careless way that inspired confidence, and, what was more to the point, credit. He carried this hundred-dollar bill for nearly a month. Often when asked to pay his board bill he would produce the note and ask for change. Before the startled clerk could draw his breath he would add:

"Perhaps it might be best if I gave you an order on the treasurer."

This always served to get him out of town without spending cash for hotel bills.

Texas was still a rough country, and Charles's reckless display of the hundred-dollar bill once gave him a narrow escape from possible death. He had made the usual careless display of wealth at a small hotel in Calvert. The bad man of the town witnessed the performance and immediately began to shadow the young advance-agent. When Charles retired to his room he found, to his dismay, that there was no lock on the door. He had a distinct feeling that a robbery would be attempted, so he quietly left the hotel and spent the night riding back and forth on the train between Calvert and Dallas. This cost him nothing, for he had a pass.

At Galveston occurred an unexpected meeting. Daniel Frohman, who was ahead of Callender's Minstrels, had arrived in town by boat from New Orleans (there being no railway connection then) to book his show for the next week. On arriving at the Tremont Opera House he was surprised to see Charles writing press notices in the box-office.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were in Tennessee."

Charles walked to the window and said, with great pride, "We play here all next week."

"Have you got the whole week?" asked Daniel.

"Yes," was the reply.

"But can't you give me Monday or Tuesday night?" asked Daniel.

"Impossible," replied Charles, haughtily.

"All right," said Daniel, in friendly rivalry, "then I will have to hire Turner Hall and knock you out for two nights with our brass-band parade."

Charles then came out into the lobby and confessed that his company was up against it, and that it meant bread and butter and possibly the whole future of the company if he could only play Galveston.

"We are coming here on our trunks," he said, "and we've got to get some money."

Daniel immediately relented. He arranged with the railroad to delay the train and thus make a connection which would carry his company on through to the interior. He booked Galveston for the second week following. This left the week in question free to Charles, who breathed easier.

Charles now went on and billed Sherman, Houston, and Dallas. At Dallas the hard luck that had gripped the company the moment it left Memphis descended more vigorously than before. Dillon not only fell from grace again, but disappeared. Gustave Frohman had vowed that he would discharge him if he went on another spree, and he kept his word. They were in a real predicament, with star gone, business bad, and practically stranded a thousand miles from home.

Charles, who frequently came back to join the company, was the one bright spot of those precarious days, for he never lost his optimism or his smile.

"What we need," he said at a council of war in Dallas, "is a new play. I have been reading in theNew York Clipperabout one called 'Pink Dominoes.' I think it is just the thing for us to do. In fact, I have already sent for a copy of it."

The play arrived the next day, and when George Stoddart read it to him the young agent bubbled with laughter and said:

"It's bound to be a big success."

It was decided to put on "Pink Dominoes" at Houston. Charles remained behind and watched the rehearsals, the first of the kind he had ever seen. Contrary to all expectations, Houston was shocked by the play. The audience literally "walked out" and the run of one night ended.

Misfortunes now crowded thick and fast. Salaries had ceased entirely, and it was with the utmost difficulty that the company proceeded on its way. As a crowning hardship, Callender repented of his bargain and withdrew the much-used and treasured hundred-dollar bill.

When Charles met Gustave in Seguin he said: "We're up against a hard proposition. The people want John Dillon. It's hard to book an attraction without a star."

In this statement Charles Frohman expressed a truth that he afterward made one of his theatrical axioms, for he became the leading exponent of the star system, and developed, in fact, into the king of the star-makers.

Charles rose supreme over the hardships that filled his colleagues with gloom. Many a night, in order to save hotel bills, he slept on a train as it shunted back and forth between small towns. He always turned up in the morning smiling and serene, with cheer for his now discouraged and almost disgruntled colleagues.

Louise Dillon's sealskin sack rendered heroic service during these precarious days. It was almost literally worn out as collateral. As Gustave had predicted, it got the company out of town on more than one occasion. A little incident will indicate some of the ordeals of that stage of the tour. At Hempstead a "norther" struck the town and the temperature dropped. Wesley Sisson caught a hard cold and concluded to get what he called "a good sweat." He had scarcely made his preparations and settled himself in bed when he heard a rap at the door and a voice said, "Open up."

"Who's that?" asked Sisson.

"Charley," was the reply. "Let me in. There isn't a spare bed in this house and I am freezing to death."

"All right," said Sisson, "but you don't want to come in here, because I am trying to sweat to death."

"Great Scott!" yelled Frohman, "that's what I want to do."

Sisson let him in and he remained all night.

Everywhere Charles Frohman drew people to him. The first time he booked Houston he made friends with Colonel McPherson, who owned the Perkins Opera House and the inevitable saloon alongside. The old manager—a rather rough customer who had killed his man—was a great casino-player, and Charles beguiled several hours with him one night at a game while waiting for a train.

In one of the company's darkest hours he said to Stoddart:

"I've got an idea. Let's play Houston."

"But we've just been there," said Stoddart.

"Never mind," said Charles. "I'll fix it."

The next day he turned up at Houston and went to Colonel McPherson.

"What, you here again?" he asked.

"We've come back," replied Charles with ready resource, "to play a special benefit for your School Teachers' Association."

The old man chuckled. "Well, if you can get 'em in the house you are all right."

Charles was already planning a series of benefits for volunteer firemen and widows and orphans in future towns. It was a case of "anything to get a crowd." He hesitated a moment, then faced the old man with his winning smile and said:

"Colonel, I wish you would let me have fifty dollars to send back to the company."

"All right, my boy; there's the safe. Help yourself. Hurry up. Let us have a game of casino."

Charles wired the much-needed money to his brother, then came back and dutifully played the game. But neither trumped-up benefits for the most worthy of causes nor the unfailing good-humor of the boyish advance-agent could stem the tide of adversity. Things went from bad to worse. Louise Dillon, all hope of salary gone, gave her little remaining capital to Gustave, saving only enough for her railway fare, and went back to her home in Cincinnati. Stoddart now played more dolefully than ever on his violin, ransacked its recesses, and turned over his last cent for the common good.

"We've got to get back North," said Gustave.

With the utmost effort, and by pawning jewelry and clothes, the company gladly saw the last trace of Texas disappear over the horizon.

It was a hard journey back. At Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Charles had to wait for the company because he did not have enough cash to go on ahead. Here the whole company was stranded until several of the members succeeded in getting enough money from home by wire to send them on.

Memphis proved to be a life-saver. Here the company took a steamboat down the Arkansas. It is notable because thus early Charles showed that eagerness to take a chance which eventually caused his death, for, on this trip, as on theLusitania, he had been warned not to sail.

The river was low and the pilot was reckless. Whenever the boat groaned over a bar Charles would say, "That's great," although the other members of the company shivered with apprehension.

By using every device and resource known to the traveling company of those days, the Stoddart Comedy Company finally reached Richmond, Kentucky. It had left a trail of baggage behind; there was not a watch in the whole aggregation. Charles went on ahead to Cincinnati to book and bill the adjacent towns.

At Richmond Gustave had an inspiration. Then, as always, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was the great life-saver of the harassed and needy theatrical organization. The play was always accessible and it almost invariably drew an audience.

"Why not have a real negro play Uncle Tom?" said Gustave.

So he wired Charles as follows:

Get me an Eva and send her down with Sam Lucas. Be sure to tell Sam to bring his diamonds.

Sam Lucas was a famous negro minstrel who had been with the Callender company. He sported a collection of diamonds that made him the envy and admiration of his colleagues. Gustave knew that these jewels, like Louise Dillon's sealskin sack, meant a meal ticket for the company and transportation in an emergency.

Charles engaged Sallie Cohen (now Mrs. John C. Rice), and sent her down with Lucas, who, by the way, provided the money for the trip. Charles then proceeded to cover his "Lemons" posters with "Uncle Tom's Cabin" printing which he hastily acquired, and awaited results.

"Uncle Tom's Cabin" was played to a packed house at Richmond, and the company was able to get out of Kentucky. Gustave now had visions of big business in Ohio, and especially at Wilmington, which was Sam Lucas's home town. But the result was the usual experience with home patronage of home talent, and only a handful of people came to see the play. Sallie Cohen, despairing of getting her salary, had quit the company, and on this night Polly Stoddart, who was a tall, well-developed woman, had to play Little Eva. When she sat on the lap of Wesley Sisson, who played her father, she not only hid him from sight, but almost crushed him to earth.

Wilmington proved to be the last despairing gasp of the Stoddart Comedy Company, for the trouble-studded tour now ended. Some of Lucas's diamonds were pawned to get the company back to Cincinnati.

The sad news was telegraphed to Charles, who was billing Newport, Kentucky, which is just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati. He received the message while standing on a step-ladder with a paste-brush in his hand. Now came an early evidence of his humor and equanimity. He calmly went on posting the bill for the show that he knew would never appear. Afterward in reciting the incident he made this explanation:

"I didn't want to tell the bill-poster that the company was closed, because he had just made a fresh bucket of paste and I didn't want him to waste it. Besides, he had become enthusiastic at the prospect of seeing a real negro Uncle Tom, and I had just given him some passes for the show. I didn't want all his disappointments to come at one time."

After all the hardships of the previous months, and with salaries unpaid, the company now found itself stranded in the spring of 1878 at the Walnut Street Hotel in Cincinnati. Gustave's problem was to get his people home. Fortunately, most of them lived in the Middle West. By pawning some of his clothes and making other sacrifices he was able to get them off. Only Frank Hartwell and Charles were left behind.

Gustave got a pass to Baltimore, where he borrowed enough money from Callender, then in his decline, to take care of Hartwell. Charles was left behind as security for the whole Frohman bill at the Walnut Street Hotel. Although Charles was amiable and smiling, the hotel thought that his cheerful demeanor was an unsatisfactory return for board and lodging, so he was asked to vacate his room after a few days. He now spent his time walking about the streets and eating one meal a day. At night he sat in the summer-gardens "across the Rhine," listening to the music, and then seeking out a place where he could get a bed for a quarter.

By giving an I O U to the same Pennsylvania ticket-agent who had staked Gustave, and with five dollars telegraphed by the indefatigable brother back in New York, he got as far as Philadelphia. He landed there without a cent in his pocket.

"I must get home," he said.

He got on a day-coach of a New York train without the vestige of a ticket and still penniless. In those days the cars were heated by stoves, and near each stove was a large coal-box.

When Charles heard the conductor's cry, "Tickets, please!" he hid himself in the coal-box and remained there until the awful personage passed by. Being small, he could pull the lid of the box down and be completely hidden from sight. After the conductor passed, he scrambled out and resumed his seat. He had to repeat this performance several times on the trip. Afterward in speaking of it he said:

"I wasn't a bit frightened for myself. I knew I would suffer no harm. My chief concern was for a kind-hearted old man who sat in the seat next to the coal-box. He was much more agitated than I was."

On a bright May afternoon Charles turned up, sooty but smiling, at 250 East Seventy-eighth Street, where the Frohman family then lived. He had walked all the way up-town from the ferry. His first greeting to Gustave was:

"Well, when do we start again?"

PICTURESQUE DAYS AS MINSTREL MANAGER

Insteadof discouraging him, Charles Frohman's baptism of hardship with the John Dillon companies only filled him with a renewed ardor for the theatrical business. The hunger for the road was strong in him. Again it was Gustave who proved to be the good angel, and who now led him to a picturesque experience.

During the summer of 1878 J. H. (Jack) Haverly acquired the Callender Original Georgia Minstrels, and Gustave, who had an important hand in the negotiation, was retained as manager. He started for the Pacific coast with his dusky aggregation, and in Chicago fell in with his new employer.

Haverly was then at the high tide of his extraordinary career. He was in many respects the amusement dictator of his time. Beginning as owner of a small variety theater in Toledo, Ohio, he had risen to be the manager of half a dozen important theaters in New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia. Not less than ten traveling companies bore his name.

By instinct a plunger, his daring deals became the theatrical talk of the country. He was a dashing and conspicuous figure; his spacious shirt-front shone with diamonds, and he wore a large flat-crowned stiff hat in which he carried all his correspondence and private papers.

Haverly specialized in minstrels, for he was a genius at capitalizing the enthusiasm of the theater-going public. Just at this time he was launching the greatest of all his traveling enterprises. To meet the competition of the newly formed Barlow, Wilson, Primrose and West minstrels he decided to merge all his white minstrel companies into the Haverly Mastodons. It was to include forty star performers, more than had ever before been assembled in a minstrel organization. So proud was Haverly of this total that the advertising slogan of the company, which was echoed from coast to coast, and which became a popular theatrical phrase everywhere, was "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty."

Gustave found Haverly in the throes of Mastodon-making. Always solicitous of the family interest, he asked him if he had engaged a treasurer. When Haverly replied that he had not, Gustave immediately spoke up:

"Why don't you hire my brother Charley? He has had experience on the road."

"All right, Gus," he replied. "I've got two Frohmans with me now. If Charley is as good as they are, he is all right."

Thus it came about that for the first time the three Frohman brothers were associated under the same employer.

Gustave wired the good news and transportation to the eager and impatient Charles, who had irked under the inactivity of a hot summer in New York. Gustave added ten dollars and instructed his brother to buy a new suit, for the Frohman family funds were in a more or less sad way.

Henry Frohman's generosity and his absolute inability to press the payment of debts due him had brought the father to a state of financial embarrassment, and the burden of the family support fell upon the sons.

In a few days Charles showed up smiling in Chicago, but he had suffered disaster on the way. The ten-dollar "hand-me-down" suit had faded overnight, and when Charles appeared it was a sad sight.

"You can't meet Jack Haverly in that suit," said Gustave.

"All right," said Charley, "I will go to a tailor and have it fixed in some way."

The tailor, apparently, worked a miracle with the clothes, for Charles became presentable and was introduced to the great man, who, like most other people, readily succumbed to the boy's winning manner.

"You and I will work the public, all right," he said to Charles. What was more important, Haverly informed him that he was to act as treasurer of the Mastodons at a salary of ten dollars a week, with an allowance of one dollar and a half a day for board and lodging.

A serious complication now faced the boy. It was in the middle of July; the company was not to start until August, and he could draw no salary until the engagement began. With the assistance of Gustave he rented a two-dollar-a-week room and existed on a meal-ticket good for twenty-two fifteen-cent meals that he had bought for three dollars.

Charles sat at rehearsals with Haverly. He had a genius for stage effects and made many practical suggestions. The big brass-band, an all-important adjunct of the minstrel show, fascinated him. When the season opened with a flourish the receipts amazed him.

For the first time he came in contact with real money. The gross income of the Dillon company had never exceeded a thousand dollars a week; now he was handling more than that sum every night.

After a brief engagement at the Adelphi Theater in Chicago, which Haverly owned, the "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" started on their long tour which rounded out the amusement apprenticeship of Charles Frohman.

Charles now made his first real appearance before the public, and in spectacular fashion. It was the custom of a minstrel company to parade each day. With their record-breaking organization the Mastodons gave this feature of minstrelsy perhaps its greatest traditions. Wearing shining silk hats, frock-coats, and lavender trousers, and headed by "the world's greatest minstrel band," the "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" swayed the heart and moved the imagination of admiring multitudes wherever they went.

Charles, who to the end of his days despised a silk hat, now wore one for the first time, but under protest. However, he manfully took his place in the front set of fours with the ranking officers of the organization, and marched many a weary mile. So great was his dislike for a silk hat even then that he invariably carried a cap in his pocket and the moment the parade was over the abhorred headpiece was removed.

The first stop of the Mastodons was at Toledo, Ohio. A great crowd assembled around the theater, and the treasurer, a weak little man, seemed afraid to raise the window. "They'll run over me," he whined.

"All right," said Charles. "I'll take the window and sell the tickets."

Up to this time his only box-office experience had been as a mere lad at Hooley's Theater in Brooklyn, but he handled that big crowd with such skill and speed that even "Big Bill" Foote, who was the manager of the company, patted him on the back and said a kind word.

Foote, who was Charles's superior officer on this trip, was a type of the big, loud, blustering theatrical man of the time. He was six feet tall, and he towered over his youthful assistant, who was his exact opposite in manner and speech. Yet between these two men of strange contrast there developed a close kinship. The little, plump, rosy-cheeked treasurer could handle the big, bluff, noisy manager at will. Such was Charles Frohman's experience with men always.

The first tour was replete with stirring incident. When the company reached Bradford, Pennsylvania, they found the town in the throes of oil excitement. Oil was on everybody's tongue and ankle-deep in some of the streets. A great multitude collected at the theater. After the first part of the show the gallery, which was full of people, creaked and settled a few inches, creating a near panic. While this was being subdued an oil-warehouse on the outskirts of the town burst into flames. Most of the volunteer firemen were in the theater watching the minstrels. When an agitated individual out on the sidewalk yelled "Fire!" a real panic started inside the theater and there was a mad rush for the door.

Charles had just finished taking the tickets and stood with the ticket-box in his hand, trying to calm the crowd, but he was as a straw in the wind. The maddened people ran over him. When the excitement cleared away he was found almost buried in mud, mire, and oil outside, his clothes torn to shreds, but he still grasped the precious box in his hand.

Now began a comradeship that was unique in the history of theatricals. The Mastodons, destined for long and continuous association, became a sort of traveling club. It was really a fine group of men, and the favorite of the organization was the rosy little treasurer who day by day fastened himself more firmly in the hearts of his colleagues.

Nor was this due to the fact that he was "Haverly's pocket-book," as the men affectionately called him, and their first aid in all financial need. He was the friend, confidant, and repository of all their troubles. With characteristic humor he gave each member of the company a day on which he could relate his hardships. He had a willing ear and an open hand.

When he could not give them the relief they sought he invariably said with that constant smile, "Well, I sympathize with you, anyhow."

Frohman was custodian of the company funds. One day in Denver four members of the company found themselves without a cent. Charles had tided them over so many difficulties that they hesitated to ask him again. As they talked their troubles over they saw him coming down the street. Instantly all four went down on their knees and held up their hands in supplication. When Charles saw them he said, "How much do you want?" And they got it.

He was always playing some practical joke. With half a dozen members of the company he formed a little club which often had supper after the play. This club was the fountain-head of a thousand jests and pranks. On one occasion Charles suggested that for the sake of the novelty of the thing every member of the club have his head shaved. The group went to a barber-shop. Only one chair was vacant, however, and Charles Cushman got that chair. While his dome was being shorn of every vestige of hair Charles nudged the others and they crept away. When Cushman emerged, bald as a babe, he found himself alone. The joke was on him.

In his joke Charles was usually aided and abetted by Johnnie Rice, one of the many famous minstrels of that name. Rice could never resist the temptation to stroke long whiskers. Whenever the house was unusually big Charles took Rice out of the company for the first part and got him to assist him with the ticket-taking. Any spectator with a long facial hirsute growth was sure to have it caressed to the accompaniment of "Ticket, please."

Sometimes the men in the company, knowing of Rice's eccentricity, often watched the gallery for such a performance, and it invariably made them laugh. Once while the Mastodons were playing an engagement at the Olympic in St. Louis they were surprised to find Rice sitting in a front orchestra seat, wearing a long pair of Dundreary whiskers. He looked so solemn that every one on the stage burst into laughter. It almost broke up the performance. Charles had provided the whiskers.

It was on this minstrel tour that Charles Frohman gave the first real expression to his talents for publicity. Everything about a minstrel company was showy and flashy. So Charles originated a unique idea of establishing a reputation for solvency. He bought a small iron safe about three feet high. On it were painted in large gilt letters, "Treasurer, Haverly's Mastodon Minstrels."

In reality there was very little need for this safe, because "Jack" Haverly's constant and insistent demands for cash kept the company coffers stripped of surplus.

Charles saw in this safe a spectacular means of advertising. It was put conspicuously on the top of the first load of baggage that went to the hotel. He always engaged at least four men to unload it from the truck. It was then placed in a conspicuous position in the hotel lobby and invariably drew a comment like this:

"Gee whiz! That Haverly show has got so much money that it is carrying a safe to hold it."

This was precisely the response that Charles desired. No sooner was the safe unloaded in the lobby than Charles approached it with great ceremony, holding a bunch of one-dollar bills in his hand. This immediately attracted a crowd. With an admiring gallery, he would stow away the money. Just as soon as the crowd dispersed he would be back on the job removing this "prop" capital to where it was needed.

He was always alert to publicity possibilities. Among other things he organized a drum corps composed of volunteers who were only too glad to serve him. He inspired this corps to such proficiency that its marching and counter-marching became a feature of the parades. By diverting the drum corps to one part of the town and the parade to another, having them unite later on, he was able to attract two big street crowds and then bring them together at a common point.

All the while the boy was growing in responsibility. Without a murmur he assumed practically all the duties of manager. He arranged the parades, visited the newspaper offices, devised new numbers for the company, handled the money, and always remained serene, undisturbed, smiling, and optimistic.

Now came evidence of his initiative. While his first desire was to build up the attractiveness of his bill, he combined with it a genuine desire to develop his associates. Frequently he would say to men like the three Gorman brothers—George, James, and John—who were among his prime pals in the company:

"Why don't you rehearse some new steps? I'll go on and watch you at rehearsals and we can put it in the bill."

Out of such incidents as this came a dozen new features.

During this tour Charles displayed on many occasions what amounted to a reckless disregard of danger. He had proved on the Dillon tour that he was always willing to take a chance.

Once while climbing a steep incline on the way to Grass Valley in California their special train stopped. When he asked what the trouble was he was told that they would have to wait on a switch while another train came down the single track. He was afraid he would miss the evening's performance, so he asked the engineer if he could beat the down train to the double track. On being told that there was a chance, he said:

"Take it and go as fast as you can." He made his town in time.

Again in Colorado his train was stopped by a slight fire on a bridge. He urged the conductor to go across, and was so insistent that the man yielded, and the train got over just before the flames leaped up and the structure began to crackle.

What would have been an ordinary theatrical season waned. A minstrel company, however, seldom closed for the summer, so the tour continued. For the first time Charles Frohman crossed the continent. Despite its high-sounding name and the glitter and splash that marked its spectacular progress from place to place, the long trip of the Mastodons was not without its hardships, for business was often bad. Nor did it lack interesting episodes.

Once while making an over-Sunday jump from St. Paul to Omaha the train broke down somewhere in Iowa, and at seven o'clock the company was four hours from its destination. The house had been sold out. Charles immediately began to send optimistic and encouraging telegrams.

"Hold the crowd," he wired. "We are on the way. Tell them we will give them a double show."

From every station he sent on some cheering message. When the train was half an hour from Omaha he sought out Sam Devere, the prize banjoist of the company and a great fun-maker.

"Go into the baggage-car and black up," he said to Sam. "I want to rush you on to the theater as soon as we get to town."

They reached Omaha at eleven-fifteen o'clock. Charles hustled Devere up to the opera-house in a hack. The comedian went before the curtain and entertained the audience until midnight. When the company arrived not twenty people had left. The final curtain dropped at two-thirty o'clock before a delighted but weary crowd. The telegrams from the treasurer which were read to the audience had saved the day—and the receipts.

In the early stages of this long journey of the Mastodons came an episode that made an indelible impress upon the memory of young Charles. In view of the later history of the two actors in it, it is both picturesque and historic.

It was in Cleveland, and the day was hot. The Mastodons had just finished their parade, and Charles, weary, perspiring, and wearing the abhorred silk hat, entered the box-office of the Opera House on Cleveland Avenue. Sitting in the treasurer's seat at the window he saw a sturdy lad fingering a pile of silver dollars. He slipped them in and out with an amazing dexterity. Hearing a noise, he looked up and beheld young Frohman with the tile tilted back on his head.

The boys' eyes met. Into each came a wistful look.

"I wish I had that silk hat of yours," said the boy at the window.

"I wish I could do what you are doing with that money," was the response from the envied one.

Such was the first meeting between Charles Frohman and A. L. Erlanger.

Here is another episode of those early days that resulted in a life-long and significant friendship. In a Philadelphia newspaper office Charles met a rangy, keen-eyed young man named Alf Hayman, who was advance-agent for Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Florence. When Hayman and Charles had concluded their business they started out for a walk. The Colonnade Hotel, at the corner of Fifteenth and Chestnut streets, was then the fashionable hotel of the city. In the course of this walk the two boys (they were each scarcely twenty) stopped in front of the hostelry, and Charles said:

"Some day I hope to have enough money to stop at the Colonnade."

He never forgot this, and whenever he met Hayman in Philadelphia he would always insist upon walking over to the hotel and recalling the conversation. Hayman afterward became general manager of all the Charles Frohman forces and remained until the end perhaps the closest of all the business associates of the manager.

Thus passed the years 1878 and 1879. Charles was growing in authority and experience until he was really doing all of "Big Bill" Foote's work and his own. Now came a great and thrilling experience.

Haverly sent the Mastodons on their first trip to England, and Charles naturally went along. It was the first of the many trips he was to make to the country which in time he was to annex to his own amusement kingdom.

In July, 1880, the company sailed on theCanada, and their arrival in London created a sensation. The men, headed by "Big Bill" Foote and Charles Frohman—"The Long and the Short of It," as they were called—marched with their hat-boxes to the old Helvetia Hotel in Soho.

Overnight their printing—the first colored paper ever used on an English bill-board—was posted, and it startled the staid Londoners. It made them realize that a wide-awake aggregation was in town. Charles knew that a real opportunity confronted him, and he rose to the occasion.

The engagement opened on July 30th at Her Majesty's Theater. The sacred precincts that Patti, Neilson, Gerster, and Campanini had adorned now resounded with the jokes and rang with the old-time plantation melodies of the American negro. The début was an enormous success and the prosperity of the engagement was insured.

Before long came a request from the royal household to make ready the royal box. The fun-loving Prince of Wales, afterward King Edward VII., wanted to see an American minstrel show.

But it was the wide-awake Charles who had started the machinery that led to this royal dictate. He realized soon after his arrival how important a royal visit would be. He got in touch with the right people, and the net result was that on a certain night in December the red canopy and carpet that betoken the royal visit were spread before Her Majesty's Theater.

By virtue of his rank "Big Bill" Foote should have received the royal party on behalf of the company. But Foote fled from the responsibility, and Charles, wearing his much-hated evening clothes and the equally despised silk hat, did the honors. The royal party included Edward, his wife, Alexandra (now the Queen Mother), his brother Clarence (now dead), and a troop of royal children old enough to stay up late at nights.

With his usual foresight Frohman had prepared himself for all the formalities that attended a royal visit to the theater. Among other things he found out that precedent decreed that the entire performance must be directed toward the royal box. With much effort he carefully impressed this fact upon the company. He even had a rehearsal the morning of the royal night and all eyes were ordered to be "dressed" toward the big, canopied box.

But these well-laid plans miscarried, for this is what happened:

The curtain had risen on the assembled fun-makers; their swinging opening chorus had given the show a rousing start, and the interlocutor had said those well-known introductory minstrel words, "Gentlemen, be seated." The royal party was well bestowed in its place and every gleaming eyeball on the stage was centered on the glittering representatives of the reigning house of Britain. Just at that moment a flutter ran through the theater. The only remaining vacant box, and opposite to the one used by the royal family, was suddenly occupied by the most entrancing and radiant feminine vision that these American minstrels had ever seen. It was Lily Langtry, then in the full tide of her marvelous beauty, and wearing an extremely low-cut evening gown.

The Mastodons were only human. They had never beheld such loveliness, to say nothing of a gown cut so low. They forgot all the careful coaching of Frohman and fixed their eyes on the beauty-show in the box.

Charles stood anxiously in the back of the house, fearing that the royal displeasure would be aroused. But his fears were groundless. The hypnotized minstrels on the stage were only part of an admiring host that had for its most distinguished head the Prince of Wales himself.

The "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" now became the vogue in London. Royalty had set the stamp of its approval, and aristocracy flocked. One night in the momentary absence of the chief usher, Charles, who was always on the job, escorted a distinguished group of nobility to a box. After bowing them in a member of the party slipped a shilling into his hand, which Frohman, of course, refused.

"Take it, you beggar," said the peer, with some irritation, throwing the coin at him.

"Thank you, sir," responded Frohman, picking it up and slipping it into his pocket. He kept it as a lucky-piece for twenty years, often telling the story of how he got it.

On Christmas Day, 1880, came a concrete evidence of the affection in which Charles was held by his minstrel colleagues. They assembled on the stage of Her Majesty's Theater and presented him with a gold watch and chain. The charm was a tiny reproduction of the famous safe that Charles had introduced into the company, and which was his inseparable companion. Charles never carried a watch, and this timepiece, together with many other similar gifts, was put away among his treasures.

One day, accompanied by Robert Filkins, the advance-agent, Charles had occasion to see Col. M. B. Leavitt, who was a notable theatrical figure of the time, with extensive interests in this country and abroad. After Leavitt had regaled the younger men with an account of his varied activities, Charles suddenly exclaimed to him:

"Gee! But you've got London by the neck, haven't you?"

Many years later Leavitt again met Charles Frohman in London. The encounter this time took place on the Strand, in front of the Savoy, where Frohman was installed in his usual luxurious suite. He now controlled half a dozen theaters in the British metropolis and he was a world theatrical figure. Leavitt, whose memory is one of the wonders of the amusement business, clapped the magnate on the shoulder and repeated the words spoken to him so long ago:

"Gee! Frohman,you've got London by the neck, haven't you?"

After a tour of the provinces the company returned home and opened in Brooklyn.

With the return to America came the first realization of one of Charles Frohman's earlier dreams. "Big Bill" Foote, fascinated by the lure of English life, bought a small hotel near London and settled down. This left the managership of the company vacant. Although Charles had practically done all the work for nearly a year, he was, so far as title was concerned, treasurer.

Immediately there was a scramble for the position of manager. Among those who sought it were Robert Filkins, William S. Strickland, and a number of other mature and experienced men.

But when the company heard that an outsider sought the position to which Charles was entitled there was great indignation. A meeting of protest, instigated by the Gorman brothers and Eddie Quinn, was held on the stage in Brooklyn, and a round-robin, signed by every member of the company, was despatched to Jack Haverly, insisting that Charles Frohman be made the manager.

A little later Charles walked back on the stage after the night's performance and quietly remarked:

"Boys, I am your new manager."

A great shout of delight went up. The rosy, boyish youth (for he had scarcely entered his twenties) was lifted to the shoulders of half a dozen men and to the words of a favorite minstrel song, "Hear Those Bells," a triumphant march was made around the stage. None of the many honors that came to him in his later years touched him quite so deeply as that affectionate demonstration.

It was now 1881, and once more the "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" set forth to rediscover America, with Charles Frohman as manager. His name now appeared at the head of the bill, and to celebrate the great event Eddy Brooke wrote a "Frohman March," which had a conspicuous place on the program.

Strangely prophetic of the circumstances which brought about his untimely death was an incident which occurred while the company was going by boat from New York to New London. It was a bitter cold night when the aggregation boarded the oldJohn B. Starin. The decks were piled with waste, cord, and jute for the New England mills.

"What a fine night for a fire on board!" remarked Frohman as he led his "soldiers," as he always called the Mastodons, aboard. Everybody retired early. At two o'clock in the morning there was great excitement. Men rushed frantically about; there were calls for hose, and the Mastodons, most of them clad in their night-clothes and trousers, rushed, frightened, on deck. They found a fire raging aft.

Immediately panic reigned. The coolest man aboard was the smallest. Here, there, and everywhere went Charles, urging everybody to be quiet.

"There is no danger," he said. "Let us all go in the cabin and wait."

Under his direction the passengers assembled in the water-soaked saloon and there waited until the flames were subdued. Here was evidence of the equanimity with which he faced disaster and which marked him on that ill-starred day when he was plunged to his death in the Irish Sea.

On through the summer of 1881 the Mastodons went their way. Charles was now able to watch the minstrel parade from the sidewalk, but he was still the friend, philosopher, and guide of the company to which he was now bound by nearly three years of constant association.

They played Washington during the Garfield inaugural week. Charles realized that here was a great opportunity for spectacular publicity. First of all he took his now famous band down to the Willard Hotel and serenaded the new executive. A vast crowd gathered; the President-elect appeared at the window, smiled and bowed, and then sent for the little manager, to whom he expressed his personal thanks. Then a heaven-born opportunity literally fell into his hands.

To the same hotel came the Massachusetts Phalanx, of Lowell, which had secured a conspicuous place in the inaugural parade. Their arrangement committee had seen the Haverly parade, and the members were so greatly impressed with the band that they asked if its services could be secured.

"Certainly," said Frohman. "You can have not only the band, but the whole company will escort you in the parade."

Thus it came about that the Haverly Mastodon Minstrels headed the third division of the Garfield inaugural parade. Ever mindful and proud of his men, Frohman, at his personal expense, bought a buttonhole bouquet for every member for the occasion and fastened it on their coats himself. On the sidewalk he followed with admiring eye and flushed face the progress of his company.

By a curious coincidence the Haverly Mastodons played Washington during the week of the Garfield funeral, and the band marched in the funeral parade to the station, playing "Nearer, My God, to Thee."

A happier sequel of the inaugural episode came when the minstrels next played Lowell, where they were received by the Phalanx in full uniform, paraded through the town, with Charles marching proudly at the head. The Phalanx was host at a banquet given at the armory after the performance.

The Mastodons were now making their way to the Pacific coast. At the same time Gustave Frohman was in San Francisco with the Number One "Hazel Kirke" Company, direct from the Madison Square Theater in New York, which was playing at the California Theater.

One morning in May, 1881, he received the following telegram from Charles, dated Salt Lake City:

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