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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand."

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

"Please explain yourself."

"I'll do my plainest!"

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

"I don't know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A traveling man—a drummer, eh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And is there no other place?"

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

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

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

"What's the matter now?"

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

"The what?"

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

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

"Can't be did," said Handy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Inside and outside?"

"Yes. Both. Complete."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A stage—do yez main an omnibus?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You mean it, eh?" asked Weston.

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

"Next Saturday night?" inquired Myles.

"Sure."

"It's payday, too."

"So it is," said McGowan cheerily.

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

"I should say I did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Myles, what is it?"

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

"Be tickled to death over it."

"An' the childer—what about thim?"

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

"D'ye think so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that a go, Myles?"

"There's me hand on it."

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

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

"Sure, Myles."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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