"Say, Mr. Handy, me name is plain Bill Cullen for every-day work, but for professional purposes in the music line I discovered that it pays to put on a bit of style, and that's how I came to ring in the Collenso."

"Quite right, my dear fellow! All artists of more or less great ability, especially in the musical line, make such alterations. For instance, Lizzie Norton is twisted into Mme. Nordica; Pat Foley changed into Signor Foli; and when Ellen Mitchell became great, she dropped the old name and Italianized it into Melba. Oh, that's all right."

"Yes, sir; I know all that, and there are others. But when you and I are talking, let us give the Italian cognomen a rest. Now, what do you want me to do?"

"What can you do?"

"Oh, something of everything—classic and otherwise."

"What can you do in the classics, for example?"

"Selections from Mendelssohn, Paganini, Schumann, Rubinstein——"

"Say, my friend," asked Handy, in some surprise, "do you play such music?"

"Oh, yes, whenever I get a chance in public; but when alone they are my favorites. But, then, for encores I give them 'Killarney,' 'Molly Bawn,' 'The Swanee River,' 'Mr. Dooley,' 'Harrigan'—anything that's popular and what they call up to date."

"All right, Cullen. I'm busy just now. Will you call around to the hotel to-night and we'll have a chat, and fix things up?"

"Sure. I'll be on hand. About eight o'clock."

Handy then returned to the prompt table.

"Where were we, Smith? Oh, yes! I remember; we were giving Miss De Vere a dance. Well, after Daisey's dance will come Senor Collenso's violin solo, selection from Paganini. Then will follow the talented young Gotown lawyer in a dissertation on Shakespeare, and also inform them about the mill between Richard and Richmond. Smith, have you all that down?"

"Every word of it."

"And then will come the fight between Richard and Richmond with broadswords, in which you will have the opportunity of your life. The curtain will drop here, and then there will follow the intermission."

"Are you going to have much of an intermission?" inquired Smith.

"Oh, ten or fifteen minutes or so. You know we must give Big Ed, the proprietor of the emporium, as well as of the Academy, a chance to do a little bit of business. Besides, it's awfully dry work listening to good music, fine songs, and strong acting without something to help you to thoroughly enjoy them."

"That's true. That's a great first part, Mr. Handy. Music, song, vocal and instrumental; dance, oratory, and tragedy. Great, great!"

"Miss De Vere will start in after the intermission with that beautiful and thrilling song, 'Down in a Coal Mine.' Some member of the company, whoever knows it, can recite 'Shamus O'Brien,' or some other equally popular recitation."

"These two numbers will be sure to catch 'em," remarked Smith, with a broad grin of appreciation.

"Then will follow a dance, 'The Fox Hunter's Jig,' by Mr. Myles O'Hara, a prominent citizen of Gotown, who has in the most generous and patriotic manner volunteered to add to the festivities for this occasion. It will be his first appearance on the stage. The music for this event will be supplied by the celebrated Irish piper, Mr. Dinny Dempsey, who will also be seen on the stage in native Irish costume and full regalia. Then, Smith, you can trot out one of your well-known comic monologues that you are so famous in. After that we'll wind up with 'The Strollers' Medley,' in which all the company will take part, and Daisey De Vere can do a favorite stunt of dancing now and then to fill up the gap. Now, then, go to work. Get the people busy and have them in good working order. Call a full dress rehearsal at one o'clock on the stage at the Gotown Academy of Music, so that we'll all know what we've got to do at night. I think that's all just now."

There wasn't an idle hour for the remainder of the day and the greater part of the next by the company, under Smith's guidance, preparing for the anniversary event in Gotown. There were rehearsals, and rehearsals, and more rehearsals.

Friday evening, between eight and nine o'clock, Handy, his partner, and the stage manager of the Weston Theatre, arrived in Gotown with the borrowed scenery and props. Ed McGowan and assistants were at the station with three wagons to convey the stage accoutrements to the newly built temple of Thespis that was to open its doors to the public the following night. It was an all night job of preparation, but there were many and willing hands to do what they were bid, under the direction of Handy and his pro tem stage manager.

A student of the drama, had he been present, might have been carried back in thought a century or over, when many of the great players of days that are no more had to go through somewhat similar experiences. The Booths, the Cookes, the Keans, the Kembles, the Forrests, the Jeffersons, the Wallacks, and other great actors whose names are written on the imperishable tablets of fame have traveled over just such roads. Smith and the company, after a good night's rest and a hearty breakfast, reached Gotown early in the forenoon.

At fifteen minutes past seven o'clock the doors of the Metropolitan Academy of Music were thrown open, and at eight o'clock there was not an unoccupied space in the house. The Handel and Hayden Philharmonic musicians took their places in front of the stage and began the overture. It consisted of a medley of familiar airs. The audience was so well pleased with what they heard that the musicians had to let them have it again. Then the curtain went up and "Box and Cox," a rather original version of the old farce, opened the show. It created some laughter, but the people came there to be pleased, and they were. "Old Black Joe" was sung, with an invisible chorus, and brought down the house. Daisey De Vere's coon song, with original business and grotesque imitations, made another big hit. Signor Collenso's classic—and it was well rendered—was tamely received, but when he treated his auditors to "Molly Bawn" and the "Boys of Kilkenny" they went into ecstasies. This was followed by the appearance of the rising young lawyer, who paid a glowing tribute to Shakespeare, and then introduced King Richard and Richmond to fight it out to a finish on Bosworth field for England, home, and booty. It was certainly a most elaborately grotesque combat. The people in front liked it apparently, and goaded on the combatants to redoubled efforts, and when the tyrant king was knocked out three cheers and a tiger were given with a vengeance, and the curtain fell on the first part amid uproarious applause.

There was intermission of fifteen minutes. On the reappearance of Daisey De Vere, when the curtain went up, she was accorded a greeting that showed she had won her way to the hearts of her audience. With her interpretation of the onetime popular song, "Down in a Coal Mine," she completely captured those present with her vocalization. She had to repeat the ballad that good old Tony Pastor made popular in days of yore, when she had warmed up to her work, her "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll all join me in the chorus, I'll give you two verses when I get my second wind," set them all laughing, and clinched the hold she had already secured. The recitation of "Shamus O'Brien" seemed tame by comparison. But when Myles O'Hara gave them a vigorous and athletic exhibition of the "Fox Hunter's Jig," as Myles' father danced it in the Green Isle long before the O'Haras ever dreamt of emigrating to the land of the West, the applause was once more renewed. Dinny Dempsey supplied the music on the Irish pipes, which was in itself a novelty so appealing that he had to repeat, and Myles to dance, until both were fairly used up. It was eleven o'clock and after when Handy and his company started in for the wind-up, with their familiar old stand-by, "The Strollers' Medley." What it was all about no one present could tell. Only there was plenty of fun and merriment in it. There was a song, and a chorus now and then, a bit of a dance occasionally, and Daisey De Vere did a few grotesque steps and Handy entertained them with a comic speech. All were in the best of humor and heartily enjoyed what they saw and heard. Joy danced with fun, and the crowd was indeed a merry, happy, and fantastic gathering.

Before the curtain fell Big Ed McGowan came on the stage. His appearance was the signal for a great outburst of cheers. When something like quiet was restored, he thanked the audience, on behalf of the company for their splendid manifestation of appreciation and grand attendance at the great entertainment. He then invited all hands present to join and sing "Should auld acquaintance be forgot?" It is needless to add that it was sung with a vigor, strength, and heartiness which still remains a cheerful memory in Gotown.



CHAPTER XXVI

"Say not 'Good night,' but in some brighter clime Bid me 'Good morning.'"

—BARBAULD.

In a small back room in McGowan's hospitable hostelry Handy, Weston, McGowan himself, the members of the company, and a few others were gathered for a little bite and a sup before the players returned to Weston. It was a convivial party—not noisy nor boisterous. Just cheerful, good-natured crowd. All were happy over the night's fun. They showed it in their smiling faces and laughing eyes. Strange as it may appear, the most thoughtful appearing one in the assemblage was the veteran himself. McGowan noticed his demeanor more quickly than any of the others, and by the way of cheering or bracing him up he rose from his chair and proposed for a standing toast the health, wealth and prosperity of their friend who afforded them the enjoyment they had that night,—"Our friend, Handy! May he live long and prosper."

It was given with a hearty response. A speech was then called, when Handy with much reluctance rose and said:

"Friends—I take the liberty of calling you friends after the generous treatment you have given me and my poor humble little company to-night—we are only a troupe of strolling players trying to do the best we can to please you, to make you cheerful, to banish dull care from your minds in your leisure hours, and make you laugh with happy hearts. No one was ever hurt or harmed by an honest laugh. No time was ever wasted that brought with it, through the agency of song, music and acting, brighter thoughts and happier feelings. And, after all, that seems to me to be the mission of the players. I am no speech-maker, my friends, I am speaking to you as the words come from my heart, and my heart is full and happy to-night. All the world, we are told, is a stage, a place where everyone must play his part. And how true are those words both men and women know. I feel as if I had played many and many parts. I have had my ups and downs; my joys and sorrows, and sometimes I have supped bitter in sorrow. But no matter, I presume we all have the same story to tell. I am not going to bother you with a recital of any of them. Let them pass, just as the summer storm passes away when the sun peeps out from behind the clouds and lights up everything with its radiance and makes us all cheerful, contented and happy. Ah, boys! I have been many years on the road, traveling over this broad land of ours. Aye! a poor player. I have grown old in the line of making laughter for others and lending a hand to bring merriment to my aid. The frost of years is beginning to lay its mark already on my once fiery locks, and the time is drawing near when I will have to make my final exit and quit work; and when a man stops working nature is finished with him, and when nature is through with him it is pretty near time to go. Well, so be it. In years long gone by I came across a little poem which I carried about with me months and months, in the war campaign of the sixties, for, friends, I served my time as a drummer boy with the old Army of the Potomac. Well, this is a little gem, at least, I thought it so then. I think it so now. It was written by a woman. It is said it was the last she ever wrote. I read it and read it until I committed it to memory. 'Tis short, very short. If you wish to hear it, I'll recite it for you now. Yes?

"Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part, when friends are dear, Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.

"Then steal away—give little warning, Choose thine own time, Say not 'Good night,' but in some brighter clime Bid me—'Good morning.'"

END