  When Handy and his pro tem landlord arrived in Weston they discovered the ever-faithful Smith at the station awaiting them. He had been on the look-out for over an hour. As he had nothing in particular to occupy his mind, the railroad station was as interesting a place as any he could find in which to loiter. The evening was not particularly agreeable; Smith, however, did not mind a little thing like that. He could stand it; besides, he was most anxious to meet his manager immediately and ascertain what the future promised from actual and personal observation. He was pleased when the train rolled in and the two advance men alighted. Few words were exchanged between Smith and his principal, but few as they were, he was convinced that the visit to Gotown was satisfactory. The trio reached the hotel in time for a substantial supper. That disposed of, and when the dishes were cleared away, Handy began to unburden himself: "I wish to see the members of the company to-night, Smith, and have a talk with them. We have secured the opening night in a brand-new house next Saturday night—the Gotown Metropolitan Academy of Music. Don't look surprised. It is a fact. The place isn't quite completed yet, and may not be altogether finished when we open it. However, that cuts no ice, for I never in my experience found a newly built theatre to be altogether ready at the time it was announced to open—but the place opened, just the same." "Is it really a new house, Handy?" inquired Smith, somewhat in doubt. "It will be when it is finished." "Have you seen the builder's designs? What kind of a place is it, anyhow?" "Designs be hanged! No. They build without plans in Gotown. The place is growing so almighty fast they have no time to waste preparing plans or designs. The builder thinks them out as he works along." "But there's a hall?" inquired Smith, doubtingly as before. "I told you," replied Handy, a little vexed, "it isn't there yet, but we will find it there when we arrive. Don't you want to risk it, Smith?" "Of course I want to go, but there are some who hesitate." "Who are they?" "I'd sooner you would find it out from themselves." "That's it, eh? Mutineers on board. Well, all I can say is they can fly the coop at once, and take the next train back." At this point a knock was heard at the door and three members of the company entered. "Ah, good-evening, gentlemen!" said Handy blandly. "Be seated." Then in his own peculiar manner he described his visit to Gotown, the kind of a place it was, and the prospects of the proposed venture. They listened attentively to his story. When he informed them that to the company was given the distinguished privilege of opening the new establishment, they signified their willingness to take chances. There was one, however, who showed the white feather. From his manner it was evident he was the one disturbing element in the otherwise harmonious organization. He exhibited his ill-concealed contempt of the scheme by smirks, smiles, and shrugs. He could hardly be considered an actor. His best attempts at acting were bad—at times they reached the limit. Off the stage he was a snob by affiliation and a gossiper by inclination. He drifted into the profession on the tide of his own vanity and continued in the lower ranks through the merit of his complete unfitness to advance a rung higher. There are many of his kind in every calling. "I wish to say one thing right here and now," said Handy, and with firmness. "I want no unwilling volunteers, and I am not offering bounties. This Gotown venture promises well. I told you what I could and would do if things panned out all right, and what I would do, anyhow, no matter how things went. I think from my standpoint the proposition is a fair one. You are the best judges from your point. Anyone who don't wish to go, needn't. That's all." "Well," replied Smith promptly and cheerfully, "I guess if you can stand it, we can; at least I speak for myself." Those present, except the individual indicated, coincided with Smith. "May I inquire," asked the member of the company indicated, "what manner of entertainment you propose to present at this a—a—Gotown place, Mr. Handy?" "Certainly you may," answered Handy calmly. "It will be one in which there is no part for you, sir." "What do you mean?" "Only this: Gotown or no Gotown, you are not in it. I have been studying your actions for some time. As an actor, we can dispense with your services. There is no position in this company for disturbers or gossipers." "I think this is the——" Handy continued, not paying the slightest attention to the speaker's interruption: "The next train leaves at 10:13 for the city—about an hour from now. Your ticket will be given you at the station, and you can leave here. You are no longer a member of this company." This episode, instead of weakening Handy in the estimation of his people, tended rather to strengthen him. It proved that he could wield power when he considered it necessary to do so. Notwithstanding that the departing one was unpopular with his associates, he had managed through insinuating manners and slippery speech to create petty dissensions. After he departed he was voted very much of a bore by those who remained. Handy, on the contrary, did not even once refer to the subject. The act he considered from a purely business standpoint. He had matters on hand of greater moment to engross his attention. All told, his company numbered seven acting members. He had no advance man or press agent. He did not need either. Weston he made business manager—he himself was director in general and actor in particular. So far everything was all right. What puzzled him most was the class of entertainment he had to supply. His company was not such as he considered an adaptable one; it was not such as he had when he made the descent on Newport. The dwarf was not there; neither was Nibsy—both valuable people from a strolling player's standpoint. It is true he had his loyal friend Smith, and Smith could be relied upon for any emergency. With the ability of the remaining members of his troupe he was comparatively unacquainted. In no way disheartened, he determined to do the best he could. A scene from one play and an act from another, with a liberal sprinkling of songs and dances and monologues sandwiched in between the so-called dramatic portions, he concluded, would be as good a bill of fare as he could supply. This, with the assistance of the Handel and Hayden Philharmonic Orchestra, ought to in all reason satisfy Gotown and its audience. "We are not so all-fired badly fixed, after all, Smith, old boy," said Handy, in his customary optimistic manner, as they sat together reviewing the situation. "With seven people we can attempt almost any practical play. We played, you remember, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' with that number. We also got away with 'Monte Cristo' with seven. Of course it wasn't as well done as James O'Neill does it, but that's another question. Let me see! How many did we have when we presented 'Around the World in Eighty Days'?" "Fourteen," quickly responded Smith, "but that included a grand ballet." "Ah, that's so! So it did," said Handy, "but we lost money on that venture. There's nothing in these big companies. Small, compact, but strong utility companies win every time. Charley Frohman will tell you the same thing." "Seven is none too many for our work, Handy." "No. It's about the proper figure. With judicious and intelligent doubling, a good manager might tackle almost anything. Say, Smith, did you ever have a shy at Richmond, in 'Richard III'?" "Well, I should smile," responded Smith, with a delighted expression on his face. "Richmond! one of my best roles. Say! How is this," and immediately he struck a theatrical attitude and began: "Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on without impediment; Gloster, the——'" "Hold! Let up right where you are," interrupted Handy. "I know the rest. Say, Smith, my boy,"—and the manager looked earnestly at the would-be Richmond—"I am going to give you the opportunity of your life." "How's that?" "We will present for the first time only the great fifth act of 'Richard III' out of compliment to the people of Gotown, and you will be the Richmond." "Oh, come off!" answered Smith. "Why, darn it, man! 'Richard' will be all Greek to them—the Gotown public don't know anything about Shakespeare. Maybe never heard tell of him." "But they will know all about him after we introduce him. But that has nothing to do with the case. Now let me enlighten you. I am afraid you don't catch on to the situation. I will explain: Don't you see Richmond's first speech, 'Thus far into the bowels of the land,' is typical of the miner. He makes his living by driving into the bowels of the land, don't he?" "You bet he does, and good money, too," answered Smith enthusiastically. "Into the bowels of the land, or earth, as the case may be, have we marched on without impediment." Handy paused here for a moment to catch his wandering thoughts in order to explain his text. "You see, Smith, Richmond marched on without impediment. So does the miner at first, when he has only to wrestle with the soil, sub-soil, and all that kind of thing. Then comes Gloster, the bloody and devouring boar, typified again by the hard and flinty rock the miner frequently encounters. For a time there's a fierce struggle between Richard, as represented by the rock, and Richmond, as personified by the miner. It's about an even bet as to who wins out. The play all over; don't you see? There's a purty lively scrimmage between the two. 'Tis nip and tuck for a time. At length Richard caves in, and Richmond wins out. So with the miner, the rock resists, then finally yields, and after that the milk and honey of enterprise in the shape of liquid oil flows forth. Am I clear or crude, dear boy?" "Both!" exclaimed Smith, holding up both hands. "Handy, why in the name of heaven were you not born rich instead of great?" "Smith," continued Handy, "you will be the miner, I the rock—Richmond and Richard." "Handy, you ought to print a diagram to explain the act. The audience may not be able to understand it if you don't." "Map of the seat of war, eh?" "Sure." "Smith, did you ever look over a war map in any of the newspapers that had special correspondents on the spot?" "Certainly I did." "And read his description of the scene of action?" "Yes, of course." "And scan the scare headlines, telegraphic accounts of the battle, split up and continued into different parts of the paper?" "Took in the whole shootin' match!" "And after reading all this fine descriptive work did you chance to cast your eagle eye over the editorial columns?" "Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't. Generally I give the editorial comments a rest." "Now, then, let me ask you, after studying the war maps, and the diagrams, and the big heads, and telegraphic dispatches, and our own specials, etc., etc., and so forth, what conclusion did you come to on the subject?" "That there was a big battle fought somewhere in which there were many killed and wounded, perhaps." "Now in a few words you tell the whole story, and you tell it well and without illustrations or diagrams, and without any unnecessary frills by the way of editorials. So will we give the fight to a finish on Bosworth Field without any pictorial work. We'll just give it." "'Tis your idea, then, to give the act simply with the combat without explanation?" "Not exactly in the way you put it." "Say, Handy, an idea strikes me. What do you say to the suggestion of doing the combat scene with two-ounce gloves. A great scheme, eh? Don't you think so? 'Twould be modernizing the piece and bring it down to date." "Shades of Shakespeare, angels and ministers of graces defend us! Smith, Smith, my boy, don't talk tommy-rot! Gloves instead of swords! Go to. Don't you know, my friend, that a glove fight might leave Richmond open to a challenge from some ambitious and undeveloped Gotown pugilist, and then where would we be—I mean you? Oh, no! But I tell you what wouldn't be altogether out of place." "Well, let us hear it." "We might be able to impress some young limb of the law, in the shape of a lawyer, into the service, who no doubt might, after a brief study of Professor John Phinn's vocabulary of Shakespeare, be willing to go on and tell who Richard and Richmond were in their day, and how Richard got the stuffin' knocked out of him because he was crooked and a tyrant and a monopolist. And, moreover, as all lawyers like to show off in the spouting line, when they get the chance, he might say a good word or two for the immortal Bard of Avon. Not that Shakespeare wants it, but merely as an evidence of good faith." "Bully! The more I see of you, Handy, the more convinced I am of your remarkable genius." "Oh, that's all right, Smith. Now, then, let me ask you. Can Daisey De Vere"—the only woman remaining of the company—"sing and dance?" "She has ability and she is willing to stand by us." "Has she the experience?" "Plenty of it, such as it is. And she's anxious for more if she gets the show. Besides, Daisey is a good, straight girl, and these are the kind, I am sorry to say, that have the toughest time in getting ahead, but when one of them gets there it's all smooth sailing afterwards. Yes, Daisey can do anything and everything a decent girl can try to do. You can't faize her. You may put her down for anything to help out. She's been there before." "What kind of a voice has she—a singing voice, I mean?" "That depends." "Depends on what?" "Well, you see, if she is going to sing in girls' duds, she's a contralto; but then, if she has to do her stunt in boys' clothes, she is a female barytone." "Oh, she knows a trick or two," said Handy, smiling. "She must have traveled some." "You bet. She's a traveler for fair. She will go anywhere, and she's at home wherever she lands. She has one trunk in Chicago, another in Cincinnati, a valise in Buffalo, a grip in St. Louis, and other ventures she has in safe-keeping for her elsewhere. Her parents live in Chillicothe. She has a brother in Frisco, an aunt in New Orleans, an Uncle in Boston, an——" "Hold, for pity sake!" interrupted Handy. "Let up! I don't want to have a geographical inventory of the girl's parents, relatives, and personal effects to ascertain what she can do histrionically." "Well," replied Smith, somewhat nettled, "you can make up your mind she has wide experience." "I should say so. With trunks and relatives waiting for her like open dates all over the country in most of the big cities, I guess Gotown won't scare her. There is one point, however, I can put you wise on—she will leave no trunk behind her in Gotown." "You never can tell in advance, Handy; you were always optimistic. Why can't she, if she has a fad in that direction?" "Simply, my friend, because there ain't a hotel in the place, that's why." "What!" cried Smith, in amazement, "no liquor stores in Gotown?" "I didn't say that. I said there were no hotels." "What's the difference? Don't you know there are no saloons in New York now? They are all hotels. The law is strict on that score, and if Gotown is regulated on the same plan and there are no hotels, I'm beginning to have my doubts. Say, old man, this is no prohibition colony you're steering us up against, eh?" Handy looked at Smith in mild surprise and without moving a muscle of his face; but there was a quiet meaning in his eye that spoke more forcibly than mere words. At length he broke the silence. "Smith, I'm afraid you are not well. Get thee to bed. Rest your altogether too active brain. The Pennsylvania air is a little too much for you. I can get along without further assistance. Good-night! See me in the morning." |
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