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

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

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

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

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

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

"What!" exclaimed the veteran, in surprise.

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

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

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

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

"No."

"No rink."

"No."

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

"No."

"Has there been a circus there recently?"

"Never had a circus within miles of it."

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

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

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

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

"Struck oil there, eh?"

"Rich."

"Many wells?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You did."

"How?"

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

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

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

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

"I'm on. Proceed."

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

"Fire away!"

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

"Perfectly."

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

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

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

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

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

"You talk like a reformer!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do they tell the truth?"

"They are credited with doing so."

"Then you can safely bet on my talk."

"Now, then—what about Gotown?"

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

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

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

"Leave that to me."