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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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