"Button, button; who has the button?"

The audience caught the ill-timed humor of the situation, Camille nearly collapsed, and the people on the stage with considerable difficulty restrained themselves from taking part in the prevailing hilarity. It was some time before the slightest semblance of order could be restored in front. Eventually, when something like quiet was restored, the act was played to a finish, in a somewhat fitful and highly nervous manner.

Behind the curtain there was a very lively condition of things. Armand was furious; Camille was engaged in giving a practical demonstration of hysterical stunts. She declared she would not go on any more. She was going to quit right there and then. It required all of Handy's persuasive eloquence to prevail on her to finish the performance. Camille seemed to be firm in her resolve.

"'Tis only the dying scene," urged Handy. "It's dead easy, and the merit of it is that it is the best act of all for you. Only for those unfortunate buttons everything would have gone off all serene. We were getting into the spirit of the thing when the mishap broke everything all up. I'll kill that blithering property man when I lay hands on him."

Fogg had already started on the warpath after Smith, but Smith, having an intuitive knowledge that a meeting between himself and his leading man would result in strained relations, and not doubting for an instant that discretion is the better part of valor, beat a hasty retreat from the theatre, costumed and made up as he was, not even remaining long enough to wash the make-up from his face.

It was debatable for several minutes whether the "angel" would finish Camille or some obliging member of the company would undertake the job. None of the ladies appeared ambitious to shuffle off the mortal coil of the Lady of the Camellias. Finally, after a successful siege of coaxing, pleading, imploring, and entreating on the part of Handy, the "angel" consented. The curtain went up. Camille, under the circumstances, did the best she could in speaking the lines. An occasional titter from the audience conveyed only too plainly the information that the button incident was not yet forgotten. Notwithstanding, poor Camille struggled bravely on. It was uphill work, but she persevered. At length the fateful moment arrived for Armand to make his entrance. No sooner did he set his foot on the stage in view of the audience then again the voice of the serio-comic humorist in front, in the same weird tone, was, it must have been drowned in the laughter of the assemblage.

"Ring down the curtain," piteously pleaded Camille in an undertone from her deathbed.

Handy stood in the wings, ready for any emergency likely to turn up, and in a very audible prompt whisper replied: "Go on, go on with the scene. Die as fast as you can. Don't give them any fancy dying frills, but croak at once and have done with it."

Whether the people in front overheard the manager's imperative prompting or that the echo of "button" was still ringing in their ears, the death scene of Camille was presented as it had never been before—with peals of laughter. Camille made a final effort, and then fell back on the bed. There was something in the realistic manner of the act that caught the quick perception of the audience. The people on the stage also were attracted by it, and they gathered about the fallen star. The curtain was rung down on the double-quick. The poor girl remained motionless in the position she had fallen. The effort had proven too much, the strain too great—she had been completely overcome, had broken down and collapsed.

Handy and Fogg later in the night were seated together in a little back room of the hotel. Fogg was crestfallen—Handy thoughtful. Only a slight exchange of conversation passed between them. At length the silence was broken.

"Fogg," asked Handy, "do you believe in a hereafter?"

"What a singular question."

"Never mind about its singularity. Do you?"

"Certainly I do."

"In heaven, and all that kind of thing?"

"Yes."

"Then take a friend's advice. Never again undertake the support of an 'angel' until you reach heaven. They have no buttons there."

The humor was wasted on Fogg. He was too humiliated to relish any kind of a joke. After lingering a short time, he retired. The veteran remained thoughtful, taking some consolation from his briarwood and a steaming hot Scotch. For some minutes he continued in what for some reason or other is known as a brown study. How long he might have continued in that condition it is not necessary to speculate on. A tap at the window aroused him from his revery. He glanced in the direction from whence the sound came. There he beheld the well-known face of his first lieutenant, Smith. He motioned Handy to come to him. Handy was too comfortable where he was. He bade Smith come right in. Smith shook his head and pantomimed Handy to survey his get-up. The latter recognized the situation, swallowed the contents of his glass, and stepped outside. The meeting was not at first particularly cordial, but when Handy comprehended the predicament in which his friend had placed himself he laughed.

"You're a beaut, you are. It's a mighty lucky thing Fogg didn't catch you, let me tell you. If he had, it's dollars to doughnuts there would be a funeral in the Smith family in the near future; and what's more, you wouldn't have a word as to choice of vehicle in which you went to the cemetery. But say, why on earth are you masquerading about the streets in that get-up?"

"Oh, cut all that!" replied Smith, "and tell me how I'm going to get my street togs. They are in the dressing-room at the theatre, and I can't go gallivanting through the streets in this rig. Do you want to have me pinched and locked up, eh?"

"Didn't you come from there in 'em?"

"Sure I came in 'em. I had to. I would have come out without anything, I was so scared of that lunatic Fogg. But, say, you got through with the show all right."

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes! We got through with the show all—wrong, but——"

"But what?"

"The season is closed."

"Closed!" repeated Smith anxiously. "You don't mean it?"

"Yes, but I do mean it. The game is up. No more 'Camille.' The 'angel' has fallen. She has had all the starring she wants, and starts heavenwards to-morrow on the Pennsylvania limited for the Lord knows where."

"An' Fogg—whither goest he?"

"He accompanies her as a kind of guardian angel."

"An'—an'—a—the—salaries, what about them?"

"They remain."

"With whom?" asked Smith.

"They are all right. The 'angel' does the decent thing, and puts up for the entire week."

"An' then——"

"Oh, you want to know too much! Maybe I will try and fill in the dates myself. I don't exactly know yet, but for mercy sake, come in with me and run up to my room, wash the grease paint and make-up off your mug, and I will let you have my ulster to cover you while you go back to the theatre and get your clothes."

On his return, Smith rejoined his manager and they spent the night together. Next morning Handy was up early, and after a conference with Miss De la Rue and Mr. Fogg he called on the landlord and settled the hotel bill. He then accompanied the "angel" and Fogg to the station and saw them both safely on the train. The lady resolved to abandon all histrionic ambition, and never after sought the fickle fame of the footlights, and Fogg ever since shows an affected contempt for anyone who sees anything to laugh at over the button episode of his extraordinary one-night season with the "angel" Camille.



CHAPTER XX

I am not an imposter that proclaim Myself against the level of my aim.

—ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

After Handy returned to the hotel, having parted with his "angel" and his star at the station, the first man he met was his landlord, a somewhat smart and shrewd, speculative individual, who was not adverse at odd times to trying to turn an honest penny by occasional incursions into the alluring and fascinating domain of speculation. He had a weakness for the theatre, the race-track, the stock market, the trotting circuit, etc. He was willing, when the opportunity presented itself, to put a trifle into any of these hazards by way of a flyer, as he termed it, provided he thought he saw a chance to make a little something on the side. He had already made a small stake on stocks, secured a fair return from an investment in oil, and came out about even on the race-track. Up to this time, however, he had never indulged in the luxury of a theatrical venture, notwithstanding the hankering he had at times to dabble in that direction. As soon as he saw Handy he called him aside and began a little preliminary skirmishing, and in a roundabout way started in to lay bare the strenuous thoughts that were agitating his mind. He opened up the subject by inquiring when the company proposed to go back.

"On the 2.30 train," answered Handy, not knowing or caring whether there was a train at that particular hour or not. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was just thinking"—and the landlord spoke with measured care—"I was just thinking, as I said, that perhaps you and I might be able to arrange some kind of a deal to give a show at Gotown, make a stake, and whack up on the profits. What do you say?"

"Gotown! Gotown!" replied Handy. "Never heard of it. No, I guess not. You see, times are pretty brisk now; good people are in demand, and if we remain away from the city for any length of time some of the company might lose the opportunity of a steady engagement for the season. No, I can't take the risk."

Handy was anxious, nevertheless, to make the venture, and he felt satisfied the company would stick by him.

"There's money in it for the two of us," urged mine host of the inn. "The outlay will not be much, and the profits will be all ours to split up. It will be the first show that was ever given in the place!"

"What!" exclaimed the veteran, in surprise.

"It will be the first show ever given in the town."

"You take my breath away. Say, you don't mean to tell me there is one town in the United States that has escaped the showman?"

"Yes. Gotown has, an' I'll gamble on it," said the landlord.

"Stay! There must be some kind of a rink there?"

"No."

"No rink."

"No."

"A museum, then—moving-pictures snap?"

"No."

"Has there been a circus there recently?"

"Never had a circus within miles of it."

Handy seemed puzzled. He looked at the landlord, and his face bore a quizzical expression as he said: "Say, mister, what in thunder kind of a place is this Gotown, anyway—a cemetery?"

The landlord laughed, Handy wondered, and neither spoke for some time. It perplexed the veteran to reconcile with his mind the fact that there happened to be hid away, a town in the United States that had not yet been tapped by the industrious and ubiquitous showman. Reflection, however, might have convinced him that it was not such an extraordinary circumstance, after all. In this glorious and growing country cities and towns spring up in an unprecedentedly brief period through the magic influence of intelligence and industry. The discovery of some product that for ages has laid sealed up in the secret laboratories of nature in a little time has transformed the seeming sterility of a wilderness into the productiveness of a cultivated garden. The labor of brains and hands, preceding the employment of energy and capital, breaks the silence of time and makes way for the music of practical development. Active brain and toiling hands had won from mother earth rich stores and transformed the apparent barrenness of the ground convenient to where Gotown sprang up into the nucleus of a flourishing city. Someone had struck oil.

"Is it a cemetery? you ask," said the landlord, after he had enjoyed Handy's amusing inquiry. "A cemetery, eh? Well, all I can say is that you'll find in Gotown the liveliest lot of ghosts you ever tackled in your life, if you visit the place. Gotown, a cemetery! Well, I'll be darned if that ain't the best I've heard in a blue moon!" and again he started in laughing. "Why, bless your soul, man, no one has had time to die there yet. Not on your life! Gotown will be Petroleum City before it gets out of its knickerbockers, or I'm a Dutchman."

Handy opened his eyes in surprise. The actual situation flashed suddenly on him.

"Struck oil there, eh?"

"Rich."

"Many wells?"

"Let me see! There's the Anna Held, the Billy Brady, the Bob Hilliard, the Peerless One, the Teddy on the Spot, the——"

"Oh, never mind the names. Skip them. Oil wells by any old names smell just the same. How many of them?"

"Ten, fifteen—maybe double that. Can't exactly tell. They are boring all the time and striking it rich."

"'Nuff sed. And you tell me they never had a show there?"

"Why, darn it, man! the town was only christened about a year ago."

"Then we'll confirm it and open its gates to the histrionic industry of the country. I'll have a talk with the company. But we will have to arrange about some printing."

The gleam that illumined the landlord's face at the mention of printing was a study. Handy was somewhat mystified, and he was still more surprised when the landlord, with a knowing look—a look all landlords seems to hold a patent on—bent over and said: "Leave that to me, and you'll be satisfied. We'll get the winter's supplies out of this snap. Come, let's have something." With this hospitable suggestion, both men made a flank movement in the direction of the cafe.

"Now, then," began Handy, "did I understand you to say you could fix the printing?"

"You did."

"How?"

"Well, I will put you wise in that direction. Will you smoke? All right. Now, then, light up an' we'll take a comfortable seat by the stove."

"Lead on, Macbeth, and—well, you know the rest of it."

Drawing up a couple of well-seasoned chairs, they both settled down for a practical business talk.

"I have," said the landlord, "in the storeroom a stack of printing. I came by it in this way. There was a show out here about a year ago. The company got stranded; could go no further, and, to make a long story short, when the troupe started to walk home the printing remained behind. Exhibit No. 1."

"I'm on. Proceed."

"Let me further elucidate. I had a partner who at one time was in the bill-posting profession—it is a profession now, isn't it?" Handy smiled. "Well, he had a bit of money—not a great deal, and he invested in the line of publicity. Well, he was called away suddenly. He didn't exactly die—but that's of no consequence, and his assets dropped into my hands for safe-keeping. Among the valuables was a lot of miscellaneous printing of all kinds, plain and colored—and of all sorts and sizes—a dandy assortment. Exhibit No. 2."

"Fire away!"

"Furthermore, old Phineas Pressman, the town printer here, owes me a bill. It isn't much, but little as it is I can't squeeze a red cent of ready money out of him, and I see no earthly way of getting square with him only by giving him an order for whatever new printing stuff we may require, and in that way change the balance of trade in my direction. Exhibit No. 3. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly."

"But you don't seem to enthuse over the prospects."

"No," answered Handy calmly. "No, I'm no enthuser. I was just turning over in my mind your proposition. As I have not seen your paper, how it would suit, I can't imagine what it looks like."

"What in thunder has that got to do with the case? Paper is paper, printing is printing, and pictures are pictures, ain't they?"

"Quite correct, my friend. But you must bear in mind that they might not fit any show that the company could do itself credit in."

"Stuff and nonsense! You make me slightly weary," replied the landlord. "Suppose it don't—what then? If the printing don't suit the play or the entertainment, what's the matter with the entertainment being made to fit in and suit the printing? Don't they all do it? What do you think printers and lithographers butt in and become theatrical managers for? For the sake and love of art, eh? Rot! You know as well as I do that this pictorial work you see stuck up all around hardly ever represents the thing they give on the stage and to see which the theatre-going public puts up its good coin to enjoy. Why, bless my soul, Mr. Handy, there's hardly a show on the road to-day that don't lay its managers liable to arraignment for obtaining money under false pretenses by the brilliancy of the printing and the stupidity and poverty of the performance."

"You talk like a reformer!"

"Reformers be hanged! I was about to tell you that some time ago there was a movement on foot in one or two of the Western States to secure the passage of a legal measure compelling showmen to actually present on the stage what their pictorial work on the dead walls and billboards promised. If the shows now going the rounds were half as good as their printing, they'd be works of art."

"Say, boss!" remarked Handy admiringly, "you have the real Simon pure theatrical managerial instinct in you, you have. You haven't always been in the hotel business?"

"Nix, I had at one time the candy privilege with a circus, and I had to keep my eyes open, I tell you."

"Shake, old man," as Handy extended his hand. "When you began talking printing I knew you were on to the racket and understood something about the theatrical biz. Why, you're one of us. You belong to the profesh."

"Oh, give us a rest with your nonsense! What are you chinning about? I am just a plain, common, every-day innkeeper."

"Suppose you are. Let it go at that, and let me tell you times are advancing. We live in a great age—a progressive and changeable age. There was a time when theatres and theatrical companies were managed or directed by men who were actors, or had been actors, or by men who had a love for the business, and had some particular talent or fitness for the trade; but nowadays all that is changed, and all sorts of chaps have butted in for the sake of what's in it for them. It is not, let me tell you, an unusual thing to find the druggist of yesterday, or the commercial drummer, or newspaper man of the week previous, become the impresario of an opera troupe or the manager of a playhouse the following week. This is a most changeable as well as progressive and strenuous age."

"You speak like a philosopher, Mr. Handy."

"Do they tell the truth?"

"They are credited with doing so."

"Then you can safely bet on my talk."

"Now, then—what about Gotown?"

"I'm with you. We'll tackle Gotown on miscellaneous paper. There's my hand on it."

That afternoon Handy and the landlord started for the scene of operations, to look the place over. Before going, Handy had an interview with the members of the company, unfolded his plans to them, and drew a flattering picture of the prospects of success. A few of them hesitated and decided to go home, but enough remained to enable the veteran to carry out his scheme. To Smith was entrusted the duty of ascertaining the strong points of the individual members of the troupe and finding in what particular line their talents would show to the best advantage.

"Try them in song and dance," were Handy's instructions to his lieutenant, "and all that kind of thing. We will have to fake this show in red-hot style. We are not going to play to any Metropolitan Opera House, Dan Frohman, or Dave Belasco audience. Don't forget, old man, we are going into a mining district where we will have the first go at it. Quantity not quality must be our motto. Remember, above all things, Smith, that the corned beef and cabbage of the menu will be more acceptable for a starter than the roast beef and plum pudding of dramatic art. Take your cue from the great far West. The young towns out there have all gone through a similar experience, until now they have become so fastidious that nothing less than grand opera, with a bunch of foreign stars, or a presentation of imported plays and play actors can satisfy their cultivated tastes. Let your show dish be well hashed and don't, above all things, neglect the histrionic pepper and mustard. The more highly seasoned it is the more kindly our patrons will take to the theatrical feast we will be compelled to give them."

"Leave that to me."



CHAPTER XXI

"I'll view the manners of the town, Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings."

—COMEDY OF ERRORS.

Handy and the landlord spent the late afternoon and a good portion of the night in Gotown. It was a strange, straggling-looking arrangement of recently put together frame houses, cranes, derricks, and piles of lumber. So newly built were the habitations that many of them were devoid of paint. It was to all intents and purposes an active, stirring, busy little place—a hive of industry. Handy and his friend made a casual survey of the locality, paid visits to a number of saloons,—the town in that respect being well equipped,—and made several acquaintances. From what they had seen and heard they came to the conclusion they could "pull off" a fairly good-sized stake as the result of their venture.

Without going into detail to any great extent, the two men made the following agreement: Handy engaged to put up his experience and the services of the company against the landlord's capital. That is, mine host of the inn was to defray all the expenses of the undertaking, including cost of transportation, board, and lodging for the company that was to supply the entertainment. Of whatever came in the landlord was to take half and Handy the other half. From his share of the proceeds Handy was to make good to the company.

"It seems to me," remarked Handy, "we stand a purty fair chance to do something here. But, say, we haven't yet seen the hall or theatre or ranch we're goin' to show in."

"That's so," replied his companion. "Let's just cut across lots here and go and see Ed McGowan. This way," and they made a bee-line through a field.

"Ed McGowan," repeated Handy. "Who is he?"

"Big Ed? Why, he bosses the job of the crack gin-mill of the outfit, and runs things."

"A good man," says Handy, "to be on the right side of, if he's all right."

"Is it Ed? You bet! Why, Ed is the Pierpont Morgan of the whole lay-out. He's nobody now, apparently, but wait 'till he gets his fine work in an' he'll own the whole shooting-match. Mark what I'm a-tellin' you."

"Is the hall convenient to his laboratory?" quizzically inquired Handy.

"Darned if I know. When I was up here a couple of weeks or so ago Ed told me he was goin' to put up a hall or something where the boys, as he called them, could have a dance or a slugging match, or a show,—any old thing, in fact, that came along in the way of diversion and amusement."

"Say, boss," said Handy, somewhat puzzled, "are you serious or are you stringin' me?"

"I don't understand."

"We start even, then, for blow me if I understand you."

"Please explain yourself."

"I'll do my plainest!"

"Skip the prelims and get down to facts. I ask you to point out the hall we're to give the show in, and you treat me to a ghost story about some fellow named Ed McGowan who thinks about putting up one where the boys can have a dance, see a show, take part in a slugging match or indulge in any other eccentricities too superfluous to enumerate. I confess I have been on many wild-goose chases in my somewhat long and varied career, but this takes the gingerbread. Now let me ask you frankly, is there a hall at all, at all, in the place?"

"I don't know."

"Great Caesar's ghost! What? Don't know? Say, is there an Ed McGowan, then? Boss, I'm growin' desperate," and the veteran looked as if he was.

"Sure there is," replied the landlord, with a laugh.

"Then for the Lord's sake lead me out of this wilderness of doubt into his presence."

Not another word was spoken until they crossed the threshold of Ed McGowan's barroom. It differed little from other places of its class, save that it had a bigger stove, a greater number of chairs, a more extensive counter for business purposes, and a more extensive display of glassware reflected in the mammoth mirror.

"Hello, hello, Weston, old fellow! Glad to see you!" was the salutation that rang out in a cheery voice after the newcomers had made their entry. "What in thunder brings you up to these diggin's?"

McGowan had a playful little way of addressing his friends by the name of the places from which they hailed. He was a good specimen of man, and could tip the scales at two hundred. Above middle height, he was a big, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, bow-windowed, good-natured kind of chap—one who would travel a long distance to do a good turn for a friend and travel equally far to get square with a foe. At the time of the entrance of the theatrical projectors, big Ed was vigorously employed in getting something like a shine or polish on the top of his bar.

"Just a minute an' I'll be with you," said the big fellow, after the first greetings were exchanged. "Let me get things a bit shipshape an' I'll join you," and with that he gave another strenuous sweep of his muscular arm along the woodwork. "I want to have things looking trim before the night services begin. What's your weakness now, Wes?" he added. "A little hot stuff, eh? I thought so. I knew how that proposition would strike you. I've got something on hand that'll warm the cockles of your heart. Got it in a week ago. It's the real thing—it is. And your friend—the same? Good. Patsy, make three nice hot Irishes. No, not that bottle—you know the one I mean. J.J. Yes! That's it."

By this time McGowan had completed his arduous labor and joined his comrades in front of the bar.

"Well, old man," he said, slapping Weston in a friendly manner on the shoulder, "how is the world treating you, anyhow? Ain't you lost a bit up here in these diggin's?"

"Oh, I have no kick coming," was the reply. "Mr. McGowan, I want you to shake hands with my friend, Mr. Handy, of New York."

"Glad to know Mr. Handy. You hail from the big city, eh? I'm a New Yorker myself—left there some time ago. A good many years have rolled on since then. I suppose I'd hardly know the place now. Set them over yonder, Patsy, near the stove. Come, boys, sit down. Just as cheap to sit as stand, and more comfortable. Well, here's my pious regards, and, as my old friend, Major Cullinan used to say, 'May the Lord take a liking to us, but not too soon.' New York, eh?" and McGowan's memory seemed, at the sound of the name, to wander back to old familiar scenes of days gone by.

"Yes," said Handy; "hail from there, but I travel about a good deal."

"A traveling man—a drummer, eh?"

"Well, I do play a bit on the drum at times," said Handy, with a smile, "but I'm only a poor devil of an actor, if I'm anything."

"An actor, and a New Yorker. Shake again. Put it there," as he extended his hand. Then looking at Handy closely for a moment, he turned to Weston and said: "Say, Wes, I know this man, though he don't seem to know me."

"Indeed, Mr. McGowan, you have the best of me."

"Sure," responded McGowan. "Well, here's to our noble selves," and the trio drained their cups. "An' now, Mr. Handy, to prove my words that I know you. You used to spout in the old Bowery Theatre? Ah, I thought so. Knew Bill Whalley? Of course you did. Poor Bill—he's dead. A good actor, but a better fellow. He was his own worst friend. And there was Eddy. Eddy. Eddy. He was a corker. Yes, he cashed in many years ago. Then there was Mrs. W. G. Jones. God bless her! Dead. God rest her soul. She was the salt of the earth. And what has become of J. B. Studley? Wasn't he a dandy, though, in Indian war plays? You bet! Jim McCloskey, I think, used to fix them up for him. And will you ever forget G. L.—Fox, I mean. There never was his equal in funny characters, and as a pantomimist no one ever took his place. They tell me the old spout shop is now turned into a Yiddish theatre. Well! well! well! How times are changed! I suppose the fellows I knew in days gone by are changed too—those of them that remain, I mean. The ones that are dead I know are."

"Yes," replied Handy, "you'd find New York a much changed city since then. It was, I believe, Dutch originally; then for a time the Irish had a hack at it; but all the nations of the earth having sent in their contributions of all sorts and sizes and tongues, it's purty hard now to make out what it is."

"Wonders will never stop ceasing, will they? Well, Wes"—and Big Ed turned and directed his attention to the landlord—"what did you come up here for? You came up after something. What's the little game? Want to buy land?"

"No. I'll tell you. Our friend here, Mr. Handy, at my suggestion, made this visit with me to see you on a little speculation of our own. Mr. Handy a week—not quite a week ago—came out to my town with a theatrical troupe to show for a week. The company played one night, when the staress grew tired and quit after the first heat and went home to mother. This brought the season to a premature close."

"Nothing particularly new in that," answered McGowan; "but continue."

"Well, under the circumstances we—Mr. Handy and myself—got our heads together and came to the conclusion to run up here and have a talk with you and see if we couldn't make some arrangements to bring the company up and give a show."

"I see. That's the racket, eh? Where did you propose to give it?"

"In that new hall of yours, of course."

"My new hall, eh?" replied McGowan, in surprise, and laughing. "Why, Wes, the gol-darned thing ain't built yet, but the men are at work on it. If it was ready I'd like nothin' better than inauguratin' the place with a show, for between ourselves I'm a bit stuck on theatre-acting myself. I'm sorry. The carpenters started in over a week ago and this is Tuesday."

"And is there no other place?"

"Let me see. No, I don't think so. Kaufman's barn was burned down last week, so you couldn't storm that now. Siegel's wouldn't be just the place, and, besides, they have other cattle there now, so that's out of the question. You might get a loan of the church—no, the church is not a church. We only call it so for respectability's sake. It is used for almost any old thing on week days, and on Sunday a dominie from an adjoining parish tackles sermons once in a while. But then, I hardly think it would suit. But hold on a minute—when did you expect to come here?"

"Well, we thought of getting here Saturday night."

"Saturday night!" exclaimed McGowan, in surprise. "Why didn't you say so at first?"

"What's the matter now?"

"Saturday night! Why, I thought you meant to descend on us to-morrow night. 'Nuff sed. Say no more. The academy will be ready for you."

"The what?"

"The Gotown Metropolitan Academy of Music will be ready for inauguration by a company of distinguished actors—all stars, more or less—from the principal theatres of the metropolis—next Saturday night," replied Big Ed in a grandiloquent outburst.

"You don't mean it, Ed?" said the Weston landlord, somewhat amazed at the suggestion.

"Can't be did," said Handy.

"Can't, eh?" remarked McGowan, with a smile of contempt on his cheery face. "You don't know Gotown, my friend. Come here," he continued, as he rose from his chair and moved toward the door and motioned his friends to follow. "It is purty dark outside, but no matter about that. Look out yonder and tell me what you see?"

"Not much of anything now, but the faint outlines of a bunch of houses, cranes, derricks, and things, and a lot of lights," replied Handy.

"Right you are in what you say. Now listen to me and hear what I have to say. Had you stood on this same spot you are now standing on, a year since, and in broad daylight, the only thing you'd have seen, barrin' the ground, would be the cattle in the field—and darned few of them, at that—and a few houses here and there, miles apart. A year ago, my friend, lacking a few days, Gotown didn't exist. Isn't what I'm tellin' him true, Myles?" said the speaker, appealing for corroboration of his statement to one who was evidently a steady patron of the McGowan establishment, and who was about to enter.

"That's about the size of the truth of it. A year ago, come next Saturday night, we christened her, all right, all right."

"What's that you said?" asked Handy, suddenly brightening up. "A year ago, did you say? Christopher Columbus! if we only had a place to show in we could celebrate the centennial anniversary of Gotown."

His hearers burst into laughter, and Big Ed concluded that the way Handy took in the situation was worthy of a treat on the house, to which the newcomer, Myles O'Hara, was specially invited.

"Say, Myles," inquired the boss, as they stood in front of the bar, "how long will it take to finish the Academy?"

"Inside and outside?"

"Yes. Both. Complete."

"Well, that depinds. As Rafferty has the contract, I should say three days."

"Three days!" exclaimed Handy and his friend from Weston.

"I'm spakin'!" replied Myles, in a consequential manner. "An' be the same token, I know what I'm talkin' about. Three days sure, an' mind yez, Ed, I don't say that bekase I work for Rafferty. I'm not that kind of a man."

"An' make a good job of it?" asked McGowan.

"Well, he may not give you much gingerbread work in the shape of decorations, but you'll have a dacint-lookin' house enuff for an academy of music."

"Ed," interposed the man from Weston, "if you could only get the place ready, what a Jim Dandy house-warming we'd have, in addition to the celebration commemorating the birthday of the town! Do you think the job can be put through on schedule time?"

This made Myles a trifle irritated. "Arrah, what are yez spakin' about? Look-a here, me frind, I'm givin' ye no ghost story. Didn't Rafferty put up ould Judge Flaherty's house inside of a week, and moved in the day it was finished, an' thin have a wake there the next evening," argued Myles, by the way of a clincher to his argument.

"All right, Myles, I know you know what men can do if it comes to a pinch," responded Big Ed, somewhat nervously. "But let me ask you, could a stage be put in the hall for the opening?"

"A stage—do yez main an omnibus?"

"No, I don't mean no omnibus," replied the big fellow, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.

"A scaffoldin', thin, I persume ye main," continued Myles.

"Oh, darn it, no! I mean a stage—a stage for acting on."

"Oh, I see now. I comprehind. A stage for show actors," replied O'Hara, as if a sudden light had dawned upon his not particularly brilliant imagination. "Let me ask yez, what's the matter with a few impty beer-kegs standing up ag'in' the wall, an' in the middle, with beams stretched acrost them and fastened on with tin-pinny nails, and afther that some nice clain boords nailed on the top ov thim? Wouldn't thim be good enuff for show actin'?"

"Don't say another word, Myles," said McGowan. Then turning to Handy and his friend: "We'll guarantee to have everything all right on time, so far as the academy is concerned, and if you fellows do the rest and provide and arrange the entertainment, we'll make Gotown hum on Saturday night."

"You mean it, eh?" asked Weston.

"I'm chirpin', I am," replied McGowan.

"Next Saturday night?" inquired Myles.

"Sure."

"It's payday, too."

"So it is," said McGowan cheerily.

"An' yez know what payday means in a new town wid a show on the spot."

"I should say I did."

"Well, as I was about to say," continued Myles, "wid an entertainment on hand, indepindint of its bein' the anniversary to commimorate the foundashon of the place, I think Gotown will make a record for herself on that occasion."

"Myles, you've a great head," laughingly suggested Big Ed, at the same time slapping the speaker playfully on the shoulder. "Wouldn't you like to take a hand in the entertainment yourself, with Mr. Handy's consent, and make an opening address?"

"Ed McGowan, ye're very kind, but spakin' is not my stronghowld; but let me be afther tellin' yez I kin howld me own wid the best of 'em, no matter where they're from, in the line of a bit of dancin'," and O'Hara stepped out on the floor and illustrated his story with a few fancy steps of an Irish jig which made an instantaneous hit with the crowd.

McGowan laughed outright and applauded; Weston joined him in appreciative merriment, while Handy merely contented himself with a smile, as he was mentally absorbed in a study of Myles O'Hara. Handy was a man of emergencies. He thought quickly and acted promptly. He rarely missed a point he could turn to advantage. He fancied he saw in Myles O'Hara an auxiliary that might prove valuable. Handy's company was weak in terpsichorean talent, and he determined to strengthen it by securing local talent through the services of the representative from Gotown.

"Mr. O'Hara," said Handy, addressing Myles, "did I understand you to say that you were something of a dancer?"

"That you did, sir; an' so was my father afore me, God rest his sowl! Let me tell yez that at sixty-eight years the owld man was as light on his feet as a two-year-owld."

"Then, Mr. O'Hara, might I take the liberty to suggest that in honor of the day we are going to celebrate you will give your friends an exhibition of your skill at our entertainment next Saturday night?"

"Arrah, what the divil do you take me for? Is it a show actor you want to make out of me, I dunno?"

"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. O'Hara!" replied Handy, in his most complaisant manner of speech. "I would not undertake that job. But I thought on that eventful occasion——"

"And," broke in McGowan, "if you do, it will make you solid with the boys. You know they like you purty well as it is, but when they hear you are going to take part in the anniversary entertainment you can have anything you want from them."

"Are yez sayrious, I dunno, at all, at all?" inquired Myles, somewhat dubiously.

"Am I?" responded McGowan. "Now, Myles, you know I have always had a great regard for you, and do you think I'd speak as I have done unless I was in earnest?"

O'Hara reflected a moment, then turning to McGowan, said: "Ed, look-a here."

"Yes, Myles, what is it?"

"Bethune ourselves, an' on the level, what d'ye think the owld woman would say?"

"Be tickled to death over it."

"An' the childer—what about thim?"

"They'd be no standin' 'em. Why, man alive, they'd be as proud as peacocks."

"D'ye think so?"

"Think so, no; I know so, sure!"

"That settles it. Say, Mr. Handy,"—addressing the manager,—"have yez a good fiddler that can play Irish chunes?"

At this juncture Weston took a hand in the discussion, and, with an anxious desire to solve the musical problem, suggested: "We'll fix that all right, all right, as we intend to have the Weston Philharmonic Handel and Hayden Society—I think that's the name of the union—to operate as an orchestra, and Herr Heintzleman, the leader, who is a corking good fiddler, will play the dance music for you."

"Heintzleman!" repeated Myles, in apparent disgust. "No, sur! No Heintzleman for mine. Not much! What! Have a Pennsylvania Dutchman play an Irish jig for me? Arrah, what the divil are yez all dreamin' about?"

"Hold on, Myles, hold on! Don't get mad. Keep yer shirt on," interposed McGowan, as a peacemaker. "Myles, you and Dinny Dempsey, the blind piper, used to be good friends. Now, suppose we get Dinny. How will he suit you?"

"Now yez are spakin' something like rayson, Ed McGowan. If Dinny Dimpsey does the piping work, I'll do the dancin'."

"Is that a go, Myles?"

"There's me hand on it."

"Then Dempsey will be hired specially for you, even if I have to put up for him myself."

"But he must come on the flure wid me."

"Sure, Myles."

"An' another thing, he must come on sober. I won't shake a leg or do a step if Dinny has any drink in him beforehand. Yez had betther understhand that."

"That's a go. I promise you shall have Dempsey, and, what's more, I guarantee he will not have a sup of anything until after the show; but after the show is over he can have all he can conveniently put under his skin."

This brought the preliminary proceedings to an end. By the way of closing the bargain, all hands, on the invitation of the proprietor, stepped up to the bar and made another attack on McGowan's best. The evening was drawing to a close; night had set in, and Handy and Weston, having finished their business, were anxious to get away. Gotown was a short distance from the railroad station. After they had lighted their cigars they were ready to start homeward bound.

"Hold on a minute and I'll walk over with you to the train."

Patsy came from behind the bar and helped the boss on with his coat, and the three started away.

On their way across lots they talked of many things appertaining to the forthcoming entertainment.

"By the way, Mr. McGowan," said Handy, "is there any danger about the hall not being ready for us on Saturday night?"

"Make your mind easy on that score," replied McGowan, with confidence. "When I get back to the store and give it out that I must have the hall finished by noon on Saturday, in order to celebrate properly and in A-No. 1 style the anniversary with a show at night, why, man alive! I'll have more men to go to work to-morrow morning than would be wanted to finish two Gotown Metropolitan Academies of Music in the time specified. Yes, sir; when I tell you a thing like that you can bank on it. You don't know me yet, Mr. Handy. But see here, I won't promise to furnish the scenery and other fixin's. Another thing, we don't go much on paint up here. Ain't got no time to waste over ornamentation yet, but I suppose we'll have that weakness in due time. So you'll have to fix all trimmin's yourselves. Yez needn't be too particular. We'll have to make allowance for that. Give the boys plenty of fun and life and they'll excuse the pictures and gingerbread. If the acting is good and strong you need have no fear. It is only when the acting is weak and of an inferior quality that fine clothes and grand painted scenery is necessary to cover it up. At least them's my sentiments. You must have some stuff down in your town, Wes, in the theatre that'll help us out?"

"That'll be all right. I'll attend to that part of the job," replied Wes.

"Is there any particular style of entertainment you would suggest?" inquired Handy.

"No," answered Big Ed. "No, so long as it is good, plain, old-fashioned acting, it will be all right. Only don't attempt to give us any of the new style, the bread and butter and milk and water kind of thing they are dealing out in the theatres in the big cities these days. Let me put you wise. We don't go much on style—we believe in the simple life. But whatever you act, give it to them good and strong. Well, here we are and here's your train. Got your tickets? Yes! All right. Skip aboard. Saturday morning I'll be on the look-out for you. So long! Good-night! Safe home!"



CHAPTER XXII

"Is this world and all the life upon it a farce or vaudeville where you find no great meanings?" —GEORGE ELIOT.

When Handy and his pro tem landlord arrived in Weston they discovered the ever-faithful Smith at the station awaiting them. He had been on the look-out for over an hour. As he had nothing in particular to occupy his mind, the railroad station was as interesting a place as any he could find in which to loiter. The evening was not particularly agreeable; Smith, however, did not mind a little thing like that. He could stand it; besides, he was most anxious to meet his manager immediately and ascertain what the future promised from actual and personal observation. He was pleased when the train rolled in and the two advance men alighted. Few words were exchanged between Smith and his principal, but few as they were, he was convinced that the visit to Gotown was satisfactory. The trio reached the hotel in time for a substantial supper. That disposed of, and when the dishes were cleared away, Handy began to unburden himself:

"I wish to see the members of the company to-night, Smith, and have a talk with them. We have secured the opening night in a brand-new house next Saturday night—the Gotown Metropolitan Academy of Music. Don't look surprised. It is a fact. The place isn't quite completed yet, and may not be altogether finished when we open it. However, that cuts no ice, for I never in my experience found a newly built theatre to be altogether ready at the time it was announced to open—but the place opened, just the same."

"Is it really a new house, Handy?" inquired Smith, somewhat in doubt.

"It will be when it is finished."

"Have you seen the builder's designs? What kind of a place is it, anyhow?"

"Designs be hanged! No. They build without plans in Gotown. The place is growing so almighty fast they have no time to waste preparing plans or designs. The builder thinks them out as he works along."

"But there's a hall?" inquired Smith, doubtingly as before.

"I told you," replied Handy, a little vexed, "it isn't there yet, but we will find it there when we arrive. Don't you want to risk it, Smith?"

"Of course I want to go, but there are some who hesitate."

"Who are they?"

"I'd sooner you would find it out from themselves."

"That's it, eh? Mutineers on board. Well, all I can say is they can fly the coop at once, and take the next train back." At this point a knock was heard at the door and three members of the company entered. "Ah, good-evening, gentlemen!" said Handy blandly. "Be seated."

Then in his own peculiar manner he described his visit to Gotown, the kind of a place it was, and the prospects of the proposed venture. They listened attentively to his story. When he informed them that to the company was given the distinguished privilege of opening the new establishment, they signified their willingness to take chances. There was one, however, who showed the white feather. From his manner it was evident he was the one disturbing element in the otherwise harmonious organization. He exhibited his ill-concealed contempt of the scheme by smirks, smiles, and shrugs. He could hardly be considered an actor. His best attempts at acting were bad—at times they reached the limit. Off the stage he was a snob by affiliation and a gossiper by inclination. He drifted into the profession on the tide of his own vanity and continued in the lower ranks through the merit of his complete unfitness to advance a rung higher. There are many of his kind in every calling.

"I wish to say one thing right here and now," said Handy, and with firmness. "I want no unwilling volunteers, and I am not offering bounties. This Gotown venture promises well. I told you what I could and would do if things panned out all right, and what I would do, anyhow, no matter how things went. I think from my standpoint the proposition is a fair one. You are the best judges from your point. Anyone who don't wish to go, needn't. That's all."

"Well," replied Smith promptly and cheerfully, "I guess if you can stand it, we can; at least I speak for myself."

Those present, except the individual indicated, coincided with Smith.

"May I inquire," asked the member of the company indicated, "what manner of entertainment you propose to present at this a—a—Gotown place, Mr. Handy?"

"Certainly you may," answered Handy calmly. "It will be one in which there is no part for you, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"Only this: Gotown or no Gotown, you are not in it. I have been studying your actions for some time. As an actor, we can dispense with your services. There is no position in this company for disturbers or gossipers."

"I think this is the——"

Handy continued, not paying the slightest attention to the speaker's interruption: "The next train leaves at 10:13 for the city—about an hour from now. Your ticket will be given you at the station, and you can leave here. You are no longer a member of this company."

This episode, instead of weakening Handy in the estimation of his people, tended rather to strengthen him. It proved that he could wield power when he considered it necessary to do so. Notwithstanding that the departing one was unpopular with his associates, he had managed through insinuating manners and slippery speech to create petty dissensions. After he departed he was voted very much of a bore by those who remained. Handy, on the contrary, did not even once refer to the subject. The act he considered from a purely business standpoint. He had matters on hand of greater moment to engross his attention.

All told, his company numbered seven acting members. He had no advance man or press agent. He did not need either. Weston he made business manager—he himself was director in general and actor in particular. So far everything was all right. What puzzled him most was the class of entertainment he had to supply. His company was not such as he considered an adaptable one; it was not such as he had when he made the descent on Newport. The dwarf was not there; neither was Nibsy—both valuable people from a strolling player's standpoint. It is true he had his loyal friend Smith, and Smith could be relied upon for any emergency. With the ability of the remaining members of his troupe he was comparatively unacquainted. In no way disheartened, he determined to do the best he could. A scene from one play and an act from another, with a liberal sprinkling of songs and dances and monologues sandwiched in between the so-called dramatic portions, he concluded, would be as good a bill of fare as he could supply. This, with the assistance of the Handel and Hayden Philharmonic Orchestra, ought to in all reason satisfy Gotown and its audience.

"We are not so all-fired badly fixed, after all, Smith, old boy," said Handy, in his customary optimistic manner, as they sat together reviewing the situation. "With seven people we can attempt almost any practical play. We played, you remember, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' with that number. We also got away with 'Monte Cristo' with seven. Of course it wasn't as well done as James O'Neill does it, but that's another question. Let me see! How many did we have when we presented 'Around the World in Eighty Days'?"

"Fourteen," quickly responded Smith, "but that included a grand ballet."

"Ah, that's so! So it did," said Handy, "but we lost money on that venture. There's nothing in these big companies. Small, compact, but strong utility companies win every time. Charley Frohman will tell you the same thing."

"Seven is none too many for our work, Handy."

"No. It's about the proper figure. With judicious and intelligent doubling, a good manager might tackle almost anything. Say, Smith, did you ever have a shy at Richmond, in 'Richard III'?"

"Well, I should smile," responded Smith, with a delighted expression on his face. "Richmond! one of my best roles. Say! How is this," and immediately he struck a theatrical attitude and began: "Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on without impediment; Gloster, the——'"

"Hold! Let up right where you are," interrupted Handy. "I know the rest. Say, Smith, my boy,"—and the manager looked earnestly at the would-be Richmond—"I am going to give you the opportunity of your life."

"How's that?"

"We will present for the first time only the great fifth act of 'Richard III' out of compliment to the people of Gotown, and you will be the Richmond."

"Oh, come off!" answered Smith. "Why, darn it, man! 'Richard' will be all Greek to them—the Gotown public don't know anything about Shakespeare. Maybe never heard tell of him."

"But they will know all about him after we introduce him. But that has nothing to do with the case. Now let me enlighten you. I am afraid you don't catch on to the situation. I will explain: Don't you see Richmond's first speech, 'Thus far into the bowels of the land,' is typical of the miner. He makes his living by driving into the bowels of the land, don't he?"

"You bet he does, and good money, too," answered Smith enthusiastically.

"Into the bowels of the land, or earth, as the case may be, have we marched on without impediment." Handy paused here for a moment to catch his wandering thoughts in order to explain his text. "You see, Smith, Richmond marched on without impediment. So does the miner at first, when he has only to wrestle with the soil, sub-soil, and all that kind of thing. Then comes Gloster, the bloody and devouring boar, typified again by the hard and flinty rock the miner frequently encounters. For a time there's a fierce struggle between Richard, as represented by the rock, and Richmond, as personified by the miner. It's about an even bet as to who wins out. The play all over; don't you see? There's a purty lively scrimmage between the two. 'Tis nip and tuck for a time. At length Richard caves in, and Richmond wins out. So with the miner, the rock resists, then finally yields, and after that the milk and honey of enterprise in the shape of liquid oil flows forth. Am I clear or crude, dear boy?"

"Both!" exclaimed Smith, holding up both hands. "Handy, why in the name of heaven were you not born rich instead of great?"

"Smith," continued Handy, "you will be the miner, I the rock—Richmond and Richard."

"Handy, you ought to print a diagram to explain the act. The audience may not be able to understand it if you don't."

"Map of the seat of war, eh?"

"Sure."

"Smith, did you ever look over a war map in any of the newspapers that had special correspondents on the spot?"

"Certainly I did."

"And read his description of the scene of action?"

"Yes, of course."

"And scan the scare headlines, telegraphic accounts of the battle, split up and continued into different parts of the paper?"

"Took in the whole shootin' match!"

"And after reading all this fine descriptive work did you chance to cast your eagle eye over the editorial columns?"

"Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't. Generally I give the editorial comments a rest."

"Now, then, let me ask you, after studying the war maps, and the diagrams, and the big heads, and telegraphic dispatches, and our own specials, etc., etc., and so forth, what conclusion did you come to on the subject?"

"That there was a big battle fought somewhere in which there were many killed and wounded, perhaps."

"Now in a few words you tell the whole story, and you tell it well and without illustrations or diagrams, and without any unnecessary frills by the way of editorials. So will we give the fight to a finish on Bosworth Field without any pictorial work. We'll just give it."

"'Tis your idea, then, to give the act simply with the combat without explanation?"

"Not exactly in the way you put it."

"Say, Handy, an idea strikes me. What do you say to the suggestion of doing the combat scene with two-ounce gloves. A great scheme, eh? Don't you think so? 'Twould be modernizing the piece and bring it down to date."

"Shades of Shakespeare, angels and ministers of graces defend us! Smith, Smith, my boy, don't talk tommy-rot! Gloves instead of swords! Go to. Don't you know, my friend, that a glove fight might leave Richmond open to a challenge from some ambitious and undeveloped Gotown pugilist, and then where would we be—I mean you? Oh, no! But I tell you what wouldn't be altogether out of place."

"Well, let us hear it."

"We might be able to impress some young limb of the law, in the shape of a lawyer, into the service, who no doubt might, after a brief study of Professor John Phinn's vocabulary of Shakespeare, be willing to go on and tell who Richard and Richmond were in their day, and how Richard got the stuffin' knocked out of him because he was crooked and a tyrant and a monopolist. And, moreover, as all lawyers like to show off in the spouting line, when they get the chance, he might say a good word or two for the immortal Bard of Avon. Not that Shakespeare wants it, but merely as an evidence of good faith."

"Bully! The more I see of you, Handy, the more convinced I am of your remarkable genius."

"Oh, that's all right, Smith. Now, then, let me ask you. Can Daisey De Vere"—the only woman remaining of the company—"sing and dance?"

"She has ability and she is willing to stand by us."

"Has she the experience?"

"Plenty of it, such as it is. And she's anxious for more if she gets the show. Besides, Daisey is a good, straight girl, and these are the kind, I am sorry to say, that have the toughest time in getting ahead, but when one of them gets there it's all smooth sailing afterwards. Yes, Daisey can do anything and everything a decent girl can try to do. You can't faize her. You may put her down for anything to help out. She's been there before."

"What kind of a voice has she—a singing voice, I mean?"

"That depends."

"Depends on what?"

"Well, you see, if she is going to sing in girls' duds, she's a contralto; but then, if she has to do her stunt in boys' clothes, she is a female barytone."

"Oh, she knows a trick or two," said Handy, smiling. "She must have traveled some."

"You bet. She's a traveler for fair. She will go anywhere, and she's at home wherever she lands. She has one trunk in Chicago, another in Cincinnati, a valise in Buffalo, a grip in St. Louis, and other ventures she has in safe-keeping for her elsewhere. Her parents live in Chillicothe. She has a brother in Frisco, an aunt in New Orleans, an Uncle in Boston, an——"

"Hold, for pity sake!" interrupted Handy. "Let up! I don't want to have a geographical inventory of the girl's parents, relatives, and personal effects to ascertain what she can do histrionically."

"Well," replied Smith, somewhat nettled, "you can make up your mind she has wide experience."

"I should say so. With trunks and relatives waiting for her like open dates all over the country in most of the big cities, I guess Gotown won't scare her. There is one point, however, I can put you wise on—she will leave no trunk behind her in Gotown."

"You never can tell in advance, Handy; you were always optimistic. Why can't she, if she has a fad in that direction?"

"Simply, my friend, because there ain't a hotel in the place, that's why."

"What!" cried Smith, in amazement, "no liquor stores in Gotown?"

"I didn't say that. I said there were no hotels."

"What's the difference? Don't you know there are no saloons in New York now? They are all hotels. The law is strict on that score, and if Gotown is regulated on the same plan and there are no hotels, I'm beginning to have my doubts. Say, old man, this is no prohibition colony you're steering us up against, eh?"

Handy looked at Smith in mild surprise and without moving a muscle of his face; but there was a quiet meaning in his eye that spoke more forcibly than mere words. At length he broke the silence.

"Smith, I'm afraid you are not well. Get thee to bed. Rest your altogether too active brain. The Pennsylvania air is a little too much for you. I can get along without further assistance. Good-night! See me in the morning."



CHAPTER XXIII

"All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players." —AS YOU LIKE IT.

Handy and Smith parted for the night, and then the veteran set to work to concoct one of these very remarkable programmes for which his name had become more or less famous in different parts of the country. It is true he was considerably perplexed over the difficulties that confronted him. Perplexities, difficulties, and Handy were old acquaintances, however. They had met many a time and oft in the past, and he had weathered the storm and as a rule came out a winner. It was hardly possible that his customary good fortune would desert him on this trying occasion. With the sole exception of Smith, he was absolutely unacquainted with the theatric abilities of his company or how far he could rely on them to carry into effect his stage directions. Daisey de Vere, judging from the elaborate characteristic account Smith had given of her, rather appealed to him. He felt satisfied she would fill her place in the bill of the play, come what might. She had to. From the diagnosis furnished by his lieutenant he thought she would pan out all right. He knew he wasn't going to offer an entertainment to a houseful of metropolitan first-nighters, with attendant critics from the newspapers to display their erudition next morning in cold type and hot words. He already considered Daisey as a chip of the old block.

It was well into the night when the indefatigable manager got through with his pen, which at best was a work of labor to him—and hard labor at that. It is only fair to admit that he had meager theatric resources to draw upon and be able in any way to whip it into shape to fit the exigencies of the approaching occasion. He derived considerable comforting consolation from the reflection that Gotown was virgin soil upon which he was called upon to operate theatrically. As the result of pondering with his brain and manipulating with his pen, he succeeded in evolving a draft of a programme as mixed and varied as might be expected from the all-star company gathered together at short notice for a benefit or testimonial for some popular unfortunate player—with several loopholes for such changes, alterations, additions, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions as might suggest themselves or be forced upon him later on. From the coinage of his active brain he succeeded in bringing forth and committing to paper something like the following as his programme for the inauguration and opening night of the Gotown Metropolitan Academy of Music:

IMPORTANT NOTICE

Come One—Come All—Be On Hand

GOTOWN METROPOLITAN ACADEMY OF MUSIC

Proprietor and Owner............ Mr. Ed. McGowan

Mr. McGowan takes pleasure in announcing that he has engaged the celebrated Actor-Manager, Mr. Sellers Micawber Handy, and his talented company of performers to appear

Next Saturday Evening

To celebrate the anniversary of the founding of

GOTOWN

By the official inauguration of the METROPOLITAN ACADEMY OF MUSIC

To make the event worthy of this occasion this highly talented and distinguished bunch will be presented under the direction of Mr. Handy

In a Variegated Program

Made up of selections from undeniably good sources, ancient and modern. In consequence of the length and richness of the Bill, details will not be given out until the night of the Show. It may be mentioned, however, that

Singing and Dancing

as well as Acting in all the various departments of Tragedy, Comedy, Burlesque, Grand Opera, etc., etc., will be introduced in the most approved and up-to-date style that circumstances will permit

Local Celebrities

Have generously volunteered their valuable services to lend a hand and do something

List of Prices First half of the house, with seats................... $1.00 Second half, back to the wall......................... .50 Seats in the windows, with steps to get at them....... .50 Seats in the balcony, first two rows.................. .75 General admission, with a chance for a seat........... .25 Tickets in advance may be purchased beforehand at

Ed. McGowan's Spiritual Emporium

Tickets bought of speculators on the outside will be refused at the door

The entertainment will start at 8 o'clock and wind up when the audience have all they want

P. S.—Don't miss this chance, for it will be the only anniversary of its kind with which Gotown will be honored in a long time to come.

The Weston Handel and Hayden Philharmonic Society will handle the Music

After Handy had finished his herculean labor in concocting this extraordinary playbill, he leaned back in his chair and read and reread it over and over again, to assure himself it was all right. Then with the consciousness that he had done his duty, he lay down to rest for a few hours to recuperate before he again took up the thread of that busy life which, though at times it brought him sore trials and tribulations, never appeared to have robbed him of that measure of contentment and cheerfulness with his lot which was his chief characteristic in sustaining him through the temporary storms of adversity which he encountered.



CHAPTER XXIV

"There's nothing to be got nowadays unless thou can'st fish for it." —PERICLES PRINCE OF TYRE.

The following day was a busy one in thought and action. Notwithstanding the disposition and energy of the Gotown proprietor in getting the Academy of Music ready, there were many things to be considered apart from the mere putting up of the structure itself. And these were as necessary as the house proper. In the first place, there was not a stitch of canvas prepared for the scenery; the lighting of the house had to be considered, and the arrangements for the seating had not been mentioned. These were some of the perplexities that confronted Handy.

The first thing he did to prepare himself for the work before him was to take a bath. He was a great believer in hygiene, and cold water for bathing purposes he considered the best of medicines. The bath taken, he sat down to a good plain and substantial meal, with an appetite to enjoy it. Then, after carefully loading his briarwood, he summoned his man Friday for consultation.

"Now, then, Smith, we have some work ahead this trip, I can tell you, and no mistake; and I hardly know where to begin. Anyhow, call a rehearsal for one o'clock."

"A what! A rehearsal?" replied Smith, amazed. "A rehearsal—rehearsal of what, and may I inquire where?"

"That's so," said Handy thoughtfully. "That's so. Never mind putting up the call, or better still, go and see the members of the company and tell them to be ready for the call. I'll decide later what I want them to do."

The next move of the veteran was to call on the manager of the Weston Theatre to see if he could have the use of the stage for the afternoon. He found he could not, as the company then playing there wanted it for the rehearsal of a new play they had in rehearsal. If the next day would suit, the stage was at his disposal. This was an agreeable surprise to Handy. It suited him much better, as it gave him a little more time to think over the bill he should present at Gotown. He hastened to the hotel and instructed Smith to call the people for rehearsal at the Weston Theatre at eleven o'clock next forenoon.

This piece of business off his mind, he sought his partner in the Gotown venture, to ascertain about the Handel and Hayden Philharmonic. Weston had just returned from a visit to Herr Anton Wagner, the leader and president of the society.

"I have just parted with the boss of the spielers," said Weston, "and I am a bit disappointed. I don't think we can get them to do the street parade stunt, but for the night job they will be all O. K."

"What do you mean by the street parade stunt?" inquired Handy, in some surprise. "That's a new one on me."

"Well, I thought it would be a great scheme if we could get the Phillies to get out their wind instruments and play a few tunes through the main street from the station up to the new Academy the afternoon of the show. You know I have a couple of dozen army overcoats in the storeroom. The spielers could wear them. Then when they got to the Academy they could shed their street armor, hide their wind instruments, and start in on the string instruments in their glad rags."

Handy smiled, and asked: "How did you succeed?"

"Couldn't work the street racket."

"Why?"

"Because the men had to work at their regular jobs. Wagner is a shoemaker. He works the trombone in the streets and the bull fiddle under cover. The man that works the cornet in the outside operates the fiddle on the inside, and he's a dandy at it. He's a tailor, and a good one. He made the coat that's on my back; the man that——"

"Hold on. That's enough!" broke in Handy. "I'm just as well pleased you didn't get them to do that street stunt. But you are sure there will be no disappointment for the night's performance?"

"Sure. They are all anxious to go. But Herr Wagner wants his name to be mentioned on the bills as leader and president of the Handel and Hayden Philharmonic Society."

"All right. He will have a line on the bills."

"He gave me a pointer, too, and asked me to speak to you about it."

"What is it?"

"The man that works the fiddle,—Wagner calls him his first violin,—is an Irishman. His name is Nick Cullen in the shop, but when he tackles the fiddle in public he is known as Signor Nicola Collenso. If you give him a place on the programme you can put him down for a violin solo on the stage."

"Tell him to meet me to-morrow on the stage of the theatre at twelve."

"Good! Nick will be tickled to death."

"Now, then, old man, we're all right so far as the entertainment is concerned. That don't bother me a little bit. But the Gotown Academy sits heavily on my mind, and all on account of minor considerations and the shortness of time in the way of lighting, tickets, seats for the audience and scenery. We can't act in the dark, the people who pay for reserved seats won't care for standing two or three hours, no matter how good our bill of fare is, and there ought to be something in the way of scenery, else those who pay their good coin may kick. Do I make myself quite plain?"

"Very. And have we to supply all these?"

"You bet! Who else is going to do it? This Gotown proposition was yours. I am willing to do all I can. This is Wednesday. There's no time to waste."

"So am I willing. But you are bossing the job. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."

"Then take the next train for Gotown; see McGowan, go with him to the printers at once and get out the tickets, so many at one dollar, so many at seventy-five cents, the rest at fifty and on all of these have reserved seats in big type. You can then have as many as you think we need for general admission. Have no reserved seats printed on them. I will give you the copy for the printer before you go. When does the train start?"

"About half hour from now."

"Find out from McGowan all about the lighting of the place, and what arrangements he has made about seating the crowd; and be sure you ascertain if there is any danger of the house not being ready for us. You know we have no written or regular contract, as all well regulated companies like ours should have. If any other little thing occurs to me I'll wire you, and if anything really important takes place up there that won't hold over until you get back, wire me. Here's the copy for the tickets. Have them printed at once. Get the different priced tickets on different colored cards. Red, white, and blue—and green. Now, then, go, and good speed and good luck."

On the second visit to the theatre Handy was pleased to notice that everything was arranged for him to have the use of the stage next day. Though the manager was perfectly agreeable about it, he was noticeably worried about something, and Handy recognized it at once. Like Gilbert's policeman, the manager's life at times is not a happy one.

"You seem to be put out about something, Governor?" All managers of theatres as a rule are governors, through courtesy, and they like to be so addressed.

"I am. Say, let me ask you a question. Did you ever have a date broken on you at short notice?"

"Did I?" exclaimed Handy, with a smile. "Disappointments and I are old acquaintances."

"You can then realize my feelings. The last three days of next week in the theatre are open, and this is the second troupe that broke with me, and next Thursday is a holiday. Like a fool, I made no effort to fill the first part of the week, relying on the holiday night, Friday and Saturday's two performances to make up the difference. Isn't that tough?"

"That is tough," answered Handy sympathetically. "That is pretty hard. Why don't you wire——"

"Oh, don't talk to me about wiring or telegraphing or mailing. I have been doing that for nearly a week, until I am nearly gone daft. Of course I could get the regular fake, or barn-stormers or turkey companies—you know 'em—but none of 'em for me. I want companies I know something about."

"Quite right. People you can rely on," continued Handy. "You are in a pretty bad fix, and if I can help you out in any way I'll be only too happy to do so. To be frank with you, this Gotown venture has been worrying me more than I care to admit. You know we open the new Academy of Music there Saturday night, and the reason the proprietor is in such haste to do so on that date is because Saturday is the anniversary of the founding of the town."

"I don't see there's anything in that to worry you. You're dead sure to get the crowd."

"Oh, that's all right! But then I am awfully afraid the scenery won't be ready. It was ordered only a short time ago. The owner of the theatre knows nothing about our business and left it until, I am afraid, it's too late. So now you can see the fix I am in."

"That's too bad, too bad! Where do you play after leaving Gotown?"

"Oh, after Gotown, eh?" and Handy became thoughtful and silent for a moment, and then slowly and deliberately explained: "Oh, after Gotown we are going to lay off for a week and add three or four new members to our company. They are not exactly new, for they were with us before, and are all good, reliable people and are up in the stage business of 'Down on the Old Farm,' a rattling good piece."

It might as well be explained now, as later, that up to the time that the Weston manager made known his troubles and his open dates Handy had not the slightest thought of "Down on the Old Farm," and did not have a date after Gotown.

"Say, Mr. Handy, how large is the stage of the new Gotown house?"

"Well," said Handy, after casting his eyes meaningly around the stage, "I should say that it is about the size of this one. Perhaps a little deeper." He had, of course, never been inside of the Gotown establishment—it being yet unbuilt.

"Now, then, I tell you what I'll do. I can help you and you in turn can assist me. I have no attraction here for Saturday night. You can therefore make use of what scenery you require, under the circumstances, without the drop curtain; but I have a first-rate green baize in the storeroom and I will loan all of it to you. My property room is well stocked, and you can have the use of the props. Moreover, I'll send my stage manager up to Gotown to help you—on one condition."

"Name it, Governor."

"That you will fill my dates of three nights of next week with 'Down on the Old Farm' in this theatre."

Handy was dumbfounded at the proposition. It seemed almost like a glimpse of heaven. He was almost overpowered, and in a somewhat hesitating manner replied: "It is very kind of you, Governor, but I cannot give you an entirely decisive answer just now; but this, I assure you, you may make your mind easy. I must, if only for courtesy sake, consult my partner, who is now in Gotown. Besides, I must see the Gotown manager. I may be magnifying the disappointment about the scenery. The kindness of your offer and your generosity in putting your scenery at my disposal appeals to my heart. I think I can give you an assurance that your date will be filled for the last three nights of next week with 'Down on the Old Farm.'"

"I can rely on your word?"

"Here's my hand. The usual terms, I suppose?"

"I'll go ten per cent better."

"Get out your printing at once for 'The Old Farm,' and make all necessary arrangements. I'll be off to Gotown at once. I'll run down and send my man up to get the scenery ready for Gotown to-morrow afternoon."

Handy made hasty steps down to the hotel, consulted with Smith, and instructed him to go up to the theatre and take a look over the scenery and props.

"Our end of the work here is all right, Smith, my boy, but I am a bit nervous about the Gotown lay-out. Not that I doubt Mr. McGowan's intentions, but I am afraid he has bitten off more than he can chew. However, there's no need in bidding the devil good-morrow till you're up foreninst him, is there?" Then slapping Smith heartily on the back he cried: "And we are all right for next week, too. We play the old stand-by 'Down on the Old Farm' at the Weston the last three nights. Come down with me to the station and I'll tell you more. I am off for Gotown. Will see you to-night, if I can; but if not, I will be with you the first thing in the morning. There's no time to lose."



CHAPTER XXV

"Joy danced with Mirth, a gay, fantastic Crowd." —COLLINS.

It was a surprise when Handy's cheerful face was seen on the threshold of McGowan's emporium.

"Well, I'm blest! Look here, Wes, see who's here! In the name of fortune, what wind blew you in?"

"Oh!" replied Handy, in his usual good-humored way, "I was growin' lazy workin' so hard, and ran up to see how the Academy is growing."

"Fine as silk. We are putting in overtime on it to-night in the way of gasfitting. You know, Handy," said McGowan, confidentially, "these gasfitters, like plumbers, are curious critters and need watching, and I'm going to have them work night and day until they get through. I wouldn't, between ourselves, have this anniversary celebration fall through for any amount of money, but——"

"Ah! I was expecting that."

"That but?"

"But we haven't a stitch of scenery for the darn stage. That's what's worrying me, and I can't see me way to mend it."

The veteran smiled, and then calmly asked, "Is that all that perplexes you?"

"And isn't that enough?" exclaimed his friend.

"Well, under ordinary circumstances," replied the veteran, "it would be more than enough; but let me relieve your anxieties. All the necessary scenery, properties, including a green baize curtain, latest style, will reach Gotown Friday night on special car."

Weston opened his eyes and mouth in wonder and exclaimed "What!"

McGowan, on the contrary, became serious and asked, "Handy, say, are you kiddin' us?"

"I am telling you the truth."

Then he explained to McGowan how, through the kindness and patriotism of the manager of the Weston Theatre, he was able to do the trick.

McGowan looked at Handy a moment, then caught him in an embrace and let a yell out of him that could be heard a half mile distant.

"Patsy!" he yelled out, "get a move on you. Call in Hans to help you, and I'll take a hand in myself. Handy, you're a bird! All present step up to the bar and drink the health, prosperity, and good luck of Mr. Handy and his friend, the manager of the Weston Theatre. This is on the house."

As soon as things quieted down and Handy had a chance to have a chat with his partner, Weston, he learned that the show promised great results financially.

Now that the scenery problem was solved, everybody seemed happy. Big Ed was the happiest of the lot. He shook hands with everyone who came in as the night grew older, and his description of the special car, and the green baize curtain, just like any first-class theatre in New York, Boston or Philadelphia, was glowing and picturesque. He was determined to show the people of Gotown and the remainder of the county that Gotown was in it with both feet, and when she started out to do things that she could do it and make no mistake about it.

Handy and Weston took the late train and reached Weston shortly after midnight, and retired for a good night's rest.

Next morning as Handy and his host sat together at breakfast, he explained the arrangement he had entered into with the regular Weston impresario. "The deal wasn't quite closed. I wanted, as I told him, to consult you, my partner in the Gotown proposition. I wished to give you a chance to go snacks with me in this new venture, if agreeable, on condition that you be as light as possible on the company for board and lodging while they are not working."

Both of them then set out for the theatre, where they found Smith and the company. Smith was in consultation with the stage manager of the house. Between them they had already selected three drop scenes—a parlor, a drawing-room, and a landscape or wood, two pairs of wings, two fly borders, and a pair of tormentors, the green baize curtain, and the stage carpet.

"Say, Wes, how does this strike you?" asked Handy, in a stage whisper.

"Great! but how did you do it?" he replied, in a manner bordering on amazement.

"Hush! You never can find out how to get out of a hole until you first get into one."

"Big Ed McGowan will be the most surprised man in Pennsylvania when he sees all this landed at the doors of the Academy."

"Oh, Mr. Smith! have you had a talk with the people, and how do they stand?"

"Prepared for anything, and are eager for the fray," answered Smith, in a breezy off-hand manner.

"Good! Now then sit down at the prompt table there and make notes," directed Handy, "of our lay-out. We open with a grand overture by the Handel and Hayden Philharmonic Society; and as a matter of course, on account of their patriotic kindness in volunteering for the celebration of the anniversary of the foundation of Gotown, they will have an encore and will then play a medley of national American airs, 'Yankee Doodle,' 'Hail, Columbia,' 'Patrick's Day,' 'The Watch on the Rhine,' 'The Star Spangled Banner,' and 'Dixie.' Then the curtain will go up on 'Box and Cox.' You'll play Box, Diggins will do Cox, and Cromwell will play Mrs. Bouncer."

"Hold on, sir," said Smith. "Cromwell can't do Mrs. Bouncer—he has a moustache, you know."

Handy smiled. "Let him shave it off. Don't you remember that in Augustin Daly's theatre, in the very heyday of its glory, Mr. Daly would not allow any actor to wear hair on his face? Cromwell is too good an actor to hesitate to make so slight a sacrifice in the interest of art. Tell him I said so, Smith."

Smith smiled, and in a stage whisper said: "He heard all you said. Yes, Mr. Cromwell will shave."

"Then will follow Miss De Vere in one of her coon songs, after the style of Fay Templeton, May Irwin or——What's that, boy?" addressing a lad who approached the prompt table.

"There's a man back at the stage door, sir," replied the boy, "with a fiddle case under his arm, who says you have a date with him."

"Oh, yes! That's all right, my boy. Where is he?" and Handy walked back with the boy. "Is this Signor Collenso, about whom I have heard so many pleasant things?"