When they stopped work that evening they surveyed their theatre with a great deal of pride; for it was now so nearly completed that any one could tell, at a very searching glance, what it was intended for. The scenery was all in its place, and Nelly had made a quantity of rosettes out of tissue-paper of various colors, which were to be fastened as ornaments on the rough, unpainted boards.

All that remained to be done was to make the curtain, and hang it so that it could be rolled up and down, and to arrange a place for the candles that were to serve as foot-lights.

What that curtain should be made of had been a vexing question for the partners to settle, and many and serious had been the discussions regarding it. Ben had insisted that they ought to buy white cloth enough to make a regular curtain; but, on considering that proposition carefully, they had discovered that it would cost nearly three dollars, and they hardly felt warranted in going to so much expense.

Finally, it was decided to buy large sheets of stout brown paper, which could be both pasted and sewed together, in order to make sure that they would not pull apart by their own weight, and then these were to be ornamented in some artistic manner by each one of the party.

By the time this important question was settled, it was so late that no more work could be done that night; but before Dickey departed for his hogshead home there was an emphatic demand made upon Mr. Dowd for some particulars as to the play which he had promised to have in readiness for the opening night. It was then Wednesday; and since the first performance was to be given on the following Saturday evening, it did surely seem as if the actors should know what they were to do on that important occasion.

"It will be all right," Mopsey said, so decidedly that they would have been obliged to be satisfied, even if he had not added, "Friday night we'll all come here an' practise, an' then I'll tell you all about it."

On the following day business was so good that it was very late before any of the partners could get to work on their theatrical enterprise, and if their profits had not been so large, they would have deeply regretted the delay. But they worked the faster when they did get the chance; and while the others were interested in putting together the curtain, which bid fair to be a marvel of art, Ben labored industriously at making the tickets.

An acquaintance of his had a large lot of card-board clippings, which he had gathered from time to time as he delivered papers in a printing-office, and these Ben had purchased, with the understanding that he was to give free admission to the entertainment for them during three evenings, providing, of course, that the theatre remained open to the public that length of time. From these odds and ends Nelly had cut about a hundred tickets during the afternoon while she was in charge of the fruit-stand, and these Ben was converting into orders for admission by printing on them, in rather a shaky hand, and with a new lead-pencil he had bought for that express purpose, the following:

GRATE SHOW.

LeT WUN CUM iN 5 CeNTS

As it was proposed to charge eight cents for seats in the two front benches, Ben printed, in addition to the above, twenty very unique cards, similar to this:

PRESERVED CEAT. FRUNT BENCH.

It was a long job, and he had bitten his tongue until it was sore in his efforts to make the printing legible, while his fingers ached from clutching the pencil so firmly; but he finished his task before the curtain was completed, and was able to give his advice as to the embellishment of it.

It was while working on the curtain that Johnny displayed his skill as an artist, for he assumed the sole charge of it, insisting that the others should proceed under his direction. It was spread on the floor, and Hunter Jones was pursuing his work on his hands and knees, with two candles stuck in bottles as his only light. But Johnny appeared to be equal to the emergency, for he was dashing on the color rapidly, not heeding the fact that one side of his nose was a beautiful green, and the other a vivid red, while his chin was as black as if he had been trying to paint a beard on it.

It was on the central figure of this intended work of art that Johnny was expending the most of his labors, and to those who were watching him it appeared something like an eccentric rainbow, or the interior of a paint-shop, until Master Jones printed under it, to avoid any possibility of mistake, "WiLD iNGuN," and then all could see the resemblance at once.



Johnny was proud of his work, and when at last it was completed, he stood at some distance from it, transfixed with silent admiration of what he had created, and quite regardless of the fact that the hot tallow from the candle which he held in his hand was running down over his fingers.

It had been decided to have a small painting in each of the four corners, to prevent the Indian from looking lonely, and one of these was to be done by each member of the firm.

Paul drew his entirely in black, in the right-hand lower corner, and it was a very fair representation of two guns and a sword, although the barrels of the guns were rather more crooked than they should have been, while the edge of the sword was notched, as if it had had some hard usage.

Dickey printed in red the same notice that the boys had seen in his home, offering a reward for the apprehension of Tim Dooley; and although his partners declared that it was not at all appropriate for the curtain of a dramatic stage, he insisted that it should remain there, citing as an argument the fact that he had contributed more than the others to the general fund. It was an argument that could not be disputed, and Dickey's notice was allowed to remain, although Johnny contended that the audience would think his Indian had been intended as a portrait of the missing Tim.

In the upper left-hand corner Mopsey painted, with all the colors at his command, a picture of a schooner under full sail, with a row of what was at first supposed to be guns showing over the rail, but which he explained were pea-nuts, adding that she was represented as having a full cargo on board.

Ben, with fingers still aching from severe exertion with the pencil, drew a picture of his blacking-box and brush, which would have been quite a correct likeness if he had not made the mistake of painting the brush nearly three times as large as the box.

Then, in order that Nelly might do something towards beautifying this wonderful curtain, she was allowed to print the name of each member of the firm, as well as her own, around the border, giving more color to the whole, even if it did not add to the artistic effect.

It was very late when all this was done, and the promoters of this grand enterprise were obliged to go to their respective beds, much as they would have liked to continue at their work all night.

The hundred and twenty tickets were divided equally among the five partners, that they might sell as many as possible before the opening of the doors on Saturday night, and thus lessen Mrs. Green's duties as door-keeper.

It was also agreed before they separated that night, that Ben and Dickey should not attempt to do any business the next day, but devote all their time to banging the curtain and hunting up old bottles to use as holders for the foot-lights, so that everything would be in readiness for the rehearsal in the evening.

During the next forenoon, those of the partners who pursued their regular business had all they could do to attend to those who wished to buy papers and theatre tickets, and more particularly the latter.

There had been very much talk and speculation among this portion of the news-selling world as to the theatre, and every one was anxious to secure a ticket as early as possible, lest if they delayed until near the time of the performance they should be unable to gain admission.

Of course where so much had been said about any one particular thing as was said about this theatre, and where so many rumors were flying around, exaggeration as to the size, furnishing, and general appearance of the place could not be prevented. Some thought that an army of carpenters had been at work fitting up and decorating the whole theatre; others had it that it was upon the stage only that much labor had been expended, and that that portion of the theatre was more beautiful than any other that could be found in the city.

The more imaginative paid no attention to mere detail, but circulated the most startling rumors as to the excessive amount of brain-work Mopsey Dowd was doing on the new play, which was to be his masterpiece, and to far surpass anything Buffalo Bill or Sixteen-string Jack ever wrote.

Since Mopsey was found at his place of business with the same regularity as before this gigantic scheme was planned, some of his admirers insisted that he worked nights, spending the time when he should have been asleep in bringing forth the most startling and blood-curdling scenes, to be given with all their attendant horrors on the night of the opening of the theatre.

With all these things to give an impetus to the sale of tickets, it was little wonder that they were disposed of readily. When night came, all had been sold save those which Ben and Dickey had, and the demand was still very great.

Each member of the company was quite as much excited when they went home that night as if the performance was to be given then, for the rehearsal was to be held, and all had their parts to learn.

Ben and Dickey had worked faithfully, and performed all that had been given them to do. The curtain was hung, a little awkwardly, to be sure, on account of the uneven manner in which the stage was built; but there it was, whether straight or crooked, where all the beauty of its many-colored illustrations could be seen if the candles were held near enough to it.

When called upon to hoist and lower it, Ben and Dickey showed evident signs of nervousness; but they succeeded, after some considerable time, in getting it up and down without tearing it, although it was plain to be seen that they were relieved when it was up for the second time, and Mopsey had ordered it left there.

The foot-lights had been arranged by nailing narrow strips of board on the under side of the stage, and allowing them to project about six inches beyond where the curtain would come when it was lowered. On these strips the bottles, some large and some small, were to be placed, each with a candle in it. Ben was confident that they would remain there safely enough, provided no one walked very heavily on the stage; he also suggested to Mopsey that he should have as little fighting as possible in the play, because of the insecurity of these bottle foot-lights. This piece of advice, however, caused the author to frown severely, as if he felt that some of his best scenes would thus be interfered with.

No one had thought of lighting the main body of the hall until Ben and Dickey noticed the omission, and supplied it by tying candles around two barrel-hoops, and hanging them up like chandeliers, which added greatly to the general appearance and finish of the place. After all these things had been inspected the party adjourned to dinner, in order to fortify themselves for the trying mental labor before them, and Dickey remained as the guest of his partners, having been specially invited by them and Mrs. Green.



CHAPTER VIII.

AN AUTHOR'S TRIALS.

When the dinner was ended—and the members of the dramatic company made short work of it in order to begin their professional duties as soon as possible—Mopsey Dowd fully realized that he was about to pass in judgment before his partners. Whether he was entitled to it or not, he had some considerable fame as an author, and for that reason he had taken upon himself, voluntarily and even eagerly, the task of preparing an original play for the great event; which goes to show, perhaps, more than anything else, that Mopsey's fame resulted from chance rather than merit.

When he rose from the table he knew that every eye was upon him, and that each one present expected to hear him say something relative to the brain-effort he was making. He was a genius, and would be until his friends found him out, which occurrence would not be very far off if he should say anything then, for the very good reason that he did not know what to say. He knew that something must be done, and that speedily, which would bear out his claim to distinction, and, with a view to gaining time, he said:

"You fellers go into the theatre, 'cause I ain't quite ready yet, an' I'll go up to my room to think over one or two things."

This speech was very much needed just then, for Mopsey had been so reticent as to his play that his partners were beginning to suspect that he was not all he claimed to be. But now perfect trust was restored by his words, and the proprietors of the theatre went up to their temple of art feeling every confidence in the author who was struggling in the privacy of his chamber for their success.

This delay in the beginning of the rehearsal was just what Nelly wanted, for it enabled her to add what she considered would be the crowning beauty of their decorations. She had conceived the idea only that afternoon, while engaged in the busy whirl of keeping the sound peaches at the top of the basket and the unripe ones at the bottom.

A friend of hers, whose mother kept a thread-and-needle emporium that was contained in a willow basket, and displayed to the public very near her fruit-stand, was skilful in the art of making paper flowers, and from time to time had presented Nelly with specimens of her skill, until everything in the house that could be pressed into service as a vase was filled with these never-fading and odorless roses.

It had occurred to her that these flowers might be so arranged on the wall as to form the word "Welcome;" and when she suggested her idea to the boys, after Mopsey had gone into his room, they were delighted. Therefore the delay caused by the author enabled them to go to work upon this last and most beautiful of their decorations at once.

Dickey went out for a paper of tacks, and Johnny drew on the wall, directly opposite the entrance of the hall, the outlines of the word to be filled up with the paper flowers. But there was a difference of opinion among those who were watching him as to how the word should be spelled. He had drawn out the letters "Welkum," while Paul insisted that it was not right, spelling the word correctly, and referring the matter to Ben for arbitration.

Thus appealed to, as if he was an authority in such matters, Ben looked wonderfully wise, but refused to give any decision until after he had written the word down on a bit of paper, spelling it in various ways, that he might see which looked correct.

After some moments of anxious suspense for Johnny, for he had built a very frail stand to enable him to reach a point on the wall where it would be impossible for any of the audience to tear the flowers down, Ben announced that neither was correct, and that the word should be spelled "Wellcom." It was in vain that Paul insisted Ben was wrong. The decision had been given, and the others decided that where a matter was left to a third party for adjustment all must be satisfied with the ruling. Therefore Johnny marked out the letters as Ben had said, and after Dickey's return with the tacks the flowers were put up, forming a very gorgeous and badly spelled word.

Before the partners had finished admiring this very beautiful ornament on the wall of their theatre, a noise was heard on the stairs, and, on looking out, Dickey announced, by many frantic gestures, that the author was coming. It was a moment of anxious expectancy, for at last they were to know the result of their partner's labors, and they were to be shown just what they were to do on the important occasion. Dickey was particularly anxious, probably fearing lest his part should not be such as would admit of his carrying a sword and shield.

Mopsey walked into the room with slow and measured step, as if he knew the weight of the words he was about to speak, and feared lest, being too heavy, they might topple him over. But Master Dowd was not one who did anything in a careless manner; he did not deign to speak until he had walked the length of the room, disappeared behind the scenery, and stalked out upon the stage, holding a huge sheet of paper in his hand as if it was a weapon with which he was about to strike any refractory member of the firm, should his play not be exactly to their liking.



"Fellers," he said, as he cleared his throat, and then noticing the female portion of his company, he corrected himself by saying, "Fellers an' Nelly: When we first made up our minds to build this theatre—" Here he waved his roll of paper around as if to designate which theatre he meant. The movement drew his attention to the new ornament, and caused him to forget what he was about to say.

"Who put that up?" he asked, almost angrily.

"I did," said Johnny, and then, anxious to shift any responsibility of the spelling to the shoulders on which it belonged, he added, "but Ben spelled it."

"Well, fix it," commanded the disturbed author. "If any of the fellers should see that they'd think we didn't know nothin' at all. Put it w-e-double l-k-o-m."

Johnny started to obey him, thinking with delight that he had been almost right before, and Mopsey continued:

"When we built this place I said I'd fix up a play myself, so's we'd be sure to have everythin' all right; but business has been so good, an' I had so much trouble with my pea-nut roaster—for I broke it twice, an' had to hire one offer the Italian that keeps across the street—that I thought we'd play somethin' the boys all knew, an' we'd kinder lay over anythin' they'd ever seen at the same time. So I thought we'd play the whole of Shakespeare, an' that would give everybody a fair show."

There was a look of disappointment on the faces of his hearers as he said this, and noticing it, he added, quickly,

"You see we couldn't get up a whole play new, an' give all hands a chance to do fightin'; an' then, agin, Dickey wouldn't have a shield an' a sword any other way than this."

This last argument changed the look on Dickey's face at once, and he was perfectly satisfied with any arrangement now, for he knew that his ambition was to be realized. The others were very careful to show no signs of approval until they were satisfied that they had been treated as well as Dickey.

"Of course," continued Mopsey, as he looked around at his audience much as if he expected to hear some of them say that he couldn't write a play, "the first thing we had to have was a programme, an' I've made one out, so's you'll know jest what you've got to do."

Here Mopsey unfolded the paper he had carried in his hand, and displayed a bill of the play. It is unnecessary to say that this piece of literary work had cost the author a very great effort. Doubts as to the spelling arose at every turn, but the final result was as follows:

GRATE SHOW—At Mis GReNs. BoRDin HOUse THe HoLe ov SHAKspiR SATeRDAY NiTe, 8 in tHe evenin

RicHARD 3 MopseY DoWD MAKBeTH DicKeY SPRY OTHeLLeR SHineR JoNes HAMLeT PoLLY WesToN THe GosT Ben TReAT A SiNGeR NeLLY GRen

PRiCe 5 cenTs. PreSeRVeD ceATS 8 cenTs

GRATe TiMe.

Mopsey waited patiently until all had read this wonderful production, and he was pleased to see that nearly all were satisfied with their parts. Ben Treat was the only one who appeared to think he had any cause for complaint, and he very soon made his grievance known.

"I can't play ghost," he said, fretfully; "I don't know nothin' 'bout it, an' I want more to do."

Mopsey had made up his mind as to what course he should pursue in case of any dissatisfaction, and he said to Ben, in tones of deepest scorn,

"A great feller you are to get up a fuss before you know what you've got to do! an' you oughter be ashamed of yourself. Why, you've got an awful lot to do. In the first place, you've got to come an' 'most scare the life out of Polly, an' then when he runs away you've got to do a song an' dance, an' turn three or four hand-springs before you sink right down through one of these holes, I don't know what you do want if that don't suit you, unless it is to do the whole play."

Ben had nothing more to say; he realized that his was really an important part, and he was abashed by the withering sarcasm of the angry author. Then each of the others, fearing lest they should not have as good an opportunity for the display of their talents, demanded to know what they were to do.

"Now I'll begin an' tell you the whole thing," said Mopsey, as he prepared to show how all of Shakespeare's plays could be performed on one evening by a small company. "In the first place, Nelly comes out, all dressed up, an' sings a song; then the play commences. I come out with a sword an' pistols, an' tell about my hoss runnin' away, an' after I get through, Shiner comes out an' picks a fuss with me, an' I kill him."

Here the speaker was interrupted by the gentleman who had been selected to play the part of Othello, with the remark that it was hardly fair to dispose of him at such an early stage of the performance, more especially on the first night.

"But you come on agin an' dance," said Mopsey, fretfully. "Why don't you wait till I get through? After I kill Shiner, Dickey comes in an' we two have a reg'lar fight, an' we both run away. Then Shiner jumps up an' dances just as long as he can, an' down comes the curtain. In the next act Polly comes out an' talks a lot of stuff; an' when he gets through, Ben comes right up through the floor an' scares him awfully. An' when he runs off, Ben does a song an' dance, an' that ends that act. Then Nelly sings another song, an' we all come out fightin'; an' when we get through, Dickey dances a clog; an' if that ain't show enough for five cents, I don't know what is."

In fact the partners were of Mopsey's opinion, and since they were all to appear in the last act in a grand fight, they would not have complained even though it had been necessary for them all to die in the first scene. Even if Mopsey had not written an original play, he had covered himself with glory in this arrangement of Shakespeare's works; and if there had been any doubts as to the success of their enterprise, they were dispelled now.

Of course it was necessary to make some arrangements for costumes, and an exciting discussion began at once, during which Mrs. Green was called upon to see what she could do towards fitting the party out. Mopsey proposed that a further assessment of twenty-five cents be made upon each of the company, and announced that, prosperous as business was just then, he had decided to shut up shop the next day, in order to give his whole attention to the important work of preparation. Dickey volunteered to sacrifice his business also, in order to aid him, and it was believed that with the funds just raised these two could buy and hire weapons enough to arm the entire party.

Mrs. Green had several things which it was thought could be used with good effect, and all hands went to work making wooden swords, in case there should be any trouble in finding the real articles. Nelly made more tickets, so that all who were anxious to witness the performance might at least have one, and Paul was given charge of the money that had been received thus far; for all were anxious to see the entire receipts of that night's performance in one unbroken whole, even if it was necessary to advance funds from each individual pocket in order to make the necessary purchases. And during the remainder of that evening Mopsey rehearsed the different members of the combination separately, until he was convinced that they could carry out their respective roles perfectly.



CHAPTER IX.

THE MOMENTOUS OCCASION.

However successful a venture the opening of a theatre might prove to the five boys interested, it was quite evident, before that eventful Saturday had passed, that it would seriously injure their regular business. At least half their time that day was spent in answering the questions of intending patrons, or those who had already purchased their tickets; and of course while they were thus engaged they could not sell papers or blacken boots. Therefore, when they stopped work at five o'clock, according to agreement, so that they would be sure to have time to dress before eight, they had not made more than ten cents apiece. They did not realize what this loss of time had cost them, for nearly all of the tickets had been sold, and in contemplating the theatrical receipts, those that should have come from the legitimate business were entirely lost sight of. There was every prospect that they would have a large audience, and when they went to Mrs. Green's they congratulated themselves on having thought of such a brilliant project.

That Mopsey was a thoughtful manager, as well as sparkling author, was shown by a notice which the boys found fastened to the street-door. It read:

DOReS opeN AT HARF PARsT seVeN

and had evidently been prepared in anticipation of the rush of patrons which it was almost certain would fairly besiege the place before they were ready to receive them.

Once in the theatre, it was seen that Dickey and Mopsey had not been wasting their time, for there was such a collection of cast-off uniforms and weapons as would have furnished a much larger company than theirs with outfits. The two who had gathered this remarkable collection together were standing over it in conscious pride; but Mopsey did not give them much opportunity for admiration.

"Now all hands turn to an' git dressed," he said, in a tone of authority, well knowing that his command would be willingly obeyed. "We've got to be sure to be ready, an' we can eat dinner after we're rigged up jest as well as not."

As it was only too evident that Mopsey would be obliged to superintend the dressing of each boy, the party stood waiting for him to designate the one who should receive the first attention.

"We'll start on you, Dickey," said Mopsey; and some of the party thought that while the two had been alone that day, Master Spry had stipulated that he should have the honor of being arrayed first.

Dickey stepped in front of the busy-looking manager, his face beaming with delight, and his mouth open so wide that his smile seemed almost a grin.

Among the collection out of which Shakespeare's characters were to stalk into view were quite a number of Mrs. Green's kitchen utensils, and nearly all of the party were puzzled as to what was to be done with them when Dickey's toilet explained everything. Two tin covers that had evidently been taken from the wash-boilers were fastened on Master Spry's chest and back, and Mopsey insisted on lashing them on so strongly, lest they should become displaced in the fight, that poor Dickey found it impossible to hang his arms down by his side, but was obliged to hold them straight out, very much to his discomfort. A tin saucepan, somewhat the worse for wear, and well blackened, was placed on his head for a helmet, and in his hands a huge cavalry sabre. To throw a dash of color into what would otherwise have been a rather sombre-looking costume, Mopsey laced a quantity of red tape around each leg, which gave him a very striking appearance, to say the least.

But every rose must have a thorn, and Dickey soon found out what particular thorn there was in wearing the costume of Macbeth. In the first place, since he could not use his arms sufficiently to bring them around in front of him, he was obliged to dispense with a shield, for it would have been worse than useless; and again, when he tried to sit down, after he had been admired by his companions, he found that the tin covers were so long that they doomed him to stand until the close of the performance. He would have liked a rest just then, for he was very tired, but the exigencies of the case, and costume, prevented him, and he leaned up in the corner, looking, save about the legs, like a turtle in a restaurant window.

Johnny was the next one who was to be made happy, and perhaps uncomfortable, by Mr. Dowd's idea of costume. But his was on an entirely different scale, since he was to play the part of Othello. A pair of blue uniform trousers were first put on, and then pinned up, since they had originally been intended for a man; a broad leather belt was buckled tightly around his waist, and in this was placed a carving-knife, a pistol with no lock and but part of the barrel, and a jack-knife; an old sack of Mrs. Green's, made of red flannel and somewhat soiled, was put on as coat, and on the shoulders were pinned epaulets made of gilt paper. In addition to the weapons contained in his belt, Johnny had a genuine sword and scabbard fastened to his side, and an army musket to carry in his hands, that looked as if it might have been used in every battle during the late war.

It seemed singular that two should be condemned to stand, and through no one's fault; but Johnny also found it almost impossible to sit down, owing to the number of pins Mopsey had used, to make sure that the trousers would remain at the proper length, and he leaned against the wall by the side of Dickey.

Ben's costume required very little care, since it was simply a sheet thrown over his head; but he insisted so strongly that a ghost had just as much right as anybody else to have his legs laced up with red tape, and to wear a sword, that Mopsey was obliged to give way, and do as he desired. A profusion of tape was tied around his legs; and in order to produce a pleasing effect in case his feet could be seen below the sheet, he insisted on having quite a number of ends hanging down from the ankles. He also had a belt, with a carving-knife, and a pistol in about the same state of repair that Johnny's was, stuck into it; and then, with the sheet over his arm, so that he could have it handy, he looked on while the others dressed, envied by Dickey and Johnny because he could sit down so comfortably.

Paul made a very showy-looking Hamlet, to say the least. He wore a pair of rubber boots many sizes too large for him, with tops that reached his knees, and were ornamented with tissue-paper rosettes; a black frock-coat, which on close inspection proved to be Johnny's best one, that he had worn when he called upon Mrs. Green, hung about his shoulders, covering his hands completely with its profusion of sleeves, and giving him a singular, if not distinguished appearance. This coat had been made more gorgeous than it originally was by having gilt paper pasted to each button, and a red sash tied about the waist, in which were two table-forks and a wooden sword, the latter article interfering sadly with his knees when he walked. On his head he wore a huge paper cap that had been painted red, white, and blue, and ornamented with a tuft of feathers that had once done service in a dusting-brush. He also had a gun, and the weight of it was about as much as he could stagger under when he tried to carry it over his shoulder, so he dragged it along behind him, very much as a person of Hamlet's melancholy temperament would have been likely to do. He also could sit down, which was no small comfort.

All this costuming had taken some time, and Mrs. Green had already called up the staircase that dinner was nearly ready before Mopsey had commenced to clothe himself in such garments as he supposed Richard the Third wore. First he put on a thin pair of cotton pants that had once been white, but were now a drab, and which fitted quite closely to his skin. On the outside seams of these he pinned a strip of gilt paper, and then drew on a pair of boots, the tops of which came up quite as high on him as the rubber ones did on Paul. Around these boots was laced more red tape, until it would have been a difficult matter to have formed any idea as to what they might have been intended for originally. He had a broad leather belt, and outside of it was a red sash, with ends that nearly touched the floor. As weapons he wore a sword in a scabbard, a carving-knife, a portion of a pistol, and a table-fork. His coat was a soldier's overcoat, cut down to prevent it from trailing on the floor when he walked, and on his head was a paper cap nearly twice as large, and with very much more ornamentation in the way of feathers and red paint than had the one worn by Paul.

The company were now ready for their arduous duties on the stage, and could afford the time to go to dinner. More than once had Mrs. Green called out to them that that very important meal was ready, and should be eaten if they expected her to get the dishes washed in time to act as door-keeper. She had also become imbued with the excitement of this first performance, and had packed away her fruit-stand fully two hours earlier than usual, in order that she might first feed her actor-boarders, and then look out for their interest at the door.

It was a ferocious looking and, in at least two cases, an uncomfortable feeling company that filed down the stairs and into the dining-room, led by Dickey, who was obliged to enter the door sideways, because his arms stuck out so straight as to prevent his moving through any aperture less than five feet wide in any other way.

"Gracious!" ejaculated the startled landlady, as she saw this singular-looking object enter the room, followed by four others, more or less gorgeous, and all equally terrible. "How on earth did you contrive to make yourselves look so horrible?"

"Mopsey did it," squeaked Dickey, piteously, as if he had been accused of some wrong deed, and earnestly wishing that he was the ghost.

"He's Macbeth," said Mopsey, in explanation, and anxious to show that he had only done his duty in thus making Dickey so uncomfortable. "That's pretty near the way Macbeth always gits hisself up."

"Poor man!" said Mrs. Green, sympathizingly, "it must have been terrible hard for him, an' he couldn't had a great deal of comfort with his arms." And then, as she looked over her spectacles pityingly at the miniature Macbeth, and noticed that it was the covers of her wash-boilers that he wore, she said, "You must be awful careful not to tumble down, Dickey, for you never could get up; an' besides, if anybody should step on you they'd spoil them covers, an' one of 'em's 'most new."

Dickey made no promise, but his face showed plainly that he appreciated the danger he would be in if he should fall over, and that he was determined to stand as straight as possible in the combat which would take place in the third act.

All of the company save Dickey and Johnny seated themselves at the table, and began to make a hearty but hurried meal. Johnny stood up in a careful manner, and got along very well, but poor Dickey could neither sit down nor help himself. He made one or two vain efforts to pick up a biscuit from the table, but his armor would not permit, and he was about to lean back against the wall in helpless indignation, when Mrs. Green noticed him.

"Poor child!" she said, in a motherly tone, "I do think it is a shame for Mopsey to rig you up in such a way that you can't eat, an' you do have such a good appetite."

"He wanted to play Macbeth," said Mopsey, anxious to clear himself from any blame, "an' if he plays it he's got to go that way."

"Yes, I wanted to play it," said Dickey, in a pathetic tone that told he would never want to do such an uncomfortable thing again. "I wanted to, but I didn't know I was goin' to be fixed so's I couldn't even wiggle."

Mrs. Green went without her own supper for the sake of giving Dickey his, and she fed him patiently, while he stood with outstretched hands leaning against the wall, but able to eat all that was put in his mouth.

By the time the boys were through supper Nelly came into the room, dressed for her portion of the work in the evening's performance; and even Mopsey, who the day before had suggested that she should wear a sword, thought she looked charming in her white dress with blue ribbons.

It was very near the time set for opening the doors, and already they could hear a crowd of boys on the sidewalk, as they jostled and pushed in their efforts to enter before the managers were ready to receive them. Mopsey, excited at this clamor of the public, drove his company up-stairs, and hurried Mrs. Green to such an extent that she concluded to let her house-work go until after the performance, and went down to open the door.



CHAPTER X.

THE FIRST ACT.

The noble company of actors stood in breathless expectancy behind the scenes of their theatre, waiting for the sound of tramping feet that should tell of the rush of the public to witness their genius, as shown in this particular line of business. The interest was so great that even Dickey forgot the discomfort of his Macbeth costume, and stood as near a crevice in the boards as possible, to see their patrons as they filed into the hall.

The auditorium was as near a scene of enchantment as tallow-candles could make it. The twelve bottle foot-lights flared and flickered as if they were conscious of the wonderful display of talent they were there to illumine, while the barrel-hoop chandeliers cast even a more brilliant light than one would have supposed. The flower decorations on the wall, forming the word that meant quite as much as if it had been spelled correctly, stood forth in all their beauty, even more prominently than if the light had been stronger.

That Mrs. Green had never acted in the capacity of door-keeper of a theatre before, was shown by the trouble she was having. It had been her purpose to open the street-door, and then go in advance of the crowd to the door of the hall, where she could receive either the money or the tickets of those who entered. But one look at the noisy throng was sufficient to convince her that more than half of them would distance her in the race up-stairs. She therefore changed her plan, and by exerting all her strength she was able to keep the door closed so far as to prevent more than one from entering at a time. By this means she succeeded in collecting tickets from nearly all who entered. As soon as she thought she could do so with safety, she ran up to the attic-door, where she could act the part of door-keeper with more comfort and dignity.

At least fifteen minutes before the advertised time for the performance to begin, every one of Dickey's board-seats were filled with a noisy, perspiring crowd of boys, who found considerable amusement in swaying back and forth on the not very secure seats, until one of them would go down with a crash. This seemed to afford the greatest amount of amusement to those who were thus thrown to the floor.

Good Mrs. Green was thoroughly astonished by the amount of patronage bestowed that night; for after she thought that the audience was complete, boys of all sizes continued to pour in, until she had quite a pile of five-cent pieces in her apron, besides the tickets, and nearly one-half of those present were obliged to stand.

Although it was not eight o'clock, the audience suddenly came to the conclusion that it was time for the performance to begin, and they announced that fact by piercing whistles, furious stamping of the feet, and such gentle admonitions to the managers as, "Hurry up, Mopsey," "Give it to us now, Shiner," as well as other phrases betokening extreme familiarity.

The managers of this theatre were not unmindful of the fact that their audience must be obeyed, even if some of the rules were broken, and Ben and Paul were ordered by the author, who had taken upon himself the position of sole manager, to raise the curtain. Then Nelly came out and sang a melody that all were familiar with, being assisted by the audience in the chorus, until Mrs. Green was obliged to cover her ears with her hands, lest the great volume of music should give her a headache.

This portion of the entertainment was greeted with the wildest applause; and when Master Dowd, after Nelly had left the stage, attempted to appear in all the gorgeousness of his costume, he was plainly told to go back and let Nelly sing again—a command which he obeyed at once, lest some of his audience should take it into their heads to force compliance.

After Nelly had sung the second time the applause died away, as if the audience were willing that the regular business of the evening should proceed. All the actors were standing where they could go on to the stage at a moment's notice, save Dickey, who was leaning against the wall, holding his sword straight out, at the imminent peril of hitting some one of his partners as they passed.

"Now be all ready, Dickey," said Mopsey, warningly, as he prepared to go on the stage.

"See here," whispered Johnny, "be kinder careful when you an' I fight, 'cause there's lots of pins in these pants."

Mopsey nodded his head, as much as to say that he would look out for such things, and in another instant he was before the foot-lights, receiving a storm of applause, although he was at a loss to know whether it was directed to him personally, or to the costume he wore. So great was the enthusiasm manifested by his presence that it was some moments before he could speak, and during that time the few lines he knew of the part of Richard the Third had entirely escaped his memory. It was a trying moment both to him and his brother actors, who were watching him, as he stood there with drawn sword, first on one foot and then on the other, waving his hand and then the weapon, as if he were about to speak, and yet making no sound.

"Go on, Mopsey—say something," whispered Ben in a hoarse voice; and the audience hearing him, suggested kindly,

"Yes, give us somethin', old man."

Thus urged, Mopsey made one mighty effort, and shouted in his loudest tones, as he waved the sword still more frantically than ever,

"I've lost my hoss! I've lost my hoss, an' I want some one to tie up my head—but—but—but I'm a match for any feller 'round here, and—and—"

It was not only evident to the audience, but to Mopsey himself, that it was of no use for him to try to remember the words he should have spoken, and he waved his sword frantically for Johnny to come on, hoping to save his good name by the bloody combat, which could be prolonged until their patrons were in good-humor. But just at this moment it was impossible for Johnny to be of any service. He had tried to alter the position of some of the pins in his trousers, so that they would not prick him so badly, and the consequence was that the entire work was undone, while one leg fell down over his foot in a manner that prevented him from stepping, unless at the risk of tumbling flat on his face. Ben did his best to repair the damage, while Mopsey stood waving his sword, whispering very audibly for Johnny not to mind the pins but to come on. Meantime the audience, in the loudest tones, coaxed Johnny to come out and take Mopsey away.

But Ben succeeded finally in getting the ill-costumed Othello arranged so that it was possible for him to walk, and he rushed on to the stage, the gun in one hand and the sword in the other, just as Mopsey was meditating a retreat from the freely-expressed criticism of his audience.

The relief of the author-actor when he saw Othello was greater than could be expressed by words, and he resolved to regain the good opinion of the audience by the ferocity with which he would wage the combat. It is probable that some such thought was expressed in his face when he rushed towards Johnny, for, startled by the furious bearing of his partner, Othello became frightened, and holding both weapons in front of him, he looked ready for instant flight. It seemed as if this very timidity restored to the prototype of the cruel Richard all his assurance, for now, suddenly remembering the words he should have spoken at Johnny's first appearance, he waved his sword still more furiously, and shouted,

"It looks as if there was more than a dozen of this same feller, for I've killed four or five already, an' here's a lot more of him."



Johnny was a trifle alarmed at the words, and looked almost timidly behind him to see if he was really there in several forms, or if it was only a portion of the play, when Mopsey struck his gun so severe a blow with the edge of his sword that it fell from his not over-strong grasp, striking directly on the toes of the blood-thirsty Richard.

There was a howl of pain as Mopsey dropped his sword with a clang, and appeared trying to gather his feet into his arms, where he could nurse them, while this shock of weapons on the frail stage caused such a motion of the foot-lights that two of them fell to the floor, smashing the bottles. The audience in the reserved seats, anxious to prevent any disturbance of the performance, scrambled for the candles, and the two who succeeded in getting them before they were extinguished kindly held them in their hands during the remainder of the scene.

"Don't you know enough to fight when the time comes?" cried Mopsey, who, having given up the useless task of nursing his bruised feet, picked up his sword again and advanced once more upon the timid Othello, who was trying to decide whether he should remain there or run away.

These words had the effect of spurring Johnny on to a more perfect acting of his part, more especially since some of his friends in the audience cried out, in a friendly way, "Go for him, Shiner, an' give him fits."

Then Johnny did "go for" his adversary almost too strongly, for he refused to die as Mopsey had told him he must, but continued to strike out wildly with his sword, hitting Mopsey's weapon a portion of the time, and when he failed in that, coming so near Richard's face that it seemed certain he would slice off one of his ears or his nose.

It was a furious combat, truly, and the audience favored it with the most generous applause, some inciting Mopsey and others Johnny to renewed exertions, until Mrs. Green started up in alarm, fearing that a riot would ensue.

"Why don't you die?" whispered Mopsey, hoarsely, as he panted from exertion, and believed that in justice to the other performers the battle should end.

But Johnny refused positively to die, and it is probable that he would have continued the fight as long as he had strength or breath left, had he not been the victim of his own architectural shortcomings. He, the one who had built the stage, actually forgot the pitfalls in the form of spaces left uncovered because of lack of lumber; and in the excitement and fury of the battle, minding only the shouts of encouragement from the audience, he fell into one of these yawning pits, and Richard had a chance to become himself once more. With head down and heels up, the unfortunate Othello struggled in the prisoning space until every one of the bottle foot-lights had been displaced, and an even dozen of the audience seated themselves on the floor, holding the candles in their hands obligingly. Ben had taken Dickey from his leaning-place against the wall, and brought him to the side from which he was to make his entrance when Richard and Othello had first begun to fight, so that when Johnny fell he rushed on in a sidelong way, in order to present his sword-arm to the conqueror.

King Richard was so entirely exhausted from his long struggle that he had apparently forgotten the course he had marked out for the rest of his company, and was leaning on his sword, gazing at the supposed-to-be-dead Othello, wondering whether he ought to help him to rise or not, when Ben launched Dickey full at him. He had no time to parry the shock, nor Macbeth to check the force with which Ben had sent him, and the consequence was that Richard and Macbeth fell almost directly on top of the struggling Othello with a thud that threatened to rend asunder each particular board of the frail stage.

Mrs. Green uttered a cry of horror as she realized that the cover of her new wash-boiler must have been injured; but that noise, as well as the terrified squeak from Othello, was drowned in the burst of applause that came from the spectators. Mopsey sprang to his feet as quickly as possible, bowing his acknowledgments to the audience as if he had planned the scene, while poor Dickey lay prone upon the almost suffocated Johnny, unable to rise, or even to move so that Othello might extricate himself.

As the audience continued to applaud, Mopsey felt that he was forced to remain before them, bowing, and almost expecting to be deluged with bouquets, and, of course, he was not aware that two members of his company needed his immediate assistance.

"Help Dickey! Why don't you help Dickey?" whispered Ben from the wings, thinking that it would not be seemly in the ghost of Hamlet's father to rush on to the stage before his time. But King Richard paid no attention to this call, if indeed he heard it, and, after waiting some moments, Ben, with his ghostly covering still flung over his arm, was obliged to go to the assistance of the two warriors, thereby causing a fresh burst of applause. He rolled Dickey over and over until Paul could drag him off by the shoulders, and then pulling Johnny out by the feet, he aided him in repairing the damages done to his costume by his descent through the stage.

It was now time that the dead Othello should do his song and dance, and in a very audible whisper he informed Mopsey that he had better get off, and give him the chance. Some of the audience suggested the same thing, and very reluctantly Mopsey left the stage, while Johnny concluded the act in a highly successful manner by a dance that was considerably better executed than was his sword-play.



CHAPTER XI.

THE EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT.

Surely if noise was any proof that the audience was satisfied with the performance given by Mopsey's company, then all must have been highly delighted, for such confusion was probably never heard in that house before as when the curtain fell on the first act of this new edition of Shakespeare's plays. The actors were in a perfect whirl of delight, and all save Dickey showed it by dancing and shaking hands, until there was almost as much confusion behind the curtain as in front.

Mopsey was so delighted at the success that his gigantic brain conceived a startling idea for the entrance of the ghost, which was neither more nor less than for Ben to crouch under the stage, in the very hole where Johnny had come to grief, and at the proper time to rise up in a ghostly fashion, which must surely be very effective. Ben was disposed to object to this hiding under the flooring, more especially since he would be enveloped in the sheet, and would doubtless be uncomfortably warm; but all his objections were overruled by the author and company, and he gave a very unwilling assent to the proposition.

In order that the audience might not be kept waiting until their patience was exhausted, or their good-humor began to evaporate, the curtain was raised as soon as the ghost could be tucked away in his hiding-place, and Paul made his first appearance on any stage. Mopsey had explained to him the part which he was to assume, and in a well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare's works belonging to Mrs. Green he had found the lines which Hamlet is supposed to speak after he sees the ghost. These he had committed to memory, although he had little idea of the meaning of them; and when he came upon the stage he addressed the audience as if in them he saw the ghost of his murdered father.

Now Ben had seen the play of "Hamlet" several times, and he knew enough about it to know that the speech Paul was delivering should be addressed to him. In his anxiety to have the scene played properly, he marred the effect of his own entrance somewhat by popping his head out of the hole and whispering, hoarsely,

"Turn 'round this way, Polly; turn 'round to me."

Paul heard the advice, and he turned his back to the audience. Ben, seeing that his suggestion had been carried out, ducked his head again, very much to Hamlet's perplexity.

Mopsey had stated particularly that as soon as he saw the ghost he must run away in alarm, and yet Ben would persist in keeping out of sight even though he had attracted his attention.

Paul repeated all of the speech he had committed to memory, and then waited for the ghostly visitant. Ben, who had not anticipated that there was so much speaking in Hamlet's part, was rather confused, and did not know whether it was time for him to come out and strike terror to the heart of his supposed son or not.

He popped out his head two or three times, but Paul was not standing in such a position as he fancied would be best suited for the reception of a ghost, and he went back again out of sight, delighting the audience with his agility, and confusing Hamlet.

Paul knew that it was not the proper thing for him to stand there silent, and, fearing lest he might not have said enough, he began to repeat the same speech over again.

Ben realized that it was but a repetition that doomed him still to remain in hiding, and believing it to be a mistake on Paul's part, he whispered, loudly,

"You've said that before; say something else."

Paul was perfectly well aware that he had repeated those words before, and he was doing so for the very good reason that he did not know what else to say; but the ghost's command confused him, and he stood silent and motionless, resolved to remain quiet rather than make a mistake.

By this time Mopsey had discovered that there was something the matter with the two actors who were supposed to be delighting the audience, and he found that it was the ghost who was delaying the progress of the play.

"Come out of there, Ben," he whispered, loudly; and some of the audience hearing him, they called, in pleasant tones,

"Yes, come out, Ben, and show yourself."

Thus urged, the ghost could do no less than make his appearance, and he arose from his place of partial concealment as majestically as he could, considering the fact that the sheet had been caught upon a nail, and he was obliged to stoop two or three times to unfasten it. But he did succeed in rising at last, and then, to make himself look as much like a spectre as possible, he held both arms straight out as he walked slowly down the stage.

It is very likely that he would have made a good impression if it had not been for that portion of his costume that did not properly belong to the character he was assuming. The long ends of tape that he had insisted on allowing to hang down from his ankles persisted in getting under his feet, and he tripped himself up with a force that gave Hamlet a genuine fright. The sheet which covered Ben's head prevented him from rising as quickly as he would have liked, and while he was trying to disengage himself from it, Paul, realizing that he should run away, did so by leaping over the prostrate ghost, to the great delight of the patrons.

The shock of Ben's fall and Paul's leap so shook the frail structure which Johnny had built that the curtain came down with a thud, tearing away from its fastenings above, and the poor ghost was made doubly a prisoner by this additional covering.

"Don't tear it, Ben!" shouted Johnny, fearing lest his artistic labors in the way of the "Wild Indian" would be ruined, and then he and Mopsey sprang on the stage, rescuing the curtain from the frantic clutch of the ghost, and leaving that worthy to get to his feet as best he might.

Of course the audience enjoyed all this highly; and while they hooted and shrieked in the excess of their delight, Ben succeeded in escaping from the rather awkward mantle.

"I can dance, if I don't do the ghost very well!" he shouted, almost angrily, to the noisy audience; and then he began to prove the truth of his words with a force that threatened the immediate destruction of the entire theatrical surroundings.

And the audience seemed to realize that Ben could dance, for they insisted on his continuing that portion of his duties until he was bathed in perspiration, and so tired that he could hardly move.

Of course, now that the curtain had been wrecked, there was no opportunity for dividing the acts, and after the applause which Ben's efforts had produced died away, Mopsey sent Nelly on to sing again. The audience greeted her kindly, as before, and not only insisted on joining in the chorus, but demanded more than she had intended to give. They were evidently determined to get the full value of their money, and, suspecting that she would appear no more that evening, dictated to her such songs as they wanted to hear.

It was of no use for her to refuse, for they insisted upon their demands being complied with so noisily that the performance could not proceed until they were ready. She stood there singing until she was hoarse, while the entire company waited, in battle-array, for the time to come when they should make their last appearance in the great combat.

It was nearly half an hour before Nelly was allowed to go; and as soon as she was clear of the stage the waiting forces rushed on, displaying the most wonderful skill with their swords.

It would not be exactly correct to say that all of the company rushed on, for Dickey made his appearance very carefully. Of course he was obliged to come sideways, and he moved with great caution, lest he should fall down again, thus working more damage to the covers of Mrs. Green's wash-boilers. But he got on with the others, even if he was slower in his movements, and soon was in the very midst of the mimic battle, apparently the most wounded one there, judging from the blows that were rained upon his armor.

The combatants had soon found out that their stage was hardly large enough for the movements of an army of five with such long swords, and that the greatest caution must be used to prevent serious injury to some of them. Therefore, when Mopsey hit a resounding blow on the front-piece of Dickey's armor with the back of his sword, all saw that the din of battle could be represented in that way much better and with less danger than by clashing their swords together.

And thus it happened that poor Dickey found himself in the midst of a blood-thirsty crowd, each one pounding him on the chest or back, while he was unable to parry the attack, save when some one incautiously moved towards his sword-arm. He cried for mercy at the full force of his lungs, while Mrs. Green shouted the same request because of her tin-ware. The audience were equally divided in opinion as to whether Macbeth had been punished enough, and still the blows were delivered with such force and noise that one would have thought an army of tinsmiths were at work.

How long this unequal combat might have gone on it is impossible to say; for when Dickey found that he was likely to have no mercy shown him so long as the audience was so well pleased, he dropped to his knees, and then tried to roll off the stage. Of course, he could roll over no more easily than a turtle, but he had stopped the supposed sanguinary fight, and he was satisfied. Having no one on whom they could wreak their vengeance without considerable danger to themselves, the combatants dispersed, and not until then did Mopsey remember that the very one whom they had been using so roughly was the one upon whom they depended to close the performance.

When the self-elected manager thought of this, he called to Ben to help him set the vanquished Macbeth on his feet, and to get him in dancing condition. It was quite an easy matter to get the tin-encased hero on his feet, but quite another matter to bolster him up so that he could dance. Dickey was wearied with long standing, sore from the effects of the pounding, and so thoroughly cured of his desire to wear an armor, that all he thought of or wanted was to get where he could take off the trappings of war, and become a humble boot-blacking citizen once more. In fact he utterly refused to dance, which would really have been an impossibility, unless he had been relieved from the embarrassment of the boiler covers, and Ben and Johnny went on in a double clog to give a proper finish to the performance.



Inasmuch as there was no curtain, it was found necessary for Mopsey to go forward and announce that the evening's entertainment was finished—an announcement which the audience was not inclined to accept as a fact. They utterly refused to leave their seats, and it was not until Nelly had appeared and sung three more songs that they left the theatre. Then, although they drew some comparisons between that theatre and others which they had attended, which were certainly not very favorable to Mopsey, they departed, apparently very well satisfied that they had received the full worth of their money.

The entertainment had lasted fully two hours, and every one of the performers, but more especially Dickey, was greatly pleased when the last one of the audience passed out of the door. It would be stating it all too mildly to say that Mrs. Green was relieved when they had gone. The good woman had been in a deplorable condition of fear since the time the first hearty applause was raised, and she had been seriously afraid that they would go through the floor of her attic in some of their more vigorous manifestations of pleasure.

Before the last one of their patrons had left the hall Dickey had asked Paul to help him cast aside the uncomfortable costume of Macbeth. When that was done, Master Spry stated most emphatically that if he ever acted again it would be in some part where the use of armor was entirely forbidden.

As a matter of course, the first thing the partners were anxious about, after their patrons had departed, was to know how large their profits were from that evening's excessive labor. Without waiting to change their costumes, save as has been related in the case of Dickey, they gathered around Mrs. Green, who was beginning to recover some of the senses that had been frightened from her. She and Paul counted the money she had in her apron, and the amount was found to be three dollars and five cents. There was already in Treasurer Paul's hands eight dollars and sixty cents, and when it was announced that the evening's performance had netted them the very handsome amount of eleven dollars and sixty-five cents, the joy of the partners showed itself in many extravagant ways.

Ben proposed, and the boys agreed to it willingly, that one dollar of that amount be paid to Mrs. Green for the use of the attic. This being so much more than she had expected, caused her to look upon the theatrical enterprise as a gigantic success.

Then quite a discussion arose as to what should be done with the funds on hand. Mopsey was in favor of making an immediate division; but such a plan was thought by the others to be most unwise. Dickey proposed that a certain sum be set aside as working capital, and the balance divided among them all, including Nelly, of course, since she had contributed in no slight degree to the success of the entertainment.

This appeared satisfactory to the majority of the party, and would probably have been done if Ben, who had taken no part in the discussion, but appeared to be thinking deeply of something, had not said,

"I've got a plan that I reckon you'll all agree to; but I don't want to tell what it is yet awhile. Now I say, let's let Paul keep it till Monday night; it won't spoil if we don't divide it till then."

Since there was no good reason why this request should not be granted, and since Ben seemed so anxious to have it left that way, the rest of the partners agreed quite willingly. Then the tired company of actors crept off to bed, proud in the belief that their venture had been a success, but anxious to rest.



CHAPTER XII.

A GENEROUS ACT.

On Monday morning before they parted, and while Dickey was still their guest, Ben was very mysterious in his actions. He avoided Paul so much that one would have said he suspected the treasurer of having embezzled some of the funds of the concern.

But if any one knowing him had suspected that such was the case, that supposition would have been rejected as soon as a full view had been had of his face. He appeared to be in the most perfect good-humor, but considerably excited. Before he left the house he had succeeded in whispering these same words to Mopsey, Dickey, and Johnny, without having been overheard by Paul:

"Meet me at Nelly's stand 'bout 'leven o'clock, an' don't let Polly know anything about it."

The only one of that party who had not been in the best of spirits during the Sabbath, when Mrs. Green had exacted a due observance of the day by her boarders, was Paul, and he had been very sad. It was the second Sunday that had passed since he had been so unfortunately separated from his parents, and his distress of mind seemed to have increased, instead of being soothed, by time; in fact, as the days passed on, and he still found himself very far from accomplishing his purpose, he began to despair of ever succeeding.

As successful as they had been with their theatrical enterprise, the proceeds were not as large as he had expected; and when he figured out the amount which was each one's share, he realized that it would be very long before he could get from that source money enough to buy his ticket home.

A few days previous to the giving of the entertainment, he had asked at one of the numerous ticket-offices on Broadway how much they would sell him a ticket for, and had been told that he could go for half fare, which would be fourteen dollars—a sum of money which seemed almost a fortune to him. During that day Ben had talked with him about his chances of getting home, what he would do when he got there, and many questions about his relatives, all of which Paul had answered readily, although it added to his distress to speak of such matters.

When Monday came, and the boys started out to attend to their business duties, Paul noticed that there was an evident anxiety on the part of all his companions to avoid him. This pained him more than he would have been willing to admit, and it was with a heavy heart that he went about his work, wondering what he had done to cause any change in their feelings towards him.

As all of that theatrical company had expected, they heard many criticisms on the performance they had given, and it seemed as though all of their patrons bestowed more time on giving them advice for future guidance than on their regular business. Some advised that Saturday evening performances be given each week, assuring the firm of their support during the entire season. Others were so unkind as to advise that a small theatre be built for Mopsey, where he could take all the parts himself, and very many had suggestions to give Dickey as to the kind of armor he should wear the next time he played the part of Macbeth.

Some of this advice Dickey received in a kindly spirit, assuring his friends of his determination never to play a part again that required any such uncomfortable costume; but to others he displayed considerable ill-feeling, and was so unwise as to be angry, when he should have remembered that as the public's servant, in the capacity of an actor, he was obliged to hear their criticisms. But the partners were made happy by knowing that, in the majority of individual cases they heard of, their performance had given satisfaction, and that if they could only get a new play, since they had exhausted all of Shakespeare's in one evening, they might feel assured of considerable patronage again.

Having been told of this at an early hour in the morning, Mopsey set about the task of writing, or thinking of, another play immediately; and it was said by those who watched him closely that he drove away at least four customers that forenoon by his seeming discourtesy, while he was trying to decide how a new play could be arranged.

At eleven o'clock, agreeably to the appointment made by Ben, all the partners, except Paul, met at Mrs. Green's fruit-stand, wondering not a little as to why they had been summoned. Ben was there, almost bursting with importance; and when he found that all, including Mrs. Green and Nelly, were ready to listen to him, he said, as if he were again on the stage:

"I've got a big plan, an' I hope you'll all think jest the same about it that I do. You know how bad Polly feels 'cause he can't git back to his folks, for you see how he moped round yesterday when we was all feelin' so good. Now, I jest come from a place where they sell railroad tickets, an' I found out that a little feller like him can get to Chicager for fourteen dollars."

"It won't be long before he gets that much, if nothin' happens to the theatre," said Mopsey, much as if he had been speaking of a gold-mine.

"Not long!" echoed Ben, almost contemptuously; "it'll take him longer than you think for if he depends on that. I asked him yesterday to figger up an' see how much every one would have after payin' Mother Green, an' he made it a dollar'n seventy cents. Now that's a healthy pile ter go to Chicager on, ain't it?"

"Well, how can he fix it any other way?" asked Dickey, in considerable surprise, not understanding what Ben was trying to get at.

"I'll tell you how we can. We can all turn to, Mother Green an' all, an' give him the whole of the money. Then he won't have to git only a little over two dollars to fix him right, an' I reckon me an' Johnny can fix him out on that."

The partners looked at each other in surprise as this startling proposition of Ben's was understood by them. For some moments no one spoke, and then Dickey said, as if his mind was made up so firmly that it would be impossible for any one to try to change it,

"He can have my share, an' I'll 'gree to put in enough more to make up as much as he's got to have jest as soon as I kin earn it."

"Good for you, Dickey," said Nelly, admiringly, knowing that the ruined merchant's offer meant a great deal, coming at a time when he was almost penniless. "Mother an' I'll put in our share, won't we, mother?"

"Indeed we will," replied Mrs. Green; and before she could say any more Johnny spoke up,

"Of course I'm in for anything Ben is, 'cause he's my partner, an' I'm mighty glad he thought of such a thing."

Mopsey was the only one who appeared to be at all averse to the generous deed, and there seemed to be a great struggle going on in his mind, when he should have been the first to agree to it, since he had more money than all the others save Mrs. Green.

"Shame on you, Mopsey, for not speaking right up, and saying that you'll do as much as the others will," cried Nelly, in great excitement, lest one of the party should frustrate the others in their good work.

"Why don't you give a feller a chance to say what he'll do?" replied Mopsey, angry with himself for having hesitated at such a time. "I'm willin' to come in with the rest, only I want to think it over first."

"Then you'll agree to it, will you?" asked Ben, anxious for the success of his plan.

"Of course I will; didn't I say so?" asked the pea-nut merchant, sulkily.

"Then it's all right," said Ben, joyfully; "an' now let's get what money he's got of ours, in some way so's he won't know what we want it for, an' add enough to it so's to buy the ticket, an' give it to him to-night."

The others, with the possible exception of Mopsey, were eager to complete the good work at once and Mrs. Green was called upon to tell them how much money was needed, and how much each person would be obliged to give. She was not an adept in the art of arithmetic, but after some little time, during which a good many figures were made, she informed them that the total amount needed was two dollars and thirty-five cents, and that as there were six of them, including herself and Nelly, each one would be obliged to give a fraction over thirty-nine cents.

Ben responded at once with forty cents, although he then had but ten cents left, and in a few moments the entire sum was contributed. It was only necessary to get the money which Paul had, and the ticket could be purchased.

It was decided that, since Ben had formed the plan, he should carry it out—a task which he was perfectly willing to perform; and, after promising to let his partners know as soon as he had succeeded, he started off, happy at the thought of being able to give Paul so much pleasure. When he met the boy whom he was eager to make happy once more, he had not been able to form any plan for getting the theatrical funds from him without running the risk of raising his suspicions. But since there was no other course which he could pursue, he said, as innocently as possible,

"I've been talkin' with the other fellers, Paul, an' I want you to let me have the money that come from the theatre. We're thinkin' of doin' somethin' with it, an' when you come home to-night we'll tell you what it is."

Paul had been thinking so much of his home and of his parents, whom he feared he should not see again, that he could have had no idea of Ben's purpose, even though he had spoken more plainly, and he handed him the money without a word.

During the remainder of that day Paul was considerably mystified at the singular behavior of his friends; they indulged in the most wonderful winks and nods to one another whenever they were where he was, and something which Ben showed them from time to time seemed to please them immensely. Whenever he asked the reason for their unusual good-humor, and apparent secrecy about something, he was told that he should know at dinner-time, but not before.

Without having the slightest suspicion as to what his friends had done for him, Paul was so excited by the evident secret which was being kept from him that he was very impatient for the time to come when he could know what it was.

Never before had the boys seemed so anxious to be with him as they were during that afternoon, and he quite forgot their seeming coolness of the morning. One or all of them—excepting Mopsey, of course, who was obliged to remain at his stand in the absence of the boy who sometimes acted as clerk for him—kept near Paul all the day; and when it was time to go to dinner, it seemed as if they were escorting him home.

Once or twice while they were eating dinner some one of the party had said, "Now, Ben, now!" but Ben had shaken his head significantly and continued eating, as if he had no other duty before him.

When the meal was finished, instead of getting up from the table as they were in the habit of doing, each one of Mrs. Green's boarders, as well as herself and Nelly, remained at the table as if waiting for something, and Paul looked at them in the greatest surprise.

"Mister Weston," said Ben, gravely, as he pushed his plate farther on the table, and arose from his seat as if he had a long speech to deliver, "us fellers have seen that you wasn't feelin' very nice at havin' to stay with us, an' we kinder thought you wanted to leave us 'cause things didn't go to suit you."

As he paused for a moment, Paul, who had been in a perfect maze of wonder at this preface to the speech, said, quickly,

"I'm sure things go to please me as much as you can make them; but you mustn't feel angry if I don't want to stay, 'cause you know just how it happened that I came here; an' when I think of my father an' mother an' my sister, I can't—help—feeling—"



Here Paul burst into a flood of tears at the thought that his companions were reproving him for grieving for those whom he loved so dearly, and whom he feared he might never meet again. Ben hesitated at this grief of his friend, and for a moment it seemed as if he could not continue until he had tried to console him; but like one who has a duty to perform, and must do it as quickly as possible, he continued:

"We ain't layin' anything up agin you 'cause you don't want to stay round here, for we don't blame you, seeing how you've got a good home to go to; an' if we had one we should tear round worse'n you do. But all the same, we've seen how you felt about it, an' we've come to the 'clusion that you'd better not stay here any longer."

Paul looked up in fear and surprise, for it certainly seemed as if he was being turned away.

"No," continued Ben, in a loud voice, growing more emphatic the nearer he approached the conclusion of his speech—"we've made up our minds that you've got to go, an' Dickey here's all ready to take your place as one of the boarders. We give a pretty good show Saturday night, an' we got so much money out of it that we've bought this for you so's you can go home."

Ben handed Paul the ticket, which he had opened to full length as he ceased speaking, and it was some moments before the surprised boy could understand it all. But when he realized that now he could go to his friends, if not to his parents, his joy was more than he could control, and from its very excess came the tears in an irresistible torrent.



CHAPTER XIII.

A JOYFUL MEETING.

It is highly probable that one might have searched over New York City that night and not found a happier household than that of Mrs. Green's. Paul was so wonderfully happy in the thought that he was going back to Chicago, where, even though he could not see his parents, he should find relatives and friends, that he could talk of little else. Even the theatre was forgotten by him; for when Mopsey spoke of the necessity of getting another boy to take his place in the dramatic company he hardly gave the matter a thought, except to say that he hoped they would make plenty of money out of it. And Paul's partners were happy, more happy than they could possibly have been by any other outlay of their money; Paul's pleasure reflected on them to such a degree that they became almost as much excited as he was before the evening was over.

Good Mrs. Green alternately laughed and cried, until she seemed to realize that such nervousness was not exactly suitable to the occasion, and then she busied herself by reading one of the papers Ben had brought home.

Master Treat had spent so much time on the good work he had carried through so successfully, and then had paid so much more attention to the boy he was going to surprise than to the sale of his goods, that, instead of helping Johnny as had been his purpose when he took some of his papers to sell, he was a drawback, and the consequence was that Mrs. Green had three evening papers to read, while Messrs. Jones and Treat had been "stuck" just that number.

After she had joined in the general good time over Paul's good-fortune with her daughter and her boarders, and found that she was marring rather than adding to it by her nervousness, she ceased to pay any more attention to what was said by those about her, but became interested in the advertisements of fruit for sale. Suddenly she came across something that seemed to surprise her greatly, for she took off her glasses and wiped them, as though she mistrusted that which she saw was on the glass and not in the paper.

After satisfying herself that she was not the victim of an optical delusion, her face was a remarkable sight, exhibiting as it did surprise and delight alternately. It appeared as if it was difficult for her to speak, for she tried several times before she succeeded in saying,

"Listen to me every one of you, an' if I ain't mistaken Paul will be more glad to hear this than he was to get his ticket. This is what it says in this paper, word for word: 'Paul Weston'—that's in big letters. 'Any one who can give information of Paul Weston, who strayed from an outward-bound steamer on the afternoon of the seventeenth, will receive a handsome reward by calling on the undersigned. Said boy is ten years old, has light hair, blue eyes, nose slightly turned up, and at the time of his disappearance was dressed in dark blue clothes; he would most likely be trying to make his way to Chicago, and any one who has seen such a boy will please communicate at once with Rufus Weston, Fifth Avenue Hotel.' There! what do you think of that?" and Mrs. Green looked around at her circle of listeners, who appeared to have been stricken dumb with astonishment.

"Why, that means me!" exclaimed Paul, suddenly, as if he had thought some one else was spoken of. "And Rufus Weston, that's my father! He didn't go away, after all. And now, somebody, tell me where that hotel is."

As he spoke he had grasped his coat and hat, running from the house at full speed before he even knew which direction he should take. There were none of that party who had a very clear idea of what they were saying or doing just then; but as the most important thing in their minds was to see this father of Paul's, who had come at a time when his son was about to go home without his assistance, each one of the boys started out in the same rapid way, overtaking their more excited companion just as he was stopping to consider which direction he should take.

"This way, Polly!" shouted Ben, waving his hand, and started along as if he were going to a fire.

No one thought of walking, for it seemed as if every moment was precious then, and that they might not find him if they were two or three minutes late. On they ran, at full speed; and when they stood in a row before the clerk of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, they were so breathless that they could not speak distinctly.

"Polly's come to see his father," said Ben, after they had stood there so long that the clerk was about to order one of the porters to turn this quite dirty and very ragged crowd, who appeared to have come there simply to look at him, out-of-doors.

"Who is his father?" asked the man, hardly believing that any guest in that hotel would claim a son from that rather disreputable-looking party, for Paul looked almost as dirty and ragged as the others did.

"His name's Rufus Weston," said Paul, speaking in a low voice, because of the tears that would persist in coming into his eyes, so much afraid was he that his father was no longer there.



Almost every one in the hotel knew Mr. Weston's story, and no sooner did he hear the name than the clerk, calling one of the servants, ordered him to show this odd-looking party to Mr. Weston's room. Paul almost ran ahead of the man in his eagerness to see his father, while the others were inclined to remain quite a distance in the rear, awed by the elegant things they saw around them, and not quite certain as to whether they ought to follow their friend. When, finally, the man stopped before one of the doors, knocked, and Paul rushed into the room, the boys heard a scream of delight, and then they were shut out, as if their companion had forgotten them entirely.

Ranged close to the wall, opposite the door which Paul had entered, wondering whether they ought to go or stay, four boys stood in bewilderment, hardly daring to speak. Porters, servants, and guests passed them with looks of wonder at the motionless line, who appeared to be trying to make themselves as small as possible, so that they should be in no one's way; and each time they were favored with a look of scrutiny or surprise they fancied that they were to be ordered to leave the house at once.

"I guess we'd better go," whispered Dickey, after one of the porters had looked at them unusually hard.

"Yes," replied Mopsey, in an injured tone; "he's got all he can out of us, an' we sha'n't see him agin."

"Now don't you go to tryin' to be a fool, Mopsey Dowd," said Ben, indignantly. "Polly ain't the kind of a feller to forget his chums, an' I'm going to stay here till he comes out, if it ain't till mornin'. S'posen you had a father that had got lost, an' you'd jest found him, wouldn't it be quite a while afore you'd think of such a lot of duffers as we be?"

Mopsey was silent, but not convinced; he shook his head in a knowing way, as if to say that his companions would soon see that he had spoken the truth, and then he tried to push himself farther into the wall in order to occupy less space in the hall. For fully ten minutes the boys stood there, first on one foot and then on the other, like motherless chickens in a rain-storm, and then the turning of the handle of the door caused them to straighten up into what they intended should be careless attitudes, which should say that they had intended to go right away, but had been delayed by the discussion of some important question. It was Paul who came out of the room; and if the boys had had any doubts as to whether they had done right in staying, they were convinced now, for their companion looked around as if he were absolutely certain they would be there.

"Father wants to see you; come in," he said, holding the door open for them to enter.

But they were not disposed to accept the invitation; they had waited to see Paul, not his father, and they had an idea that they should not feel exactly at their ease in there.

"Come in," insisted Paul; "there's no one here but father, and he wants to see all of you."

Mopsey was the first to enter; he had settled it in his mind that they ought to be invited to see Mr. Weston, and he considered it his right to go in because of the money he had contributed towards Paul's ticket to Chicago. The others followed him, but did not appear as confident as he did. Whatever extravagant idea Mopsey may have had as to the way in which they ought to be received by Mr. Weston, he was not disappointed. Paul's father welcomed them in the most cordial manner possible, and had they been his most intimate and esteemed friends they could not have been received more kindly.

Paul had given his father a brief account of his life since the time he learned that the steamer had sailed without him, and he had spoken in the warmest terms of the boys who had befriended him when he was in such bitter trouble. After the boys had entered the room, Mr. Weston explained why it was that he was still in New York City, when it seemed almost certain that he had sailed for Europe.

In a very few moments after the steamer had started from the pier Mrs. Weston had asked him to send Paul to their cabin, she needing his service in some trifling matter; and when Mr. Weston looked around for his son, of course he could not be found. A hasty and vain search was made, and then the boy whom Paul had left behind to acquaint his father of the important business of buying tops that had called him away, told the story which he would probably have told before had he known which one of the many passengers his newly-made friend's father was. Leaving his wife and daughter to continue the journey alone, Mr. Weston had come back with the pilot, and from that day until then he had searched for his son, never once thinking that almost any newsboy in the vicinity of City Hall could have given him full particulars.

Paul had told him of the generosity which his friends had shown in devoting all the theatrical funds, and nearly all of the money they had individually, to the purchase of the ticket to Chicago; and after he had told them how it was that he had remained in the city, he said, as he took the ticket Paul was holding in his hand to give back to his friends,

"I shall keep this ticket, boys, even though Paul will not need it, for we shall sail for Europe in the next steamer. I want it as a reminder of generosity and nobility as shown by four boys, who could not have been censured if they had let the lost boy work his own way back to his home. I shall have it framed, with your names written on it; and when any one asks the meaning of it, I shall tell them that it was bought for my son by four noble boys of New York."

Ben's eyes fairly sparkled with delight as Mr. Weston bestowed this praise, and Mopsey drew himself up at full height, as if the idea of doing the charitable deed had originated with him, instead of his having been opposed to it.