Dancers
What I have said does not describe all theatres which may have "fashionable vaudeville" over their doors. Godliness has proved so profitable that there be here, as elsewhere, wolves masquerading in woollens, but the houses I have described are well known. Nor have the stringent regulations of these theatres exiled the "song-and-dance man," who was wontto rely on risqué songs and suggestive jokes—they have only forced him to happier and saner efforts, and the result is not Calvinistic; on the contrary, nowhere are audiences jollier, quicker, and more intelligent, and the world of fashion even is not absent from these theatres primarily designed for the wholesome middle classes.
She ruled, she reigned, she triumphed.—Page492.
She ruled, she reigned, she triumphed.—Page492.
She ruled, she reigned, she triumphed.—Page492.
I never for a moment suspected that these admirable regulations could be meant for me, or that indeed I was in need of rules and regulations, but my self-righteousness, as was meet, met with discipline. I had a line in my little farce to this effect: "I'll have the devil's own time explaining," etc. I had become so familiar with the devil that I was not even aware of his presence, but the management unmasked me and I received a polite request (which was a command) to cast out the devil. I finally got used to substituting the word "dickens." Later on, the local manager, a big, handsome man, faultlessly attired, in person begged me "to soften the asperities." Need I add that this occurred in Boston? When I travel again I shall leave my asperities at home.
A friend of mine was leaving a spacious vaudeville theatre, along with the audience, and was passing through the beautiful corridor, when one of the multitude of uniformed attachés handed him this printed notice:
Gentlemen will kindly avoid carrying cigars or cigarettes in their mouths while in the building, and greatly obligeThe Management.
Gentlemen will kindly avoid carrying cigars or cigarettes in their mouths while in the building, and greatly oblige
The Management.
My friend was guilty of carrying in his hand an unlighted cigar.
How careful of the conduct of their patrons the management is may be seen from the following printedrequestswith which the employees are armed:
Gentlemen will kindly avoid the stamping of feet and pounding of canes on the floor, and greatly oblige the Management. All applause is best shown by clapping of hands.Please don't talk during acts, as it annoys those about you, and prevents a perfect hearing of the entertainment.The Management.
Gentlemen will kindly avoid the stamping of feet and pounding of canes on the floor, and greatly oblige the Management. All applause is best shown by clapping of hands.
Please don't talk during acts, as it annoys those about you, and prevents a perfect hearing of the entertainment.
The Management.
When we were playing in Philadelphia a young woman was singing with what is known as the "song-sheet," at the same theatre with us. Her costume consisted of silk stockings, knee-breeches, and a velvet coat—the regulation page's dress, decorous enough to the unsanctified eye; but one day the proprietor himself happened in unexpectedly (as is his wont) and the order quick and stern went forth that the young woman was not to appear again except in skirts—her street-clothes, if she had nothing else, and street-clothes it came about.
These are the chronicles of what is known among the vaudeville fraternity as "The Sunday-school Circuit," and the proprietor of "The Sunday-school Circuit" is the inventor of vaudeville as we know it. This which makes for righteousness, as is usual, makes also for great and abiding cleanliness—physical as well as moral. I almost lost things in my Philadelphia dressing-room—it was cleaned so constantly. Paternal, austere perhaps, but clean, gloriously clean!
The character of the entertainment is always the same. There is a sameness even about its infinite variety. No act or"turn" consumes much over thirty minutes. Everyone's taste is consulted, and if one objects to the perilous feats of the acrobats or jugglers he can read his programme or shut his eyes for a few moments and he will be compensated by some sweet bell-ringing or a sentimental or comic song, graceful or grotesque dancing, a one-act farce, trained animals, legerdemain, impersonations, clay modelling, the biograph pictures, or the stories of the comic monologuist. The most serious thing about the programme is that seriousness is barred, with some melancholy results. From the artist who balances a set of parlor furniture on his nose to the academic baboon, there is one concentrated, strenuous struggle for a laugh. No artist can afford to do without it. It hangs like a solemn and awful obligation over everything. Once in a while an artist who juggles tubs on his feet is a comedian, but not always. It would seem as if a serious person would be a relief now and then. But so far the effort to introduce a serious note, even by dramatic artists, has been discouraged. I suspect the serious sketches have not been of superlative merit. Though this premium is put upon a laugh, everyone is aware of the difference between the man who rings a bell at forty paces with a rifle, and the man who smashes it with a club, and the loudest laugh is sometimes yoked with a timid salary. The man who said: "Let me get out of here or I'll lose my self-respect—I actually laughed," goes to the vaudeville theatres, too, and must be reckoned with.
Singer
The orchestra's place is filled by pianists.—Page493.
The orchestra's place is filled by pianists.—Page493.
The orchestra's place is filled by pianists.—Page493.
So far as the character of the entertainment goes, vaudeville has the "open door." Whatever or whoever can interest an audience for thirty minutes or less, and has passed quarantine, is welcome. The conditions in the regular theatres are not encouraging to progress. To produce a play or launch a star requires capital of from $10,000 upward. There is no welcome and no encouragement. The door is shut and locked. And even with capital, the conditions are all unfavorable toproof. But if you can sing or dance or amuse people in any way; if you think you can write a one-act play, the vaudeville theatre will give you a chance to prove it. One day of every week is devoted to these trials. If at this trial you interest a man who is looking for good material, he will put you in the bill for one performance, and give you a chance at an audience, which is much better. The result of this open-door attitude is a very interesting innovation in vaudeville which is more or less recent, but seems destined to last—the incursion of the dramatic artist into vaudeville.
Singing Soubrettes.
Singing Soubrettes.
Singing Soubrettes.
The managers of the vaudeville theatres are not emotional persons, and there were some strictly business reasons back of the actor's entrance into vaudeville. We do not live by bread alone, but by the saving graces of the art of advertising. It was quite impossible to accentuate sixteen or eighteen features of a bill. Some one name was needed to give it character and meaning at a glance. A name that had already become familiar was preferred. The actor's name served to head the bill and expand the type and catch the eye, and hence arose the vaudeville term—"Head-Liner."
This word is not used in contracts, but it is established and understood, and carries with it well-recognized rights and privileges, such as being featured in the advertisements, use of the star dressing-room, and the favorite place on the bill; for it is not conducive to one's happiness or success to appear during the hours favored by the public for coming in or going out. The manager was not the loser, for many people who had never been inside a vaudeville theatre were attracted thither by the name of some well-known and favorite actor, and became permanent patrons of these houses.
At first the actor, who is sentimental rather than practical, was inclined to the belief that it was beneath his dignity to appear on the stage with "a lot of freaks," but he was tempted by salaries no one else could afford to pay (sometimes as high as $500 to $1,000 per week) and by the amount of attention afforded to the innovation by the newspapers. He was told that if he stepped from the sacred precincts of art, the door of the temple would be forever barred against him. The dignity of an artist is a serious thing, but the dignity of the dollar is also a serious thing. None of the dire suppositions happened. The door of the temple proved to be a swinging door, opening easily both ways, and the actor goes back and forth as there is demand for him and as the dollar dictates.Indeed, the advertising secured by association with "a lot of freaks" oiled the door for the actor's return to the legitimate drama at anincreased salary.
Manifestly, it has been a boon to the "legitimate" artist. To the actor who has starred; who has had the care of a large company, with its certain expenses and its uncertain receipts; who has, in addition, responsibility for his own performance and for the work of the individual members of his company and for the work of the company as a whole, vaudeville offers inducements not altogether measured in dollars and cents. He is rid not only of financial obligation, but of a thousand cares and details that twist and strain a nervous temperament. He hands over to the amiable manager the death of the widely mourned Mr. Smith, and prevalent social functions, Lent and the circus, private and public calamities, floods and railroad accidents, the blizzard of winter and the heat of summer, desolating drought and murderous rains, the crops, strikes and panics, wars and pestilences and opera. It is quite a bunch of thorns that he hands over!
Time and terms are usually arranged by agents, who get five per cent. of the actor's salary for their services. Time and terms arranged, the rest is easy. The actor provides himself and assistants and his play or vehicle. His income and outcome are fixed, and he knows at the start whether he is to be a capitalist at the end of the year; for he runs almost no risk of not getting his salary in the well-known circuits.
The Monologuist.
The Monologuist.
The Monologuist.
It is then incumbent on him to forward property and scene-plots, photographs and cast to the theatre two weeks before he opens, and on arrival, he plays twenty or thirty minutes in the afternoon and the same at night. There his responsibility ends. It involves the trifling annoyance of dressing and making up twice a day. In and about New York the actor pays the railroad fares of himself and company, but when he goes West or South, the railroad fares (not including sleepers) are provided by the management.
A couple of stage hands ran in and shut you out with two flats upon which were painted in huge letters "N. G."—Page494.
A couple of stage hands ran in and shut you out with two flats upon which were painted in huge letters "N. G."—Page494.
A couple of stage hands ran in and shut you out with two flats upon which were painted in huge letters "N. G."—Page494.
The great circuit which covers the territory west of Chicago keeps an agent in New York and one in Chicago to facilitate the handling of their big interests. These gentlemen purchase tickets, arrange for sleepers, take care of baggage, and lubricate the wheels of progress from New York to San Francisco and back again.The actor's only duty is to live up to the schedule made and provided.
The Human Lizard and the Human Frog.—Page494.
The Human Lizard and the Human Frog.—Page494.
The Human Lizard and the Human Frog.—Page494.
The main disadvantage of the Western trip is the loss of a week going and one coming, as there is no vaudeville theatre between Omaha and San Francisco. To avoid the loss of a week on my return I contracted for two nights at the Salt Lake Theatre. My company consisted of four people all told, and my ammunition, suited to that calibre, was three one-act plays. To give the entire evening's entertainment at a first-class theatre, at the usual prices, with four people was a novel undertaking.
I finally determined to add to my mammoth aggregation a distinctly vaudeville feature, and while in San Francisco I engaged a young woman who was to fill in the intermissions with her song-and-dance specialty. Scorning painful effort to escape the conventional, I billed her as "The Queen of Vaudeville," whatever that may mean. We were caught in a tunnel fire at Summit and delayed thirty-six hours. I threatened the railroad officials with various and awful consequences, but the best I could do was to get them to drag my theatre-trunks around the tunnel by hand over a mile and a half of mountain trail, newly made, and get me into Salt Lake just in time to miss my opening night, with a big advance sale and the heart-rendings incident to money refunded. We were in time to play the second night, but my Queen, starting from 'Frisco on a later train, had shown no signs of appearing when the curtain rose. I made the usual apologies. The evening's entertainment was half over when a carriage came tearing up to the theatre and my Queen burst into the theatre without music, trunks, costumes, make-up, supper.
She borrowed a gown from my ingenue, which was much too small for her; a pair of slippers from my wife, which were much too big for her; make-up from both ladies, and went on. She leaned over, whispered the key to the leader of the orchestra and began to sing. The orchestra evolved a chord now and then, jiggled and wiggled, stalled, flew the track, crawled apologetically back, did its amiable best individually, but its amiable worst collectively. No mere man could have lived through it. But the young woman justified my billing. She ruled, she reigned, she triumphed. Pluck and good humor always win, and so did the Queen of Vaudeville.
Dancer
When high-class musical artists and dramatic sketches were first introduced into vaudeville, I understand policemen had to be stationed in the galleries to compel respectful attention, but now these acts are the principal features of every bill, and if they have real merit the gallery-gods are the first to appreciate it. So it would seem that vaudeville has torpedoed the ancient superstition that the manager is always forced to give the public just what it wants. At first his efforts were not taken seriously either by the actor himself or the public, and many well-known artists failed to "make good," as the expression is, largely because they used "canned" or embalmed plays; that is, hastily and crudely condensed versions of well-known plays; but many succeeded, and the result has been a large increase in the number of good one-act farces and comedies, and a distinct elevation in the performance and the patronage of the vaudeville theatres. This has been a gain to everybody concerned.
It cannot be denied that the vaudeville"turn" is an experience for the actor. The intense activity everywhere, orderly and systematic though it is, is confusing. The proximity to the "educated donkey," and some not so educated; the variegated and motley samples of all strange things in man and beast; the fact that the curtain never falls, and the huge machine never stops to take breath until 10.30 at night; the being associated after the style of criminals with a number, having your name or number shot into a slot in the proscenium arch to introduce you to your audience; the shortness of your reign, and the consequent necessity of capturing your audience on sight—all this, and some other things, make the first plunge unique in the actor's experience.
Irish Comedians.
Irish Comedians.
Irish Comedians.
One comedian walks on and says, "Hello, audience!" and no further introduction is needed; for the audience is trained to the quick and sharp exigencies of the occasion, and neither slumbers nor sleeps.
One of the first things to surprise the actor in the "continuous" house is the absence of an orchestra. The orchestra's place is filled by pianists who labor industriously five hours a day each. As they practically live at the piano, their knowledge of current music and their adaptability and skill are often surprising, but they are the most universally abused men I ever met. Everyone who comes off the stage Monday afternoon says of the pianist that he ruins their songs; he spoils their acts; he has sinister designs on their popularity, and he wishes to wreck their future. The pianist, on the other hand, says he doesn't mind his work—the five thumping, tyrannous hours—it is the excruciating agony of being compelled to sit through the efforts of the imbecile beings on the stage. It is the point of view!
The Monday-afternoon bill is a tentative one, but thereafter one's position on the bill and the time of one's performance are fixed and mathematical for the remainder of the week. The principal artists appear only twice a day, once in the afternoon and once in the evening, but there is an undivided middle, composed of artists not so independent as some others, which "does three turns" a day (more on holidays), and forms what is picturesquely known as the "supper bill." The "supper bill" explains itself. It lasts from five o'clock, say, till eight or eight-thirty. Who the singular people are who do not eat, or who would rather see the undivided middle than eat, will always be a mystery to me. But if they were notin esse, and in the audience, the management would certainly never retain the "supper bill."
The man who arranges the programme has to have some of the qualities of a general. To fix eighteen or nineteen different acts into the exact time allotted, and so to arrange them that the performance shall never lapse or flag; to see that the "turns" which require only a front scene can be utilized to set the stage for the "turns" which require a full stage, requires judgment and training; but there is very little confusion even at the first performance, and none thereafter.
Many of our best comedians, men and women, have come from the variety stage, and it is rather remarkable that some of our best actors have of late turned their attention to it. This interchange of courtesies has brought out some amusing contrasts. A clever comedian of a comic-opera organization was explaining to me his early experience in the "old days," when he was a song-and-dance man. "The tough manager," he said, "used tostand in the wings with a whistle, and if he didn't like your act he blew it and a couple of stage hands ran in and shut you out from your audience with two flats upon which were painted in huge letters 'N. G.,' and that was the end of your engagement." Then he proceeded to tell with honest pride of his struggles, and his rise in the world of art. "And now," said he to me, "I can say 'cawn't' as well as you can."
German Dialect Comedians.
German Dialect Comedians.
German Dialect Comedians.
Our first day in vaudeville was rich in experience for us, and particularly for one of the members of my little company. He was already busy at the dressing-table making up, when the two other occupants of his room entered—middle-aged, bald-headed, bandy-legged little men, who quickly divested themselves of their street-clothes, and then mysteriously disappeared from sight. Suddenly a deep-drawn sigh welled up from the floor, and turning to see what had become of his companions, the actor saw a good-humored face peering up out of a green-striped bundle of assorted legs and arms. He was face to face with the Human Lizard, and his partner in the Batrachian business, the Human Frog.
A Deep Sigh
"Good Lord! what are you doing?" exclaimed Mr. Roberts.
"Loosenin' up!"—laconically.
"But do you always do that?"
"Yes.Now!"
"Whynow?"
"Well, I'm a little older than I was when I began this business, and yer legs git stiff, ye know. I remember when I could tie a knot in either leg without cracking a joint, but now I am four-flushing until I can get enough to retire."
"Four-flushing?"
"Yes, doin' my turn one card shy. You understand."
And the striped bundle folded in and out on itself and tied itself in bows, ascots, and four-in-hands until every joint in the actor's body was cracking in sympathy.
Meanwhile his partner was standing apart with one foot touching the low ceiling, and his hands clutching two of the clothes-hooks, striving for the fifth card to redeemhisfour-flush.
"Number fourteen!" shouts the call-boy through the door.
"That's us!"
And the four-flushers unwound and, gathering their heads and tails under their arms, glided away for the stage.
Presently they were back panting and perspiring, with the information that there was a man in one of the boxes who never turned his head to look at their act; that there was a pretty girl in another box fascinated by it; that the audience had relatives in the ice business and were incapable of a proper appreciation of the double split and the great brother double tie and slide—whatever that may be; and the two athletes passed the alcohol bottle, and slipped gracefully back into their clothes and private life.
Rag-time Dance.
Rag-time Dance.
Rag-time Dance.
This unique and original world has its conventions, too, quite as hard and fast as elsewhere. The vaudeville dude always bears an enormous cane with a spike in the end of it even though the style in canes may be a bamboo switch. The comedian will black his face, though he never makes the lightest pretence to negro characterization, under the delusion that the black face and kinky hair and short trousers are necessary badges of the funny man. The vaudeville "artist" and his partner will "slang" each other and indulge in brutal personalities under the theory that they are guilty of repartee; and with a few brilliant exceptions, they all steal from each other jokes and gags and songs and "business," absolutely without conscience. So that if a comedian has originated a funny story that makes a hit in New York, by the time he reaches Philadelphia he finds that another comedian has filched it and told it in Philadelphia, and the originator finds himself a dealer in second-hand goods.
It is manifest, I think, that vaudeville is very American. It touches us and our lives at many places. It appeals to the business man, tired and worn, who drops in for half an hour on his way home; to the person who has an hour or two before a train goes, or before a business appointment; to the woman who is wearied of shopping; to the children who love animals and acrobats; to the man with his sweetheart or sister; to the individual who wants to be diverted but doesn't want to think or feel; to the American of all grades and kinds who wants a great deal for his money. The vaudeville theatre belongs to the era of the department store and the short story. It may be a kind of lunch-counter art, but then art is so vague and lunch is so real.
And I think I may add that if anyone has anything exceptional in the way of art, the vaudeville door is not shut to that.
O
ONE day, early in June—I cannot recall the exact date—Mrs. Timothy Fennessey, née O'Connor, presented her husband with a fine ten-pound boy. Now, the Fennesseys are of royal descent, as well as are the O'Connors. The last of the House of Fennessey (Tim was collaterally descended) was slain in battle, if I be not mistaken; still, I cannot vouch for this. He may have been assassinated, struck by lightning, or drowned in a bag, as many of Ireland's kings were. I am quite sure, however, he did not die in his bed. Very, very few of those whose names appear in the chronological table of Ireland's rulers reached so prosaic an end as natural death.
Thus, by the wedding of Mollie O'Connor with Tim Fennessey, two royal houses were united, and, as you may imagine, the Heir Apparent was a personage of no small importance.
One week after the baby's birth, his grandfather, dear old O'Connor himself, came to the office to call upon Mr. Cutting and to inform him of the new arrival. Incidentally, I had heard the news some days before, and had been from that time expecting a visit from O'Connor. So, when I saw the office-door slowly and noiselessly move inward, I was quite prepared to see the royal grandparent. But I was not prepared to see so modest an entrance—to use the parlance of the stage.
The door moved inward, gingerly, for perhaps a foot; next I caught sight of a homely, well-used hand clasped about its outer edge. Then followed a much-brushed, tall silk hat of ancient design and of great respectability. This hat was held by the fitting fellow of the hand I had first seen and that still grasped the door-rim. Now, from between the two, came in the white-halo-ed, wrinkled face of Michael J., lineal descendant of Roderic, last King of Ireland.
"Mr. Cuttin', sor," I heard in a husky, happy, excited whisper; "are you busy, sor?" Mr. Cutting looked up from his desk and called out in his brusque, pleasant way:
"Hello! That you, Michael? Not too busy to seeyou. Come right in." Then followed the real entrance; for what I have thus far described might better be called "an appearance," to again use the vernacular of the stage. With hurried, tender steps, O'Connor almost danced across the room to where Mr. Cutting was seated. His face was completely covered with one expansive smile of radiant happiness, and, as if to even emphasize this, when he had reached his short journey's end, he upraised both his hands, the right one still grasping the royal headgear, and exclaimed in tones of awe at his own joy:
"Oh my, oh my, oh my! Shure, Mr. Cuttin', you should see him!"
"Who?" replied Mr. Cutting, laconically, and with careful indifference to grammar.
"The little felly. Mollie, me daughter, that is now Mrs. Fennessey, do be afther havin' a fine boy. Ah-h! He is a marvil."
"And how is Mollie?" asked Mr. Cutting.
"Shure Mollie's well. She is a fine, strong girl." O'Connor dismissed the interpolation with a kindly wave of the hand and immediately returned to the main proposition. "But the little felly!" At this point he so far forgot himself as to pull his chair close to Mr. Cutting's and to place one of his honest hands on that gentleman's knee. Mr. Cutting quietly allowed his own to rest for a moment upon that of his old friend, and said:
"Tell me all about him, Mike."
In response to this invitation, O'Connor gave his enthusiasm, and his narrative and descriptive powers full rein. "Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor," he began, with manifest determination to do the subject full justice; "as I said before, he is a marvil. Listen, now; yister' mawnin' I wint, as is me custom, to see Mollie an' the little felly."
Here Mr. Cutting, with gentle malice aforethought, again checked the flow, ashe gravely winked at me, aside. "By the way, how is Tim Fennessey?" he asked.
"Just the same," O'Connor replied to the interruption. "He do be doin' his worruk as ushal—but wid wan per-pet-chill grin on him." The old man paused long enough to chuckle, then proceeded: "Shure we all av us has that. But lemme till ye, sor. When I leaned over to look at him——"
"Who?" said Mr. Cutting again, keenly enjoying the narration, and evidently anxious to have no mistake or lapse in its progression.
"The little felly, av course," said O'Connor, for once, I believe, doubting Mr. Cutting's mental capacity. "Begorra, phwat do you think, sor? Up kem the two little fists av him—the two to wanst, moind you—an' him but wan week ould!—an' grab me be me whishkers, here. Thin he pulledan'he pulled. Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, what wid de drag on me hair, an' the joy in me heart, I akchilly cried. Then the ould woman—she is mostly at Mollie's now, except whin I needs me meals—you know how modthers is, sor—she sez to me, 'Michael, dear,' she sez, 'go away now, you, from the child. You are annoyin' him,' she sez; an' all the while me unabil to move." O'Connor threw both hands in the air, and then let them fall softly on his knees as he added, earnestly, "He will be a grand man, sor. So, whishper! I kem to emply you." As he finished, he leaned back in his chair with an air of importance hitherto quite foreign to him.
"How so?" asked Mr. Cutting, his face abeam with lack of calculation.
Just here I must digress. Up to this point O'Connor had entirely ignored my presence in the office. He hadn't even looked my way, though I knew him well and deserved better treatment at his hands in return for the few favors I had been able to do him in the past. Still, I was quite alive to his mental condition, entirely due to "the little felly," and knowing, as I did, that all Mr. Cutting's labors in his behalf had been labors of love, and, too, I confess, because I wished to call O'Connor's attention to myself, I could not resist a chance remark. So, when Mr. Cutting asked, "How so?" I interjected, before O'Connor had time to reply:
"As referee—between him and the little fellow." The effect upon O'Connor was instantaneous. He whipped round upon me, stared an instant, and then burst into unconstrained laughter. Mr. Cutting and I joined him, while the old man rose from his seat and slapped his bended knees with delight. Then he crossed to my desk, his hand clumsily extended and apology in every line of his good face.
"Good-morning, sor," he said, as I rose to shake hands with him, "I forgot me manners lately, sor, but—but me moind is occypied, sor." Then, with his free hand across his mouth (I still held the other) he laughed again until he found the breath to say:
"A referee bechune the little felly an' me! Ye young divvil!"—the last remark being accented by an entirely playful poke upon my shoulder. An instant afterward he was all contrition and further apology, which I checked by reminding him of his intention to "emply" Mr. Cutting. At my reminder, he re-crossed to my senior, and resumed his seat and his earnestness with noticeable celerity.
"'Tis this, sor," he began, out of breath from his laughing, but becoming at once grave; "since the little felly kem, I have been sayin' to meself, constant, 'some day you will die.' All men does, some day, sor, God rest their souls! And then—well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, 'tis me juty to make me will."
I saw Mr. Cutting wince a little at the premonition of the responsibility that must inevitably come to him. I knew that, busy man as he was, he could refuse O'Connor nothing, whether of time or thought. Indeed, I doubt if anybody except O'Connor could have made an inroad upon Mr. Cutting's hours and brain on this particular day. At the moment of O'Connor's calling, Mr. Cutting was in the intricate midst of a complicated contract he was drawing for the Traction Co., of which he was counsel. Still, as every man to be thoroughly able must, he possessed the three qualities of patience, kindness of heart, and never-failing sense of humor. So he said:
"Well, Michael, if you want to make your will, I will do my best to draw it up for you. But a will is a pretty important matter."
"That's why I come to you, sor," said O'Connor, simply. I saw Mr. Cutting's eyes glisten with pleasure as he answered:
"Tell me what you want done with your property."
"That's what I don't know, sor," was O'Connor's reply. Here seemed to be a hopeless situation, until it cleared when the old man, after pulling at his beard for a while, added: "I do be thinkin' about the little felly."
"Yes?" said Mr. Cutting, with all the encouragement rising inflection can give.
"Thin," O'Connor responded, "there's the ould woman, who has been a good wife to me." Here he ruminated, his hardened hand across his seasoned lips. At length he added: "No man could ask a betther, God knows. An', thin, there's Mollie, me daughter—a shweet, good gurrul, an' his modther. But I was thinkin' about the little felly—" O'Connor's supply of speech became temporarily exhausted and the sound of his voice ceased with a long sigh of inability to further express himself.
"There may, some day, be other little fellies—or fillies," suggested Mr. Cutting, unable to resist the temptation.
"That's so-o," said O'Connor, thoughtfully. "Shure I forgot that." He leaned back in his chair and considered.
"You love them all, Michael," Mr. Cutting interposed. "Your wife and your daughter as well as your grandson?"
The reply came quickly. "I do that, sor. God bless them, ivery wan. That's what's perplexin' me, sor." Sweeter and better perplexity could no man have. Kindly anxiety overspread the old face.
"You have, of course, entire confidence in your son-in-law?" The question was a steady one, fully anticipating the answer that came at once:
"I'd thrust Tim wid me life. He is a good man, an' a kind man—an' he niver drinks."
"Then, Michael," said Mr. Cutting, gravely and after no slight pause, "the best will you can make is no will."
"How is that?"
"In the first place," Mr. Cutting explained, "if you make no will, it can't be broken." This was a bull that decidedly impressed the would-be client.
"That's thrue, sor," he replied, reflectively.
"In the second place," Mr. Cutting continued, "by leaving no will, those you love will, I believe, benefit by your estate precisely as you would wish them to. The law provides for just that."
O'Connor pondered long. At last he said:
"Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, if all I need is the law, I'm sorry I bodtheredyou." I ducked into the recesses of my roll-top desk, whence, after an interval, during which I could almost hear Mr. Cutting restraining his laughter (as I was mine), he replied:
"No bother at all, Michael." Then he added, after a sigh, "I believe I have advised you for the best."
"Ye have that, sor. And I knowed you would." Thus the matter of the will was closed, and nothing further was said regarding it. But I thought I could see there was something more on O'Connor's mind. I knew the unfinished contract was on Mr. Cutting's, though he sat and patiently awaited further developments, meanwhile passing his thumb and forefinger along a lead-pencil, which, in the passing, he turned and turned, alternately resting point and end upon the blotter on his desk. During this, O'Connor, seated on the edge of his chair, hesitated whether to rise and go, or to further unburden his mind. Mr. Cutting relieved the situation.
"What is the little boy's name, Mike?" he asked.
"Shure 'tis that I wished to exshplain, sor," O'Connor hastened to reply, his hesitation gone on the instant. "Whin he was born I sez to my wife, 'Bridget Ann,' I sez, 'we will name him Hinry Haitch Cuttin',' I sez. 'We will do no such thing,' she sez. 'Tim an' Mollie will name the child. 'Tis no affair ov ours,' she sez. So, sor—well—" O'Connor's finish was tinged with regret, and accented by a hopeless wave of the hands.
"And your wife was entirely right, Michael," Mr. Cutting answered, quickly; "although I appreciate and thank you for the compliment you wished to pay me." He was now making marks on his blotter, the pencil in position to jot down a memorandum. "What name did his mother give him?" As the reply came,I saw him let the pencil fall. There was no need of a memorandum.
"Michael Joseph, after mesilf, sor." O'Connor looked very sheepish, but there was an undernote of pleasure in his answer.
"Eminently proper, and the best name he could have," said Mr. Cutting, rising, and thus supplying the necessary fillip to his client's readiness to depart. He walked to the door with the old man, his hand on the royal shoulder, and bade him a warm "good-by," sending his kindest regards and best wishes to all the members of the Royal Family, especially the Heir Apparent.
Then, assuming his most professional manner, and to my surprise making ready to go out, Mr. Cutting remarked to me:
"I shall leave the drawing-up of the contract until my return. I am now going out to luncheon. I may be a little longer than usual because, incidentally, I shall select a silver utensil for one Michael Joseph O'Connor, Junior, and give directions in regard to a suitable inscription to be thereupon engraved."
As he opened the door to leave the office, out broke his pleasant laugh, and I heard it continuing for some moments after the sound of his foot-fall upon the stone hallway had died out in the distance.
It must have been two months after this—indeed, I am sure it was in August, because Mr. Cutting was away on his vacation, and I was alone in the office—that O'Connor called again. I should state, though, in passing, that he had called once in the meantime to thank Mr. Cutting for a certain silver mug, duly inscribed:
MICHAEL JOSEPH O'CONNOR, JUNIORFROM HIS AND HISGRANDFATHER'S FRIENDHENRY HARTWELL CUTTING.
MICHAEL JOSEPH O'CONNOR, JUNIOR
FROM HIS AND HISGRANDFATHER'S FRIEND
HENRY HARTWELL CUTTING.
I have an idea, although I have no word or proof of any kind to uphold it, that O'Connor regarded the omission of "Esq." after "Cutting" as an oversight. Still, he was royally pleased by the gift, and assured Mr. Cutting it should be kept with the greatest care among the most cherished of the family possessions, and at this point, I remember, Mr. Cutting had occasion again to advise his client, and to the effect that if the "little felly" were not to make actual, daily use of the gift—not only as a utensil, but also to bite, pound, dent and treat at will—he, the "little felly," would never acquire real affection for it. Mr. Cutting further explained that it was from such treatment and familiarity real affection sprang; and that he wanted the recipient to come to love the gift—and the giver, too, perhaps, some day. This advice the client accepted with entire faith in its wisdom; as a good client should always accept advice from a good counsellor. But all this was during O'Connor's intermediate visit—not at the time to which I refer.
That time was on a very hot day in August; in fact, it was, as O'Connor tersely put it, when he had seated himself beside me, "too hot altogither."
"Mr. Cutting is away, sor?" was his next remark, made with an inflection that showed it to be not only a statement but an interrogatory as well, intended to serve as an introduction to matters of import. I replied, accordingly:
"Yes, Mr. Cutting is on his vacation. Is there anythingIcan do for you?"
O'Connor's method of approach melted at once into complete confidence. You may well imagine my pleasure at being consulted, as follows, in my senior's absence:
"It was you I wished to see, sor," the old man went on, placing his tall hat on my desk and his moist red handkerchief within the hat. "Ye have been a friend to me more than once, and I wish your advice." He slowly drew an honest, well-worn wallet from his hip pocket. I protested. "Ye are a young felly, sor, and this is different," he said. "'Tis me intention to pay you for the service I ask."
From "young felly" to "little felly" was a quick mental transition, and instantly I grasped the opportunity that would enable me, as well as the senior counsel, to bear gifts to the Heir Apparent, so I said:
"Well, Mr. O'Connor, if you wish to employ me, of course—" I paused, while he extracted and laid upon my desk a battered ten dollar bill. I immediately secluded it.
In justice to my poor self I must digress once more. The "little felly" nowpossesses, in addition to a silver mug, (and the "mug" Heaven gave him as a lineal descendant) a silver spoon and a silver fork of no mean dimensions, suitably inscribed. However, that is nobody's business but my own. Probably that is why I tell it. I never could keep my business to myself, any more than I now can O'Connor's.
"'Tis like this, sor," the old fellow proceeded. "I have it in me moind to go to th' ould counthree. I kem over whin I was a lad, so-o—well, sor, there is much I dishremember now. But I would like some day to tell the little felly all about it, and—" Here he paused a moment. "Me sister is there, too," he added, "and sor, well—I would be afther askin' you to arrange the thrip for me. I wish to have it done decent, d'ye moind, and, whishper! I don't know the ropes mesilf, and I don't want the odthers to know I don't know them, d'ye moind?"
Here was confidence from a client, indeed.
Never mind about the succeeding details, consisting of a letter of credit, exchange, passage, and an excellent stateroom in the second cabin. To all these details I attended personally, and can and do vouch for their careful accomplishment.
On a certain day I shall never forget—it was in the latter part of the same August—I stood looking out of the window of our office. From it I had a clear view of the harbor and of the vessels that came to and left it. Soon, a Cunarder glided into my vista, and, passing out, left a quickly lost picture of white wake, purple sea, and low hanging gray smoke. But the thought in my heart as I stood and watched remains:
"God bless his kindly old heart! and God grant he may return safe and sound to the 'little felly.'"
I speak of it as a thought. It must have been a prayer, so quickly was it answered. As I stood watching the slow blending of the smoke with the mellow light of the afternoon, I heard behind me a gentle, initiatory cough.
I turned. There stood O'Connor himself, hat in hand, in the centre of the office. I can tell you nothing of his entrance.
"What in the world!" I exclaimed and asked.
He hung his dear old head, and fingered the rim of the same tall hat I knew so well, while he slowly passed it round and round between his hands. At last he spoke. His voice was all appeal; without a tone of assertion:
"I decided not to go."
"Why?"
"The little felly."
"You went aboard?"
"Yis."
I ventured, from intuition, "But at the last moment you felt homesick? Is that it?"
He answered me over a half-turned, bashful, aged, and patient shoulder.
"Yis."
"So you left the boat before she sailed?"
"Jist that."
"And your baggage?"
"It's gone—wid the boat. But—but that's no differ."
Once more—never mind about the details. We had a long talk, our client and I. I learned that his wife and daughter, Tim Fennessey, too, had parted from him at his own request, a quarter of an hour before the sailing of the liner—"To have no scene," he said—and finally I learned what I could do in his behalf. It was to ease his return to his own people.
"Now, sor," he said, at the close of our interview, "will you be so kind as to go before me and warn me wife?"
"Tell her you changed your mind at the last moment? Is that it?" I asked.
"Yis, sor, 'tis jist that." Then, he added, with the first semblance of assertiveness, "And it was me right."
"Unquestionably," I answered. Then I suggested that we start on our journey, at the end of which I was to be Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Royal Consort.
During our walk through the almost deserted streets, where the heat of the passing day still hung in sluggish malignity, we had plenty of time for further consultation. Old O'Connor at my side, but never once in step, gave me minute instructions.
"You see, sor," he said, by way of additional explanation, "the windie from meplace looks to the harbor, and we can see the steamboats as they comes and goes. 'Twas all arranged the little felly should be in wan o' the windies to see me as I wint away; well, when the orf'cer o' the boat sez that all thim that wasn't intendin' to go should go back to the dock, I sez to mesilf, "Areyou intendin' to go?" Thin I thinks to mesilf, 'Shure some odther day will do as well and 'tis as well to wait until the little felly is big enough to go with me and see for himself,' dye moind? Wid that I walks off av the boat and comes to your offus."
"Leaving your baggage on board," I added.
"Yis, sor—but that's no differ—shure the duds was all new, and I care little for thim." His eagerness increased as we neared his home, down on the wharf, and above his junk-store and saloon. So our conferences came in short sentences.
"I will get your baggage back," I began.
"Can you do that, sor?"
"Certainly. I will see the steamship company." He sighed comfortably.
"Thank you, sor. 'Twill be a favor to me. But, whishper! When we reaches my place, I will shtand outside forninst the corner. Thin, do you go inside and exshplain to me wife and prepare her for me return, do ye see?"
I quite understood, and said so. As we turned our last corner, we caught the soft caress of a gentle, belated sea-breeze, and I felt my heart uplift and my brain clear.
"Go on, now, you," was his parting instruction. "I will wait here till ye come back and tell me."
You may be sure I made my way to the royal mansion as quickly as the temperature would permit. In response to my knock at the inner door, it was opened by Mrs. O'Connor herself. She greeted me with quiet, simple courtesy and, as soon as I was seated and she had remarked upon the heat of the day (her remarks fitting exactly into my own opinion of the weather) she asked, before I had time to even set the wheels of my diplomacy in motion:
"Is Michael on the corner, sor?"
"Yes," I gasped, any further need for diplomacy gone.
"Tell him, sor, if you will kindly, that Tim and Mollie is here, and the baby, and we have supper most ready and is waiting for him."
"You knew, then?" I asked, weakly.
"Shure we all av us see him leave the boat, sor. We niver thought he'd go. And thank you, kindly, sor, for your trouble." Mrs. O'Connor crossed with me to the door, and a minute smile just beginning at the corners of her shrewd, old mouth let me out.
I soon came back to my principal in the affair. "Everything is all right," I said to him, and with the usual presumption of an ambassador, added, "I have fixed it. You needn't worry."
"God bless you, sor," he said as he grasped my hand. "I'll be in again soon to see you, sor. And now I—I think I will be gettin' home."
So we parted, he to his loved domain, I to my club.
I don't know the rest of the story.