CHAPTER XII

"There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." —HAMLET.

The sun was making a golden set behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan as the Gem of the Ocean tied up to a wharf in the East River. The cruise was at an end. Taken as a whole, the venture had been successful. Those who embarked in it were once more back in sight of the great city, with lighter hearts and heavier pockets than when they left not quite a month before. All had had an agreeable time, and, what was of more importance, a profitable experience. Anxious ones were awaiting them. The strolling players, contrary to the practice of many of their guild who start out on similar ventures, did not return empty-handed. They had practical results to vouch for and explain their absence. Their endeavors had not resulted in all work and no pay. If they had anxious moments and at times hard work, they had their recompense and earned their reward, and there were homes in which assistance was needed. They were solicitous, too, to hasten to the cherished ones who were waiting to welcome them, for strange as it may appear to the unthinking, the poor players who fret and strut their brief hours upon the stage have homes—homes that they prize beyond aught else and which to many of them are perhaps more dearly prized than is the marble palace by the millionaire. No one knew this better than Handy. He therefore lost no time in bringing his craft into port.

"We can't complain, boys," he exclaimed, "after all is said and done, of our undertaking. Here we are again under the lee of the big city, with money in our pockets and our homes close at hand. You are not sorry you took the chances," he continued, as the company gathered together before separating. "May good fortune always smile upon enterprise."

"Amen!" responded Smith, who regarded that ejaculation as the proper climax to his manager's peroration.

In half an hour the company were all ashore, each member homeward bound, and possibly turning over in his mind the many eventful episodes of the trip preparatory to relating them to those who might question them about the exploit. Stories of this character lose nothing by repetition.

Handy and his fellow-craftsmen had not been home a week when their adventures became the talk of the town, especially among the theatrical fraternity. As usual in somewhat similar cases, every impecunious player became desirous of immediately starting out upon the uncertain sea of theatricals. They reasoned that if a man like Handy could succeed, why could not they also turn the trick? Could they not even improve on his tactics? Of course they could! Were they not, they argued, better actors and had they not more experience as managers? Of course they were, and had! Where Handy had made twenties and fifties, might not they pick up hundreds? Of course there could be no doubt on that score. All this kind of speculation in words, however, ended only in talk. Those who indulged in it were mere theorists—not men of action and active brain like the commander of the Gem of the Ocean expedition, who put into execution his plans after he had well considered them.

When the veteran made his reappearance on the Rialto he looked as if he might be at peace with all mankind. He had nothing worse than a smile, even for his enemies. But then his enemies were few. His proverbial good humor and honesty of purpose disarmed the envious. The influence of kindly smiles and generous impulses go further in this matter-of-fact world than many people are willing to acknowledge. A cheerful and encouraging word frequently helps in the accomplishment of a task which without its influence might fall flat. Handy's dominant quality was his uniform good nature. He rarely looked on the dark side of life. He, no doubt, knew what it meant, but he never paraded his hardships before the world or bored friends or acquaintances with the hard luck of his lot. At times he was blue—what man at odd times is not so?—but at such periods he veiled his heart, face, and feelings and drew the sunshine of a smile between his disappointments and the outside world. With such a disposition success, as a rule, is but a question of time.

When he made his first appearance among his confreres his manner was a study. His face, from constant exposure in the sun, was bronzed and ruddy and his general get up was what his old friend Smith pronounced "regardless." In fact, Handy looked so well he scarcely recognized himself. He generally felt well, but to look the part and feel it is altogether a different proposition. His adventures with his all-star company had been so freely discussed in every haunt where actors most do congregate that inside of a week after the Pleiades returned the frequenters of the Rialto had the story by heart.

The grand comic opera episode at Oyster Bay especially appealed to a number of Handy's admirers. There were several who intimated that he go right in for grand polyglot opera and try and get hold of the Metropolitan Opera House. He smiled knowingly at the suggestion, and furthermore gave his volunteer advisers to understand that, in his estimation, that institution was under the control of much more accomplished fakers than his ambition aimed to reach. Besides, he reasoned, he was not the kind of man to attempt to take the bread and butter away from some other fellow. "My policy," said he, "is to live and let live; and if you cannot get enough people with the long green, as they call it, to at least guarantee the rent for the sake of art, fashion, and display—or as the English song puts it, 'for England, home, and booty'—the next best thing to do is to buy, borrow, or beg a tent and start out and go it alone in the open."

One evening as Handy was on his way homewards he accidentally ran across a friend who, as the saying goes, had seen better days, and who had at various times a widespread acquaintance with the ups and downs of theatrical life. This man's name was Fogg—Philander Fogg. In his way he was as much a character as Handy himself. The ways of each, though, were dissimilar. Fogg was what the Hon. Bardwell Slote would designate as a Q K (curious cuss). He on one occasion distinguished himself as an amateur actor, and barely escaped with his life in New Jersey for attempting to play Othello as a professional. In person he was tall, very slim, very bald, slightly deaf, and as fresh as a daisy. He had a general and miscellaneous acquaintance. His friends liked him because of his inability to see a joke. The consequence was they had many amusing experiences at Fogg's expense. The gossip of the stage he cherished and cultivated. This made him a favorite with a large circle of female acquaintances who go in for all that kind of thing. People living, as it were, on the fringe of society, who lay the flattering unction to their souls that they are living in Bohemia, and they are never so happy as when they are settled in the company of some pseudo-player discussing the drama and ventilating the small talk of the stage.

When Handy encountered Fogg the latter appeared in a hurry. There was nothing new in that, however. No one who had any acquaintance with him knew him to be otherwise. There are such people to be met every day and everywhere. He was a type.

"The very man I was looking for," was his greeting, on meeting Handy. "I want you to help me out. Great scheme! I'll take you in. I'm in a great hurry now to keep an appointment. Important, very important! Where can I meet you to-morrow forenoon? How have you been? Are you up in Beausant—no, Col Damas, I mean? Don't you do anything until you see me! Can you get Smith to——"

"Hold! Enough!" interposed Handy. "Fogg, what do you take me for? A mind reader or a lightning calculator? Now, then, one thing at a time! What's up?"

"I am going to have a testimonial benefit, and I want you to manage the stage and play a part. Do you catch on?"

"Business," answered Handy. "Anything in it, or is it a thank-you job?"

"Why, my boy, there's a cold five hundred plunks in it. Society ladies on the committee. They will dispose of the tickets. One of them wants to act. I've promised to let her try and give her the opening. 'The Lady of Lyons' will be the play, and I will be the Claude."

"Well, Fogg, may the Lord have mercy on the audience—as well as on Melnotte."

"Oh, hold up, old chap. Don't be rough on a fellow. You know very well I have played much more difficult roles. Haven't I played Hamlet?"

"You have, indeed," answered Handy, "and played the devil with him, too."

"This is positively rude," replied Fogg, "and only that I am aware you mean no real unkindness I would feel very much put out. I know you don't really mean it."

"Of course I don't. It was spoken in the way of fun. Now, let me know in what way I can help you and you can count me in. Business is business, old pal, and I know you will do the square thing."

"There's my hand on it. Now I must be off. Meet me at my apartment to-morrow forenoon at eleven and we'll go over the details."

"Count on me. I will be there. So long."



CHAPTER XIII

"Life is mostly froth and bubble; Two things stand like stone— Kindness in another's trouble Courage in your own."

—THE HILL.

Next forenoon, promptly at eleven o'clock, Handy was at Fogg's house. A ring at the door-bell was responded to by that gentleman in person. Half a minute later both were settled down in Fogg's Bohemian quarters, which consisted of a small reception-room and still smaller bed-chamber. The reception-room was not luxuriously furnished, but it was by no means shabbily equipped. A piano stood in one corner, a writing-desk placed close to the window, and a well-used Morris chair were the most conspicuous articles of furniture. Photographs in abundance were scattered all around on the walls, and on a table there were enough old playbooks to make a respectable showing in a second-hand book store. The two men had not been seated more than five minutes when the bell at the hall door was rung, and in an instant Fogg was out of his chair and on his feet.

"What's the matter?" inquired Handy.

"I guess," replied Fogg, "that's the committee. They promised to be here at this hour. Excuse me for a moment," and before Handy could say another word Fogg was half-way down the first flight of stairs. The noise of the opening and closing of the street door was heard, and then succeeded a buzz of female voices accompanied by a patter of feet on the stairs. Before Handy had time to prepare to receive visitors, the door opened and Fogg, his face lighted up with the broadest kind of a smile, made his appearance, and ushered in the committee, which consisted of five blooming matrons who were instrumental in talking up and arranging for the proposed complimentary benefit. The ladies were not young; in fact, it was a long time since they had been. But their hearts were juvenile and they themselves were sympathetic and generously inclined. Handy was duly introduced, and then the female philanthropists and lovers of art commenced the business which brought them there, somewhat after this fashion:

"What a unique little snuggery you have here, Mr. Fogg," began one.

"It is so artistic, don't you know, that it is too awfully sweet for anything," replied another.

"Ah! there's one of the best photos I have ever seen of the divine Sarah. Where did you get it, Mr. Fogg?" added a third. "That one of Maude Adams is fair, and that of Mrs. Fiske there in the character of—I forget the name—does not do her justice."

This medley of inconsequential conversation and chatter continued for fully half an hour without one word being spoken on the all-important subject they had presumably been brought together to arrange. They touched on everything theatrical, according to their lights, but that in which their friend was most interested. At length Fogg, in sheer desperation, broke the ice, and in a somewhat hesitating manner explained the way in which he had induced his friend, Mr. Handy, to be present at the conference and give them the benefit of his vast managerial experience and acknowledged histrionic ability in arranging the programme of the proposed complimentary testimonial. Moreover, Mr. Handy had postponed an important engagement in order that he might have the honor of managing the stage at the rehearsals as well as on the evening of the performance.

The ladies were in ecstasies.

"Oh, how charmingly delightful!" ejaculated the most rubicund of the committee. "And so you have finally determined, Mr. Fogg, on 'The Lady of Lyons' for the attraction."

"Yes, ladies, I have. A determination with which I feel satisfied you all will concede. Revivals of well-known successful plays are rapidly coming into fashion, and it is well to keep up with the progress of the times. I might mention a number of old plays managers have in contemplation but as Shakespeare says—I think it was the sweet Bard of Avon that so expressed himself—'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' That is why I have selected Bulwer's great romantic and poetic masterpiece—'The Lady of Lyons.' Besides, ladies, bear in mind it will afford Miss Daisy Daffodil a magnificent opportunity to appear as Pauline, a character, ladies, which has claimed the histrionic talents of many of the bright luminaries of the stage from the days of the glorious Peg Woffington to those of Leslie Carter."

"How well, how touchingly, Mr. Fogg speaks, and what a fund of valuable and truthful information he has entertained us with," said Mrs. Doolittle, the chairman of the committee. "A better selection than 'The Lady of Lyons' could not have been made, and what a splendid opportunity it will be for dear Daisy to show off that light blue watered silk of hers. It is so suitable to her complexion."

"Yes, dear," responded the lady sitting near her, "but will it light up well? I am given to understand that the electric light is most trying on blue. Now, don't you think that——"

"No, I do not, my dear. Pardon me, but I know what you were about to say. You were about to remark that——"

"Ladies," said Mr. Fogg, rising to the occasion and in a polite manner, "will you kindly excuse me when I venture to suggest that the matter of toilet is a thing you can arrange between yourselves and the fair young star, let us proudly hope, that is to be. But as my friend here, Mr. Handy, is a very busy man and his time valuable, might I suggest that we get down to business?"

"Quite right, Mr. Fogg," one of the ladies answered. "Let us amuse ourselves with business."

"How many will the house hold, Mr. Fogg?" inquired Mrs. Doolittle, in a rather authoritative manner, thoroughly in keeping with her exalted position as chairman.

"About eleven hundred," said Fogg.

"Only eleven hundred!" exclaimed the stout lady.

"Altogether too small."

"Certainly it is," continued the weighty one. "The Metropolitan Opera House should have been secured."

"Ladies," interposed Handy, "excuse me for buttin' in, but business is business, and that's the humor of it. Let me tell you, in all frankness, that if you can fill the house, take my word for it, as a man of some experience, you will have reason to congratulate yourselves on a great accomplishment. Bear in mind, ladies, that benefits are benefits, and that the theatre-going public take little or no stock in them. Unless you can rely on your friends coming up to the scratch—pardon me, I mean box office—and before the night of the show, mind you—you stand a good chance of getting it, as the poet touchingly tells us—I don't know what poet—where the chicken got the axe. Them's my sentiments!"

Handy's review of the situation and his matter-of-fact way of placing it before the committee caused some agitation. At length Mrs. Doolittle arose.

"Let me assure you, Mr. Handy, we have hosts of friends, and when they see our names on the programme they will be sure to come. Don't you agree with me, ladies?"

"It would be real mean if they didn't," volunteered the heavyweight lady of the committee. "But I know they will."

"Of course, ladies, you know best," replied Handy, "but my advice is sell all the pasteboards you can before the show, and don't depend any on the public the night of the show, when you intend to pull 'The Lady' off."

Handy's practical admonitions and advice evidently were not appreciated in the spirit in which they were tendered. The ladies' stay after the episode was not prolonged. Mrs. Chairman Doolittle remembered she had an engagement in the shape of a pink tea, and must speed homeward to make a change of dress. The remainder of the committee considered that as their cue for departure, not, however, without reassuring both Messrs. Fogg and Handy that everything would be all right.

Handy and Fogg were once more alone.

"Well," said Fogg, "what do you think of it? A great scheme, eh?"

"What's a great scheme? I pause for a reply!"

"Why, the testimonial benefit, of course!"

"Say, Fogg. Are you right in your head? Is your nut screwed on properly? Is this a joke? The ladies are all serene and mean well—but darn it, man! you don't mean to tell me that you believe there's five hundred in this snap?"

"Why, certainly I do, and more."

"Cents."

"No. Please be serious. Dollars."

"Well, let us get down to cases and figure it out. What'll be your expenses?"

"Oh, 'way down. There's $75 for the house, dirt cheap—the ladies have a pull with the landlord; $65 for the orchestra; stage hands, $15; advertising and printing, $60; flowers, $20; costumes, $11.75; sundries, $10. How much is all that?"

"Let me figure it up. Have you a pencil? Never mind, I have one. Well, that, my friend, foots up $256.75."

"Why, that ain't much."

"No. 'Tain't much for a Vanderbilt, but then, the Vans' ancestors put in some lively hustling in days of yore, and the Vans of the present day are now taking solid comfort and shooting folly as it flies out of the result of the old Commodore's hustling on land and water. An' now let me ask you, have you got the dough to go on with this great scheme of yours?"

"Well, no, I haven't got the dough, as you call it, but I have the tickets, and the committee propose to sell them to their numerous friends. I tell you 'tis a dead-sure thing."

"I notice in your expenses you allow nothing for your company."

"The company have all volunteered. Most of them are amateurs."

"And where does your humble servant come in?"

"Why, I propose to make it all right with you out of my share."

"Ye gods on high Olympus, look down on us in compassion and smile!" spoke Handy in the most tragic voice of which he was capable of employing. "Has it come to pass that a verdant experimentalist like you, Fogg, could intimate to a veteran of my standing that I should take my chances of remuneration from the proceeds of such a quixotic scheme? Go to, Fogg! I love thee, but never more be officer of mine." Then laying aside his serio-comic manner and assuming one that more easily appertained to him, he continued: "Fogg, old pal, I told you that you could count on me to help you out, and you can. I will manage the stage, but skip me on the acting. If the stuff comes in, I know you'll do the square thing. If the receipts are shy, well and good. You'll get left as well as I. Get the old girls to sell all the tickets they can—beforehand. Mind now, beforehand. Depend on nothing from the public for a benefit, and as for the night sale, it won't amount to a paper of pins. I've been there before, old man, and I know of what I speak. Let me tell you—some friends of mine once upon a time got up a benefit for a widow. They gave a good show, had lots of fun, but——"

"But what?" inquired Fogg anxiously.

"Oh, nothing! Only they landed the poor woman fifty dollars or so in debt. That's all."

"Holy Moses!" was all the response that Fogg could make; but he evidently was doing a great deal of thinking. In this state of mind Handy left him.



CHAPTER XIV

"Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time." —MERCHANT OF VENICE.

Within two weeks the preliminaries for the testimonial were arranged, the night appointed, and the tickets in circulation. The company, as intimated, was made up principally of amateurs. As they were to receive no remuneration for their valuable services they received about five tickets each free to sell or dispose of as they would among their friends. Through some unaccountable oversight, they neglected to specially mark or punch these complimentaries. This oversight led to serious embarrassment subsequently. The demand for tickets increased as the date for the performance approached, but none of the applicants appeared anxious to part with money in return for them.

Strange as it may appear, there is a class of people—and a very large and numerous class, too, and one not confined to any particular locality or special grade of society—that will willingly spend double the price of admission for seats in one way or other for the sake of having the reputation of being on the free list of a theatre. This statement is not an exaggerated one. Had Mr. Fogg decided to manage the business details of his entertainment and suspended the free list, as he should have done, he might have fared better; but who can tell what the future has in store for any of us?

It was with considerable difficulty the rent was raised, and that difficulty being overcome, everything looked bright to the sanguine Fogg, who was really a most optimistic individual, and rarely lost heart.

At length the night of the great event arrived. All day Fogg had been as busy as a bee. He had been to see the costumer, perruquier, leader of orchestra, etc., and enjoined each of them to be on hand early. Handy, always prompt and businesslike, was on the stage at seven o'clock. A few minutes later Fogg himself appeared, almost exhausted with the onerous duties of outside management, but for all that as cheerful and as confident as any man of his peculiar temperament could be. One by one the different members of the company appeared, and by half-past seven there was the usual commotion and excitement behind the scenes always attendant on an amateur entertainment. All the members of the committee were on hand to encourage Mr. Fogg and congratulate him in advance on the prospects of a grand success. Handy, perceiving that the time for the rising of the curtain was approaching, crossed over to where Fogg was engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Chairman Doolittle, and suggested to that gentleman that it was getting near the time to ring in the orchestra, and that he had better go to his dressing-room and complete his make-up.

"All right," said Fogg. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Doolittle. Mr. Handy, I will now leave charge of the stage to you. Ring in the orchestra at eight o'clock sharp. I'll be ready."

"Correct," replied the stage manager. He then proceeded to take a survey of the front of the house through the peep-hole in the drop curtain. The house was filling up nicely, but, as Handy subsequently remarked, the audience had a peculiar look that did not recommend itself to the veteran's practiced eye.

"How it is?" inquired someone at Handy's elbow. On his turning about he found it was his old friend Smith, of the Gem of the Ocean.

"Hello, old pal! Well, I don't know how to size it up. There's a fair crowd, and if it is all money it's a good house. But it doesn't look to me like a money house. The people in the audience appear to be too well acquainted. They act as if they came to a picnic."

"Can you blame them?" replied Smith, who had a very low estimate of amateur actors.

"I guess I'll ring in the spielers. Time's up." Suiting the action to the word, he pressed the button. A few seconds later and a German professor with blond hair of a musical cut approached the prompt stand.

"Ees dot Meister Vogue somewheres about here, I don't know?" he inquired.

"In his dressing-room," curtly answered Handy.

"Ees dot so? Veil, then, I am Professor Funkenstein, und mein men der money want before dot overture."

"You're in a large-sized hurry, ain't you?" replied the stage manager. "Can't you hold on until the show is over? What's the matter with you? Don't you see the house we have?"

"Mein freund, dot's all right. But mein men der money wants. Don't dink I'm a fool because I'm a German man. I my money wants, too."

"Mr. Handy, why don't you ring in the orchestra?" spoke Fogg, who had just come from his dressing-room made-up for Claude Melnotte. Catching sight of the leader, he exclaimed: "What's the matter, Professor?"

"The matter is, Meister Vogue, mein men der money wants before they goes out. Dot's vot's der matter!"

For a moment Fogg gazed at the orchestra leader in surprise, and then indignantly declared: "This is simply outrageous! What do you take me for, sir?" Then turning to his stage manager: "Mr. Handy, have you got a slip of paper, in order that I may give this man an order on the box office? How much is your bill? Ah, yes, I remember—seventy-five dollars. Here, take this and go and get your money at the box office," as he handed the order to the professor, who instantly made a hasty retreat through the nearest exit leading into the front of the house, Fogg disappearing at the same time in the direction of his dressing-room, to add the finishing touches to his make-up.

By this time it was nearly twenty minutes past eight o'clock, and the audience had already begun to manifest indications of impatience.

"Handy," whispered Smith, "I'm glad I came. If I am not greatly mistaken there will be a lively time here to-night. Mark what I'm telling you."

Just then another individual approached the stage manager and inquired for Mr. Fogg. He introduced himself as Mr. Draper, the costumer, and he was anxious to see the star of the evening, to "put up," as he expressed himself, for the costumes before the curtain went up. At this stage of the proceedings Fogg, now fully dressed for the gardener's son, appeared. He was immediately buttonholed by the costumer for the amount of his bill.

"After the performance, when we count up, my dear Mr. Draper," pleaded Fogg, in his most insinuating way.

"After nothing. Now, now!" emphatically declared Draper. "What do you take me for? I'm no sardine. You pay now, or by chowder! you can play 'The Lady of Lyons' in your shirt tails! You promised me the stuff in the afternoon."

The audience by this time had become restless and somewhat demonstrative. To add to the complications, Professor Funkenstein reappeared in a most excited frame of mind. He had been to the box office, but the bill-poster had anticipated him, and had threatened to clean out the ranch if he didn't get his money. The treasurer, who was an amateur, settled immediately with the knight of the pastepot to save the house from destruction. After the box office man had settled with the bill-poster there was only $5.25 in the drawer. That was at once secured by the florist in part payment on account of flowers that were to be presented to Pauline. The florist had been given the tip by the bill-sticker, and he got the balance of the cash on hand by also threatening to inaugurate the cleaning-out process.

The uproar in the front of the house increased. The stamping of feet, the beating of canes on the floor, and the catcalls in the gallery made terrific disturbance.

"You're a sweendler, Meister Vogue!" exclaimed the excited orchestra leader.

"I'll make it all right with you in the morning, sir," replied Fogg indignantly, "and I wouldn't have your contemptible Dutch band to play for me now under any circumstances. Please call the people for the first act, Mr. Handy. I'll show you. We'll play the piece without your music."

"And you'll play it without costumes, too," interposed Mr. Draper, "unless I get my money."

"An' begor, yez'll play it wid only sky borders and wings, iv I'm goin' to get left," yelled the stage carpenter. "Murphy, run off thim flats."

By this time poor Fogg was nearly out of his mind. Surrounded by a number of excited creditors behind the curtain, and frightened by an uproarious, turbulent, and noisy audience in front, the unfortunate fellow recognized in his bewildered condition that he would have to go before the curtain and dismiss the public. But what explanation could he offer? His friends were there to witness his humiliation. He wrung his hands in despair, wished he had never been born, and mentally resolved never again to accept the tender of a benefit. Handy watched him intently, and in his heart felt genuine sorrow for the sad predicament in which the poor fellow had placed himself. Touching Smith on the shoulder, he walked back on the stage, his friend following him.

"Smith, this is a hard case. It makes me feel sad, and we must manage somehow or other to get the unfortunate devil out of the hole. This is the worst ever. Do as I tell you, but be careful and let no one get on to you. You noticed that small bottle of red ink on the prompt stand. Get it quietly, and let no one see what you are at. Be very careful. We must devise some way of pulling him through. It's a big risk, but I'll take it. That's all. Go now and take your cue from me."

Things were growing from bad to worse on the stage, and the commotion and disorder in front of the curtain were increasing. Handy moved down among the excited crowd that surrounded Fogg, and got close to him. Smith, after exchanging a knowing glance with Handy, also edged his way into the group.

"Great Heavens! Fogg, my dear fellow!" suddenly exclaimed Handy, seizing him in an alarmed manner, "are you ill? What's the matter?" Then in a hasty whisper he said: "Act now, d——n you! if you never acted before. Go off in a fit, drop and leave the rest to me."

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" replied Fogg, with a strange stare. Then looking wildly about him, he uttered a weird scream and fell in a heap on the stage. In an instant Handy was on his knees beside him. So was Smith, and before any one could realize the situation, the bottle of red ink in his hand had dexterously performed its office over the mouth of the prostrate actor.

Bending over him, Handy whispered: "Keep still! and act out your fit and I'll pull you through." Then addressing those about him, he said: "Will some one of you gentlemen kindly fetch a glass of ice water and a little brandy? This is a bad case, I'm afraid. A serious affair. Send for a carriage. He must be removed to his house at once and a doctor called in. Poor fellow, the strain was too much for him. Ah, and by the way, will one of the gentlemen be good enough to go out in front of the curtain and explain to the audience the sad mishap which has befallen our esteemed friend? Please break it mildly in the announcement. The chances are it won't prove fatal, but I'm no doctor, so my say don't go for much. Poor old chap!"

It was not without difficulty that the man who volunteered to quell the storm in front could get a hearing from the audience. At last he succeeded, and after he explained the suddenness and severity of the attack, the storm subsided and the people went quietly out.

On the stage poor Fogg lay stretched out, Handy supporting his head. He was a sight. His mouth was liberally marked with Smith's home-made blood, for the carmine had been generously though dexterously employed. Everyone expressed sympathy for him. Handy, with the assistance of Smith, succeeded in getting him to his feet and managed to get him to the stage door in his Melnotte garb. Mrs. Doolittle's carriage was outside waiting, and he was assisted into it. As Handy was about to follow, Fogg leaned over and whispered in his ear: "For the Lord sake, Handy, bring my street clothes from the dressing-room, or I'll never be able to leave the house." Handy pressed his hand, Smith went after the clothes, and the three then drove to Fogg's home, and the carriage returned to the theatre for the lady chairman.

"Well," said Handy, when within the safety of the star's quarters, "I've played many parts in my varied career, but this one is the limit. It beats the deck. Fogg, you will have to keep the house for a week, at least; then go and rusticate for another week, but above all things, for heaven's sake don't recover too hastily!"

"Oh, bless my soul!" remarked Fogg, as he surveyed himself in the mirror, "you have ruined Draper's Melnotte blouse. What the blazes did you inundate me with that confounded red stuff for?"

Handy looked at him seriously for a minute, and then replied: "There's gratitude for you. Ah! well, it's the way of the world all over. Help a man to get out of a scrape, and do you think he will appreciate your meritorious act? Not even a little bit, and the chances are he will begin to find fault with your manner of saving him. Darn it, man! that fiddler, costumer, and stage carpenter would never have swallowed an ordinary, common garden, every-day fit, but when they saw the gore, the blood-red gore, they caved-in. It was a demonstration in red, and it did the work. And now, then, when you are going to have your next testimonial you can get someone else to manage your fits. Come, Smith. Good-night, Fogg!"



CHAPTER XV

"Come what, come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day."

—MACBETH.

Never be it said that fate itself could awe the soul of Fogg. Next day, when Handy called on him, he found his irrepressible friend preparing to saunter forth. That he failed to appreciate the humiliation of the previous evening there was not the slightest reason to believe. His restless spirit, however, was too strong to compel him willingly to remain indoors. He was nothing, if not active. In fact, he was miserable unless when employed in some optimistic scheme. No matter how impracticable it might appear to others, he invariably perceived a means to circumvent its difficulties. He believed in taking the biggest kind of chance on the smallest possibility of success. He was a remarkably unique proposition.

"Hello, hello!" exclaimed Handy. "What's all this about? Up and dressed. Say, don't you know you're a sick man?" Fogg gazed at his friend more in surprise than anger, and turned his head aside. "Did you hear what I said? You don't mean to tell me that you are going out in the streets to-day?"

"Why not?" replied Fogg.

"After what took place last night?"

"I must, you know!"

"With a busted blood-vessel in your innards and a—a—a——"

"Oh, come now, Handy, this thing has gone far enough. I appreciate all you did for me in an emergency, but there's no necessity for keeping up the deception any longer. I tell you I have an important engagement——"

"Hold! Avast heaving and take a hitch," interrupted the veteran. "Give me no more of that important engagement business in mine. I have some say in this matter, I have."

"You have—and how, pray?"

"Well, I'll give it you, and straight, too."

"Go on, then."

"Well, you were to have taken a benefit last night, weren't you?"

"I'm listening."

"An' you didn't, did you?"

"Well, no—not exactly a—benefit," replied Fogg slowly, with a sickly smile.

"And why didn't you?"

"Well, you are aware of the reason as well as I," Fogg answered, slightly irritated; "because I didn't have the necessary funds to carry out my plans, therefore——"

"Rubbish and stuff!" retorted Handy contemptuously. "You always get things mixed."

"What do you mean?" inquired the mystified Fogg, looking more perplexed than ever. "I do not quite understand you!"

"No, I didn't expect you would. Not be able to give a show without funds! Fiddlesticks! You make me tired. Darn it! Any one could do the turn with funds, and if you had the funds you wouldn't need a benefit—unless, indeed, you needed them to take a pleasure trip to Europe or to buy an automobile. But the man who can pull off a venture of that kind I regard as a financier; a man to be respected; a man of mettle—I mean the kind of mettle that's next door to genius, so to speak. By the way, old man, how do you spell that mettle—mettle or metal?"

"I would spell it B-R-A-S-S."

For a moment, Handy was completely put out, then extending his hand, he said: "Fogg, you may not know it, but you're a humorist. That wasn't half bad, as we say in England. I was never there, but it goes, all the same."

Fogg smiled, but Handy looked serious. He was in a troubled state of mind on account of Fogg's expressed determination to leave the house. He remembered all too vividly that he had been chief engineer of Fogg's escapade of the preceding night. He had to economize on truth; originate a fit, burst a blood-vessel, and carry out several minor details to make the undertaking thoroughly convincing. These, of course, he was willing to father, and, for that matter, felt a certain pride in their performance, when he remembered they resulted in relieving the troubles of a friend. But he was hurt when he came to reflect that the friend for whom he had undertaken so much had so little regard for the fitness of things and embarrassments of the situation as to venture forth the following day. It was too much for his sensibilities.

"The idea, Fogg, of showing yourself in public to-day, or to-morrow, or even the next day, is simply preposterous. It is out of the question. I may almost pronounce it like flying in the face of Providence. Remember, you are still a sick man, and I am sponsor for your illness. Bear in mind, you were taken out of the theatre as good as a dead one, in the garb of Claude Melnotte."

"Yes; and thanks to that infernal Smith," interrupted Fogg, "the suit is as good as ruined, with the stuff he spilt over it."

"There you go again. Why, you unthinking ingrate, only for that marked feature of the episode, you might at this moment be laid up in the hospital, if the stage hands, fiddlers, costumer, and bill-posters got in their work. Instead of that, here you are where sympathizing friends can visit you and hearken to your tale of woe. Don't you see," continued Handy, "if you are met on the street people will be likely to draw their own conclusions and regard last night's emergency illness as a fraud? You know how uncharitable even the best of friends are at odd times. While if you keep within doors and recover slowly, no such uncharitable fancy can be conjured into existence. Besides, the time spent in convalescence may be employed by that fertile brain of yours in devising some scheme for the future. I never willingly was party to a fraud, but when a friend gets into a bad box it becomes a human duty on the part of another friend to help him out. The end in view justifies the means. Friends don't go to that trouble, as a rule, but they ought to. Then you must have some consideration for dramatic consistency. Even actors can not burst blood-vessels with impunity over night and then go gallivanting about town next day. And again, is all this fine advertising you are going to get out of last night's realism to be thrown away and go for nothing? Oh, no! I guess not! My dear Fogg, you have got to be repaired before you are again seen in public."

Handy's eloquent and forcible argument convinced Fogg that a week indoors was the proper course for him to pursue, and also be guided solely by the veteran during his convalescence.

"Now, then, get to bed at once. You cannot tell who may get it into his head to call upon you. It is more than likely that Draper will be here after the Melnotte outfit."

"Goodness gracious, I forgot all about that!" exclaimed Fogg.

"I thought so. Never overlook details. If you had traveled over this broad land of the free and the home of the brave as extensively as I have, you would recognize their importance. They are, my dear boy, most important factors of success in the show line, as in every other business. You can start a show without money if you are careful in the arrangement of your details beforehand. I might be able to give you some useful advice on that subject, which would prove serviceable if you ever contemplate going on the road."

"I did have an idea of that kind," replied Fogg. "I think there's money in it. Don't you?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"That I can't precisely explain. I have seen some of the worst so-called actors that ever trod the boards catch on with the fickle public, while counting railroad ties was the reward for some of the most talented in the business. It isn't talent, ability, or merit that always tells in this world. Don't you know that? To be sure, if you have money to back any one or all of them up, together with grit enough to hold on until the tide turns, you may stand a chance. But sometimes, even then one gets left."

"Pshaw! I've known fellows without any one of these qualifications you have enumerated succeed—fellows who had neither friends nor capital to aid them," responded Fogg, as he removed his coat. "How do you account for that, old man?"

"Easily enough," answered Handy, seemingly not a bit put out. "They must have had those magnificent endowments which may be tersely summed up in the simple words 'cheek' and 'push,' qualities sufficiently potent to transform a mouse-trap into a fortune or a tobacco patent of some kind into a grand opera house. These are, my boy, the magician's wand. Hurry up and peel off your vest. Cheek is the capital with which the impecunious push ahead while modest merit remains in the background waiting for a chance. There, now, don't stand and stare. Pull off your shoes. You're too slow. As I was saying, cheek in business generally is the avant courier of success. Catch on to my French? Say, what's the matter now—burst a button off your pants? Never mind. You'll have plenty of time to make repairs during the week. Remember what I tell you. Cheek backed up by energy will win every time, and don't make any mistake about it. There, now, lie down and give me a chance to mend you and help to get your business affairs in some kind of shape that will be intelligible. By the way, have you such things as a pipe and tobacco on the premises?"

"Yes, you will find them on the shelf yonder. But see here, Handy. I don't half like this quarantine business—lying down and playing sick when I am as well as you are!"

"Then why in the name of Christopher Columbus' cat didn't you think of that before you went off in that fit last night! What did you do that for, eh? A joke? The punishment fits the crime, my friend, and you might as well make up your alleged mind to that fact, and that you'll have to take such medicine as I prescribe for at least a week to come."

Just then was heard the ring of the hall bell, and shortly after a servant-like knock at the door of the apartment followed. Handy motioned his patient to lie down and keep still, and then called, "Come in!" The door opened and a servant popped in her head and informed the two friends that down-stairs was a man named Draper, who wanted to see Mr. Fogg.

"Draper! Draper!" repeated Handy, as if endeavoring to recall the name to his recollection. "Fogg, dear boy, do you know any one named Draper?" Then turning to the servant: "Are you certain you got the gentleman's name correct?"

"He towld me his name was Draper, and sure that's all I know about him."

"Will you be kind enough, like a good girl, to skip down-stairs and ask the gentleman to send up his card?" said Handy in his most persuasive manner.

The lady who officiated as menial evidently did not relish another journey up and down-stairs, but Handy's winning way and manner of appealing to her had the desired effect. She condescended to oblige, but with a look, however, that might readily be mistaken for one other than pleasure over the job, with an accompanying murmur of words that sounded very much like "people puttin' on airs."

"Why, Handy, you know very well who that is down at the door," said Fogg, raising himself in bed.

"Know! Well, I should smile! Why, of course I know. But, my boy, I need a little time to get things straightened out before we receive visitors. Lie down and keep quiet. I'm running this show. These Melnotte duds will have to go to the wash. Ten to one that's what Draper has called for. That fellow has an eye as sharp as a hawk."

"What has that to do with the case?"

"This, if you are anxious to know. Draper would get on to that red ink stain quicker than a wink. You couldn't fool that gentleman on ink for blood. Just cast your eagle eye over it." He held the blouse up for inspection. "Why, it looks more like cranberry sauce on a jamboree than human gore. I will stow this away in the closet, and now bear in mind it has gone to the wash."

"Oh, all right!"

"Come in." This in answer to a knock at the door, and Bedelia, for such was the lady attendant's name, reappeared.

"The man down at the door below sez as how he has no card wid him, but that yez knows him very well already. He sez he's a customer."

"A what?" yelled Handy.

"A customer," shouted back Bedelia.

"A customer," echoed Handy, and then in his most agreeable manner continued: "Now, my gentle friend, for I know you are gentle, and therefore must be a friend, did not the man in the gap below tell you he was a costumer, and not a customer? Think, for the difference between the two is of some degree of importance."

"Well, sur, I may not be as well up in the new-fangled ways of spakin' as some other people are. Begor! with yer cawn'ts an' shawn'ts, an' chawnces, an' the divil only knows what in the way of pronunciayshon, a dacint, hard-workin' gerl can't make out half what's said nowadays. You call the man down-stairs wan thing an' I call him another, but both of them are the same man. Arrah! what's the matther wid yez, at all, at all?"

With this withering invective, Bedelia looked as if she could annihilate Handy.

The veteran in an amusingly polite manner arose and bowed. "All right, Bedelia, and if it's all the same to you, you may as well waltz the customer up."

"Well, sur," she answered, with what she possibly considered satiric dignity, "I'll sind him up, but I would like yez to understhand that I've plinty to do widout climbing up and down two pair of stairs waitin' on show-actors," and she then hurried out and bang! went the door.

"Fogg, my boy," said Handy, with a smile, "that handmaiden is a passion flower. 'Twould be an injustice to the more modest posy to designate her a daisy."

He was about to indulge in a laugh, when a masculine knock at the door interrupted. Moving quietly across the room, he opened the door. A nod of recognition and the costumer entered.

"Will you kindly take a seat, Mr. Draper?" he said in a subdued voice, as he motioned the visitor to a chair beside the bed.

"It's awfully kind of you, Draper, to call," said Fogg in a feeble tone of voice, at the same time extending his hand. "This is a bad blow. Who would have thought this time yesterday that I would now be——"

"Hush!" interrupted Handy gently. "You must keep still and not grow excited. You know what the doctor said." Then turning to the costumer, Handy explained Fogg's condition, the possible effect excitement would be likely to produce, and the evil consequences that might ensue. "He is not yet quite out of danger, but I guess he'll pull through, provided he will keep still and obey orders. The doctor says——Oh! by the way, Mr. Draper, you didn't meet the doctor on your way up, did you?" inquired Handy meekly, as he placed the invalid's hand back under the coverlet.

"No!" replied Mr. Draper, "I did not. What physician is attending him?"

"Oh! Doctor—ah—Doctor——Some German name. Hold on! That last prescription will tell us." But somehow or other Handy could not lay his hand on it.

"Never mind. Don't put yourself to any trouble. It doesn't matter."

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Draper," and Handy bent down toward him and in a low tone of voice said, "That Melnotte dress our poor friend had on at the time of the occurrence was so soiled that we had to send it to the laundry before returning it. It will be all right, though."

"Darn the thing!" replied Draper, somewhat indignantly. "You don't mean to think that is what I called around for. No, sir." Then rising from the chair, he turned toward Fogg. "Now, then, old chap, get all right again. Your friend here will look after you. I merely dropped in to pay a little friendly visit." He turned to leave the room, at the same time beckoning to Handy to step outside the door.

The two went out together, and though the time Handy remained away was brief, Fogg's anxiety magnified it and it made him restless. At length Handy returned, and with much more subdued demeanor than before he went out. He appeared grave and thoughtful.

"What's up now?" inquired Fogg, half raising from the bed. "What did Draper have to say? Is it that which disturbs you?"

Handy remained silent for a time. "Yes. It is not only what he said, but what he did that knocks me."

"I am really sorry to hear you say so," sympathetically replied Fogg.

"You know when we went outside"—and Handy breathed a heavy sigh and paused—"Draper placed his hand on my shoulder and said, 'Mr. Handy, you are a friend of Fogg?' I nodded an assent. 'I don't suppose,' he says, 'he has any too much ready money for an emergency of this kind, so that when affliction pays an unwelcome visit and sudden sickness crosses the threshold a few dollars at such a time come not amiss.'"

"Good-hearted fellow, after all."

"'Now,' he continued, 'don't let anything worry the poor devil. Let him consider the bill for costumes chalked off. Here, put this ten dollars to the best advantage you can use it for any little necessaries that may be wanting in the sick-room.'"

"You don't mean it!" cried Fogg excitedly.

"Oh, hang it, that was too much for me!" And Handy began to pace the floor nervously.

"And what did you do when he offered the money?"

"Do!" replied Handy indignantly. "Do! Why, I declined to take it, of course. I can do a good many things; but no—not that, not that."

"Right!"

"I told him you were not in need of anything. You had all you wanted. That was a lie, of course, but then there are times and circumstances when a lie may counterfeit truth. I insisted I could not accept it. What do you think he said?"

"Can't imagine."

"'Well!' he replied, 'if he doesn't want for anything, what was the benefit got up for? Here, take the stuff, and have no more silly nonsense about it.' He then thrust the money into my vest pocket and hurried down the stairs."

"Handy, you amaze me!"

"There it is," and he threw the bills on the bed to Fogg, and walked the room with pain distinctly written over his usually happy face. "The world is not so cold-hearted after all. Those we least suspect have hearts to feel for sufferings of others, and what is more, they have a practical way of expressing their sympathy." Then turning to Fogg, he added with much feeling: "This incident saddens me!"

"You are right. This money must be returned. I cannot take it," and Fogg too became thoughtful.

For the first time the evil of the fraud which had been perpetrated became forcibly evident to both men. One genuine act of kindness had stripped deceit of its covering more effectively than the logic of a hundred sermons.

"Perhaps the next experience," said Handy, still in a reflective mood, "will be the appearance of that tough stage carpenter who threatened to compel you to describe the beauties of your palace by Lake Como with sky borders and wings, with a supply of delicacies from his humble home, or maybe a contribution in cash exceeding the sum you agreed to pay him for his labor, in order that he might show his kindly disposition to assist when misfortune overtook you."

Both were visibly affected. The deception they practiced, though it brought a certain temporary relief from an embarrassing situation, also carried with it its own punishment. For a time they remained silent.

"Handy," began Fogg, "if the thing had been real and resulted fatally, I verily believe that old man Funkenstein would have volunteered to furnish the music for my funeral, and not have charged my friends a red cent."

"Sure! And what's more," replied Handy, the humorous side appealing to his fancy, "let me tell you, as a dead one you would have drawn a darn'd sight bigger house than you ever can as a live actor."

Notwithstanding his troubles, Fogg appreciated the humorous sally of his associate. He threw himself back on his bed and enjoyed a hearty laugh. Handy permitted him to enjoy his merriment and then reminded him that although to the outer world he was on the blink, so far as prosperity was concerned, the enforced inaction of the sick-room would never bridge over the difficulties that encompassed him. He reminded Fogg that he was financially dead broke. It is true he was in the great city, the mecca toward which all strolling players turn their eyes as well as their toes when they are in financial straits, but the fact of being in the metropolis was not sufficient. It was necessary to set about doing something.

"Let me tell you, Fogg, that thinking without action to back it up cuts no ice. Never did—never will. You may think until doomsday and accomplish nothing. I will point a moral without ornamenting a tale, by relating an experience I once had when I was out West some time ago with a company and got stranded, and if you will loan me your ear I will a tale unfold. What say you?"

"Proceed."

"First let me dispose of a quiet pipeful of tobacco to collect my scattered thoughts and I will unbosom myself."



CHAPTER XVI

A New Way to Pay Old Debts.

After Handy had complacently smoked a pipeful of Fogg's tobacco he laid the comforter aside and started in one of those characteristic chapters of incidents to be found scattered here and there on the pathway of nearly every player who amounts to anything either at home or abroad.

"You may remember that a few years ago I got together a company with a view to endeavor to enlighten as well as to instruct the public of the so-called wild and woolly West."

"Yes."

"Part of the company I picked up here, the remainder I managed to scrape together in Chicago. Times were not good; actors were easily had, and were willing to take long chances on the prospects of even getting bread and butter. Please don't take me too literally. They were well aware of the fact that if the money came in they would surely get their share. All who know me are pretty well satisfied on that score. Deal squarely with the people about you, is my maxim, and they will stand by you when the pinch comes. I have gone on that principle all through my varied career and I know the benefit of what I speak."

"Yes; all things considered," replied Fogg, "you have been on the Square."

"Good! You're improving! Well, as I was saying, I got my company together and set out. We opened in Denver. Did fairly well; pushed on still further. Struck bad business, and at the end of a couple of weeks landed high and dry on Saturday night in a far Western town—No need of mentioning names."

"As soon as that—two weeks?"

"Just two weeks. Oh, don't affect surprise. I've known companies to go where the woodbine twineth on the third night out. There is nothing new in that. Well, the night I have reference to was so bad, that is the receipts were so slender, that we didn't take in money enough to pay for the gas, and remember we were under contract to play the following Monday in a city not more than fifty miles or so away."

"Well, you had all Sunday and most of Monday to get there, and keep your date. There's nothing in that," remarked Fogg, with a smile.

"Very true; but, my optimistic friend, permit me to inform you that my company was not solely made up of pedestrians, and, moreover, walking in midwinter as a rule is not good. So you may readily recognize I was in a perplexing predicament. After I glanced over the box office statement I hardly knew where I was at. As I thought the situation over before me arose the stern reality of a large-sized board bill, for bear in mind I had guaranteed to pay the traveling and hotel bills of the company. Hotelkeepers are such matter-of-fact and precise individuals in their peculiar ways of dealings that it is difficult for those of empty pockets to get along pleasantly with them."

"Absurdly so," admitted Fogg.

"Pleased to hear you say so, but then, my boy, you never ran a hotel."

"No, but I kept the books of a traveling politician one season!"

"You did?"

"Fact."

"You weren't traveling with a show?"

"Nit, I was attending political conventions."

"Oh, that settles it. That was a dead easy job. The party put up the dough and the public in the end pays the score. That's another proposition altogether. But the poor player who—well, no matter. No use in becoming sentimental or spoony about it. Now, own up, my position was unpleasantly embarrassing, wasn't it?"

"It was not exhilarating."

"No. There was nothing cheering about it. However, I put on no long face, though between ourselves I wished some other fellow stood in my shoes."

"How considerate for the other fellow!"

"Well," continued Handy, "that's neither here nor there, but I made up my mind to get out of that town bag and baggage and keep my date Monday night, all the samee."

"I admire your pluck."

"Pluck? Nothing of the kind. Pluck had nothing to do with the case. It was tact and resource that came to my assistance. Season your admiration for a moment and I'll give you a wrinkle worth remembering. After a bite and a snack I went to bed, not to worry, but to sleep. Let me say, by way of comment, that a few hours' rest is a powerful rejuvenator. You can do much better work in the morning after a good night's sleep than if you had passed weary hours tossing and tumbling about in bemoaning your hard luck and picturing to yourself what might have been if you had done so and so. All rot. Let the other fellow do the worrying. Remember, my boy, the past is irreclaimable, the present the life we are struggling in, and the future what we make it, or rather try to make it."

"Handy, I had no idea you were such a philosopher!"

"Indeed! Well, experience teaches me to be practical," replied the veteran, "and I trust I may be able to prove to you the truth of what I say. As I told you, I retired to my bed to sleep, and sleep I did, as soundly as if I owned one-half the town and had a mortgage on the other half. Next morning I got up refreshed and with a good appetite for breakfast. After the morning's meal I settled myself down to the enjoyment of a cigar. At that stage of the game I could not afford to be seen smoking a pipe. Never give your poverty away to the world unless you can make final disposition of it. Then came the real task—the crisis."

"The tug of war, eh?"

"Just so. The tug of war, so to speak. I braced the landlord! I invited him to take a chair beside me and began the siege."

"Commenced operations. Fire away."

"I had already made a study of the man, and had well considered my plan of attack. I opened by telling him frankly I was in trouble. The week's business had been bad, receipts next door to nothing, my share slim. To make a long story short, I confessed I could not settle my bill."

"That must have been an interesting communication for mine host of the inn. How did he take it?"

"Well, his reception of the information somewhat surprised me. I anticipated a storm; but no. He was perfectly calm. I waited for a reply, but he simply remarked, 'Well?' I then enlarged on my ill-luck, bad business, terrible weather, and wound up with a pathetic story of our situation. 'Well,' he again exclaimed, 'I will hold the baggage and stuff until you can settle up.'"

"The old, old story," plaintively exclaimed Fogg.

"I felt that was coming, but I also judged from the manner of that decision, cold as it was in all the integrity of its meaning, that I had a practical man to deal with. Take my word for it, Fogg, it is always better to have business dealings with a man of that type than with one who, while he loads you up with sympathy to beat the band, doesn't mean a word of it. To settle there and then for board and get our things out of quarantine was out of the question; to attempt to play our next stand without our 'props' and things was equally difficult."

"Of course, but then," said Fogg, "hotelkeepers never take these things into consideration."

"No, never. 'Mr. Breadland'—that was his name—'I have a proposition to make,' said I, 'and as you seem to be a practical man, you will, I have an idea, recognize its practicability. The situation is this: I owe you money. The amount I am unable to pay just now. You say you propose to hold on to the baggage belonging to the company as security for the debt.'

"'You state the case precisely,' said he.

"'Now, then,' I continued, 'the stuff you propose to seize you don't want, and you only mean to hold the things as security for the payment of the board bill—an honest debt.' He nodded his head while he scrutinized me closely. 'Now, what would you say if I could point out a way to you by which you could still have security for the indebtedness, I could have the baggage and things, and you get the money owing to you?'

"'My friend,' said he, 'I don't want to hold your stuff. It's no earthly use to me. I only want the coin that's due me. If you can show or point out to me any feasible plan by which that end may be reached, I rather think you and I may come to terms.'

"'I guess I can. To be sure it may cause you personally some little inconvenience for a few days, but the scheme will work out all right.'

"'Let me hear it,' says he, looking me squarely in the face.

"It is this: We are billed to play Monday night in Bungtown. The chances are we will have a big house for the opening. We stay there three nights. Now, then, my proposition is that you send your clerk along with the company; I will place him in the box office, where he will have control of the receipts, and each night after the show is over he can take for you a percentage of the share coming to me, and continue to do so at each performance until your bill is all paid. How does it strike you?' Well, sir, it set that countryman a-thinking and pulling his whiskers so vigorously that I feared his goatee would give way. I knew almost to a dead certainty that I had won. The man, Fogg, who hesitates gives way in the end, always.

"Breadland reflected a minute, then spoke out: 'I'll do it,' he said. ''Tis about the easiest and safest way of getting hunk.'

"'One thing more, Mr. Breadland,' I added, when I felt satisfied that luck was running my way.

"'What is it?' he inquired.

"'The hotel bill, as you are aware, is made out to cover all charges up to and including lunch to-day. After the train which leaves here at three this afternoon there is none other until to-morrow forenoon, and as the company has done a deal of traveling and the people are pretty well tuckered out, a day's rest and a good night's sleep would not be amiss, and it would enable us to give a rattling good performance to-morrow night.'

"'I agree with you,' he replied.

"I thought so, but perhaps I didn't make myself as clear as I might. Your good nature, however, emboldens me to respectfully suggest'—and this I said in the most tender and convincing manner I could employ—'that for the sake of art and good fellowship, for this little extra hospitality you make no addition to the hotel bill. Let it stand as it is.'"

"What!" exclaimed Fogg, in open-mouthed wonder. "Did he show you the door?"

"Not a bit of it. I told you he was a plain, practical kind of cuss, with a tender spot in his heart. He looked at me with a calm, queer, but not mischievous twinkle in his eye. I stood the gaze with the most innocent assumption of impudence, waiting for the verdict. It came in a moment, accompanied with a hearty laugh as he said: 'By jingo, you deserve to get ahead! You won't fail for want of nerve. It's your long suit. I'll have to go you,' or words to that effect. 'Come,' he said, rising from his chair, 'I'll blow you off,' and he led the way to the bar."

"You don't mean to say he stood treat into the bargain?" asked Fogg, in surprise.

"Sure; like a prince, he did; and what's more, he made the remainder of the day as pleasant as if every member of the company was a first-floorer, paying bridal-party rates.

"That little episode made me very solid with my company. They knew the actual condition of the exchequer, for obvious reasons, and wondered how I was able to make things all right without the necessary wherewithal. That's management, my boy. They never considered for the life of them, that three-fourths or more of the business of the world is managed and conducted on credit and promises to pay. I was merely working out the principle in my own little bit of a way. So the day passed agreeably. The people knew that everything in the hotel was all right and that I had the railroad fares snugly stowed away in my inside pocket."



CHAPTER XVII

"The actors are at hand; and by their show you shall all know that you are like to know." —MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

"We got into Bungtown early next day. I went at once to the theatre. There I was happy to learn that the advance sale was good and the prospects for the evening's performance A1. We opened to a full house, and the audience appeared to enjoy the entertainment. The following evening did not pan out quite so well, in consequence of a torchlight procession through the streets and a big Grand Army parade. The night after—our farewell performance. Great Scott! A rainstorm thinned the attendance to the proportions of a fashionable church in the metropolis during summer, when the popular preacher is absent on vacation abroad, seeking after the health he never lost. How I felt can be better imagined than described. I was up against it for fair. As I told you, I was unable to settle the hotel bill at the last town, and in addition we had now the handicap of an extra hotel and railroad fare for Breadland's clerk, who according to agreement was to travel with the show until the whole account with Breadland was squared up."

"The prospects were not encouraging."

"No; but we managed, somehow or other, to get out of town; though when everything was fixed, including a few dollars to Breadland on account, it was a close shave. Fortunately, the railroad fares to our next stand were light and we had three days there. It was in that sylvan retreat by the flowing river we nearly met our Waterloo. Speak of bad business. It was something weird."

"Misfortune and you must have been running a race."

"Yes, with the filly away in the lead. But we managed to play right on. Sunday morning found me once more hors de combat, with another hotel bill unpaid and an almost empty treasury to meet it. I nearly gave up in despair. Remembering, however, that despair never yet pulled a man out of a hole, in sheer desperation I resolved once more to fall back on the expedient that carried us over the sea of troubles that beset us before we reached Bungtown."

"Great Heavens! you don't mean to say you proposed to carry another hotel clerk on your staff?" queried Fogg.

"I had to do something. Necessity is the prompter of ingenuity, and the suggestion came from that source. There is no use in going further into detail. I convinced the landlord and secured another secretary of the treasury to look after the income, and we got out of town next morning as happy as clams at high water. Well, without mincing matters, I must say we had as rough a road to travel any band of poor strolling Thespians ever struck."

"Misfortune still in the lead?"

"I should say so. Listen. We ran into the Gulf Stream of a red-hot political campaign, and I needn't tell you these torchlight processions, firework displays, and fife and drum corps knock the life out of the show business. Where we made a few dollars in one place we dropped them in another. Had it not been for a small reserve fund I had carefully treasured up for extra hazardous emergencies and my peculiar talent and diplomacy in dealing with hotel men, I verily believe it would have taken us all the winter to have reached a hospitable haven of relief, for the walking was wretched and Western railroad ties too far apart for decent pedestrianism."

"By Jove!" smiled Fogg, "you must have had an anxious time from the word go."

"Oh, that goes without saying. I managed to pull through and reached good warm-hearted Chicago with nine hotel clerks on my staff, all acting as treasurers, assistant treasurers, auditors, ticket-sellers, bookkeepers and financial agents, each one wondering why the box office department was receiving accessions to its ranks in the face of such bad business."

"An' did they never tumble to the little joker?"

"Well, I candidly admit it required the exercise of considerable tact to keep them in complete ignorance of the true situation."

"Of that I have not the slightest doubt."

Handy was silent a moment.

"Fogg, did you ever worry over a promoter's prospectus of a proposed financial scheme prepared for the edification of the public with the laudable intention of separating people from their money?"

"Some," answered Fogg, slightly mystified at the change Handy had given to the conversation.

"That being the case, you can call to mind how eloquently the promoter labors to convince prospective investors how they can get in on the ground floor and lay the foundation of a fortune to be made out of a hole in the ground?"

"I've heard of such things."

"Do you know how it was done?"

"Search me."

"Well, I, too, can do a little in that line myself. I did some of the most expert word painting to my assistant financial agents or their representatives and held them together and in good fellowship until I reached my harbor."

"If the question is not an indelicate one," said Fogg hesitatingly, "might I inquire if you ever paid up?"

"Every dollar," quickly responded Handy. "When we reached Chicago we struck smooth water and entered upon a prosperous sea for four weeks. Money fairly poured into our coffers. One by one I sent each hotel clerk back to his employer, with a check for the money I owed him in his pocket and a receipted bill in mine. I squared up with every one I was indebted to. You know when we make money we make it fast."

"And part with it as readily," added his friend.

"That has nothing to do with the case, my boy. Now, let me ask you if you think I told you this moving tale of ups and downs for the mere fun of its recital, do you?"

"Well, partly fun, kill time, and partly to a—a—a——"

"Yes, go on. Partly to a—a—a——what? Why don't you finish the sentence?"

"To illustrate the principle of a novel way to pay old debts, eh?"

"Right you are," replied Handy emphatically. "And let me add, so far as you are personally concerned——" For the first time during the narration he looked thoroughly in earnest.

"I'm listening."

"When you ever get in a bad box or are up against it, don't lay down and brood over the hardship, but set to work with a will to get square with your troubles as becomes a man."



CHAPTER XVIII

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are."

—NURSERY RHYMES.

Three weeks after "The Lady of Lyons" episode Handy was once more in harness and equipped for the stage. He had captured what is technically known as "an angel" and was fairly well provided for another brief campaign. His friend Smith was engaged to accompany him and to officiate as general utility man in the broadest sense of the term. Fogg, who had been instrumental in lassoing the "angel," was engaged to be leading man of the new organization. An "angel" is one of those peculiar individuals who have stage aspirations, with money to burn; is ambitious to act, or try to, then fret a brief season behind the footlights, in nine cases out of ten fails and is never heard of more. The "angel" is generally a woman with a "friend." Her stock in trade to embark in an arduous profession requiring talent, industry, patience, intelligence, perseverance, and self-reliance consists chiefly in a good wardrobe, cheek, self-assurance, vanity, and ready cash.

It is a well-known fact that the capital stock of an "angel" melts, thaws, and resolves itself into disappointment after she has had a short practical experience on the boards. The exacting demands of the theatrical calling dims the luster that lured the deluded one recklessly to enter the seemingly attractive circle, to appear as the make-believe heroines of romance on the stage. A few weeks—perhaps not so long—at one of the theatrical factories to be found in nearly all of the large cities where Juliets are prepared at short notice, Camilles manufactured for immediate use, and actors in every department of the calling are turned out by some superfluous veteran of the stage at so much per lesson, generally in advance, fits the aspirant for a debut on a starring tour. How many enterprises of this character have started out, with thousands of dollars to back them, too, and returned to the city with rudely dispelled hopes and empty purses, it is difficult to estimate. Every season brings forth a fresh crop. The industry has grown with the times, and the appetite for theatric fame has not in the least diminished. The number of fallen "angels" scattered throughout the country would cut a respectable figure in a statistical report.

It is only a few short years ago, in one of the leading theatres of the country, a playhouse which was subsequently trampled out of existence by the march of trade, that five Juliets to one Romeo made an afternoon pitiful by the incongruity of the representation of one of the sweetest plays of the immortal bard. Every act introduced a fresh Juliet, as if to demonstrate the unfitness of each aspirant to present adequately even the slightest phase of a character which requires the art of a consummate artist to interpret properly.

Much has been said and written about the unworthiness of traveling companies in the country towns. While much of this may be true, even in the large cities as absurd exhibitions of acting may be witnessed as anywhere else. No one knew this better than Handy. To give him his due, he was usually careful in the selection of his companies. He never went half-way to work about it. When he desired to organize a troupe he endeavored to gather about him the best from his point of view.

"Indifferent and bumptious actors," said Handy to a friend, "are always looking for what they call big money. Their seasons, therefore, are short. They learn nothing from experience. They know it all. Yet they will hang on the ragged edge of starvation for weeks rather than come down in what they are pleased to name as their figures. A really good actor has little difficulty in securing an engagement at a reasonable salary. I know them, and they can't fool your uncle."

It must be admitted that Handy's experience in this line was somewhat extensive. To go into the detail of advance work and rehearsals is unnecessary. They may be left to the reader's imagination. They are, therefore, passed over in order to get more quickly to the opening night and the birth and death of a star.

"Camille" was the drama in which the "angel" decided to make her debut. The aspiring amateur, if a woman, generally makes choice of "La Dame aux Camellias." Why she does so, if not to bring to her aid a display of rich and elaborate costumes, it is difficult to say. In making such selection she unconsciously contrasts the possession of rich silk and satin frocks, together with valuable jewels, with the poverty of her histrionic resources.

The little town of Weston was the place selected as the scene of operations. The advance man, or press agent, had played his part well. "Camille" met the eye on every fence and blank wall in the place. Dodgers literally floated in the air and the town was so adorned with snipes that the uninitiated might reasonably conclude that paper costs nothing and printers worked for fun. To Handy's indefatigable exertions this was in a great measure due. Three nights he devoted to the work, and actually painted Weston red with "Camille."

"If you want to have a thing done well," he exclaimed, "you must do it yourself or see personally that it is done. There is no use in having printing unless you get it up where the public can see it. Billposters are peculiar people. They are in certain respects economical, and they have their own peculiar ideas of saving. That perhaps is the reason why you see so few posters stuck up for public edification and so many of them stowed away somewhere on out-of-the-way shelves in bill-posters' studios. They are queer fellows, these bill-posters. I've never been able to understand them. I've been, in various capacities, with many theatrical companies that were amply supplied with all kinds of printing to start out with, but when I went about town where we played looking for it I had to search pretty closely to find where it was pasted up. I therefore, in this case, determined to pay personal attention to that part of the business myself." This information or explanation was imparted to Camille through Fogg, by the way of a preliminary endorsement of Handy's remarkable energy.

Fogg was enthusiastic in praise of the manager's clever publicity display.

"I never saw a town so well billed in my life," said he, "and as you know, Mr. Handy, I have had some experience in such matters. Don't you agree with me, Miss De la Rue?" The last inquiry was addressed to the "angel" star, who was standing by his side, apparently as nervous and fidgety as if she was about to undergo an examination in a law court.

"Yes, indeed; I think the place is awfully well done," she replied, rather timidly, "but I didn't notice as many of my lithos around as I expected."

"What!" replied the manager in surprise. "Why, there ain't a saloon or cigar shop that ain't got them up. I know, for I've been in all of 'em."

Handy spoke the truth. It is a fact that cigar shops and liquor stores are the principal galleries in which the pictorial printing of theatrical celebrities and theatrical combinations are placed on exhibition. There is more money thrown away uselessly in such places, in the way of expensive printing and lithographs, than managers seem to realize. Even some of the shrewdest men in the business are not altogether free from the weakness of adorning these establishments with high-priced pictorial work. The practice at one time had at least the merit of novelty, but since it has become a regular thing it has lost much of its efficacy and ceased to be remunerative. But what is the use of objecting? Stars would be nothing more than mere rushlights if the highly colored lithos did not proclaim their prominence in the theatrical firmament to those who are ever ready to pledge women in song or story in the flowing bowl. Of course, in the interest of art.

"Do you think, Mr. Handy, that we shall have a good house?" inquired the "angel," as she stood on the stage before the performance, in a highly nervous, hesitating manner. "I should dislike to appear before a small audience; it is so discouraging, you know, to an artist."

"A good house?" echoed the optimistic manager. "We'll turn 'em away, and you can bank on it," he replied, with an air of confidence that reassured the bird of paradise and brought a smile to her face.

"I'm so glad to hear you say so! But I'm ashamed to admit it. But to you, of course, as my manager, I may confide and confess I feel awfully nervous."

"Happy to hear you tell me so, miss. Remember one thing, that all them as amounts to anything are taken that way on a first night. For instance, take Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she's a holy terror on a first night. There's Francis Wilson—well, it isn't safe to be near him when he comes off the stage of a first night. Then there's Joe Murphy, the great Irish comedian; when he plays a part, it is said, he becomes so nervous that he goes about giving every member of his company a ten-dollar bill. Sir Henry Irving was another of those so affected that he wanted to make a speech to the audience after every act, and only for the restraining influence of Bram Stoker, he would. Charley Wyndham, now Sir Charles, makes himself believe he is an incarnation of David Garrick. Nat Goodwin is that nervous of a first night that he wants to play 'Macbeth' with Maude Adams as Lady Macbeth the next time he produces a new piece. All the result of nervousness, I assure you. I am affected that way myself on every first performance I appear in. It is, strange to say, the greatest evidence we have of the possession of that gift of what is regarded as genius. That's what's the matter!"

"You really think so? Oh, it is so consoling to hear you say so! I feel easier in my mind after you telling me and placing me on the same footing with the great ones of our profession. I'll go and dress now."

The "angel" star hurried off to her dressing-room. Smith, from among the manifold duties he was called upon to perform, had just returned from the front of the house, where he had been looking after things, as he himself put it. He approached Handy and in an enthusiastic manner informed him he thought the capacity of the house would be tested.

"Oh, that won't surprise me," replied Handy. "Give me 'Camille' every time for a country audience, providing the billing is all right. 'Camille' is old enough to be young."

"Do you think we're going to give a good show?"

"As to that, I'll speak to you later on. That's another proposition. Now, then, get a move on you. Hurry up and dress, and above all things, see that your props are all right."

Smith was property man as well as prompter—two important offices which in any well-regulated theatrical company would require the services of two men. In addition to these, he undertook to double a couple of the minor parts. He was an old hand at the work, and doubling and trebling did not in the slightest disturb him. He was not always as careful as he should be in the matter of detail, and in several instances his attempts at faking did not pan out as he originally planned them.



CHAPTER XIX

"Experience is a great book, the events of life its chapters." —SAINTE-BEUVE.

By eight o'clock the house was well filled. The signboard bearing the legend, "Standing Room Only" was put out in front to catch a few more. It was such an audience as would make any manager's heart rejoice. The curtain rose promptly on the first act. To say the act went off tamely would be simply admitting the truth. Camille was not only uncertain in her lines, but she was suffering from a bad attack of stage fright. Were it not for extraordinary exertions on the part of the principal members of the company—a confidence acquired of long experience—the star of the evening would have twinkled out of existence and "Camille" would have been presented in one act instead of five. The unfortunate "angel" realized for the first time in her life, possibly, that the calling she had selected to adopt was not all her fancy had painted it. The so-called coaching and training she had paid for proved of little or no practical value. She was Camille only in costume—if in that; the Camille of the dressmaker—nothing more. The audience, moreover, were not slow in recognizing this fact also. That day has gone by, apparently, when tyros may sally forth from the city and win country audiences with fine dresses, pretty faces, cheek, and inexperience. The theatre-going public knows the trick. The days of such barn-storming are passing away.

Mr. Fogg, who was the Armand, did not make a profound impression. The part suited him like an ill-fitted garment, and he felt it. The realization of that fact took all the vim out of him. If the real truth was known, he, no doubt, wished himself back in his little second-story back in the big city, gossiping of what he might, but could not, do if he had the chance. Handy was cast for the part of the Count de Varville. He was not great in the character, but he could wrestle with it. Was there a role in the whole range of the English drama he would decline to take a fall out of if circumstances demanded?

"Say, you'll have to throw more ginger into the part, old fellow," said Handy, as the hero of the carmine blouse of benefit memory walked across the stage, looking very disconsolate after the first act. Neither he nor the star received the slightest applause during their scenes.

"Wait until the fourth act, the great act of the piece," replied Fogg, "and I'll fetch 'em. You just watch me."

"All ready for the second act," cried out the call-boy. A few seconds later the curtain went up and the play proceeded. Nothing of particular moment transpired during the act. The audience sat through it as tamely as if listening to a funeral sermon. Camille was painfully tame; Armand as harmless a lover as any respectable parent could desire. The remainder of the cast, influenced, no doubt, by the shortcomings of the principals, became listless and merely walked through their parts as they spoke their lines.

At the close of the act a number of people left the house. They evidently had had enough and did not care for more. The "angel" also had had enough of "Camille," and wished the whole thing was over. Fogg also had had enough of Armand, and mentally avowed that never again would he undertake a stage lover to an "angel" without experience. In passing, it may be added that an experienced "angel" would not accept Fogg for a Claude at any price. Handy had enough of both of them, with something to spare. In desperation he even expressed regret he did not have a hack at Armand himself and infuse some life into it. If he had there would have been fun, for Handy's lovers were fearfully and wonderfully made.

The third act passed pretty much as the two preceding acts, only more so, with fewer people in the house to see it. A number of noticeable yawns evidenced the frame of mind of those who remained.

The curtain went up on the fourth act—that in which Fogg was going to do something. He had in the meantime been bracing up. When he made his entry and spoke, his manner of speech was somewhat thick, but his acting was more energetic. Fogg never could take anything stimulating without its going to his head, and as his brain exercised a peculiar influence over other members of his body, they all contributed their aid to illustrating his actual condition. He at length appeared to wake up to the actualities of the situation. So had Camille, so had the Count de Varville, and so had the audience—particularly the audience. Fogg strenuously warmed up. The first genuine manifestation on the part of the audience occurred when Armand, rising from the card-table and making a stage crossing, caught his foot in a hole in the carpet, caromed against the card-table, upset it, and measured his length on the boards. The audience burst into laughter. Audiences really enjoy such contretemps, cruel as such accidents or mishaps may be to the luckless player. Fogg arose and, wisely affecting not to notice the storm in front of the footlights, continued the scene. At length the moment was reached for him to shower gold on Camille, and by such insult endeavor to provoke a quarrel with de Varville. Hastily and clumsily drawing forth the property purse or bag of coin which Smith had prepared, he burst the fastening and showered the contents on the unfortunate Camille. Lo and behold! the property coin proved to be medium-sized brass buttons with long shanks. A far-sighted humorist among the audience caught sight of them and, with utter disregard of the dramatic situation and ignoring the consequences of his interference, unloosed his tongue and in a peculiar treble voice called out: