"Come all ye warm-hearted countrymen, I pray you will draw near."
—Old Song.
"About daybreak we passed through Hell Gate, with a kiting breeze, and were pointing for Whitestone, where we proposed to show the following night. We reached there some time in the forenoon. Fancy our dismay when we learned that North's Circus was billed there the same evening. North had chartered a steamer and was bent on precisely the same lay as we were, with this difference, that he was more thoroughly equipped for the undertaking. As soon as we made this unpleasant discovery our spirits fell to zero and our hearts slipped into our boots. Some of the people were so discouraged that they were in favor of giving up the 'snap' there and then, but the more optimistic ones determined to stick it out, and stick we did.
"Along in the afternoon we saw the North steamer come along with flags flying and a band playing. If we hadn't been on professional business ourselves we possibly might have enjoyed the exhibition. We should have left Whitestone right away, but the wind had died out and there wasn't a capful of air stirring. Some of the members of the company expressed a desire to go ashore, but I objected. I had made up my mind to start with the first breath of wind that sprang up. To profitably employ our time we set to work to fish for our supper. Our larder was not over and above flush, and a few fish would prove quite acceptable. Just about sundown a breeze sprang up, and we took advantage of it. We hoisted anchor and stood up the Sound with every stitch of canvas set and drawing.
"I forget just the name of the next stopping place we reached, but I should judge it was a point opposite, or nearly opposite, to Greenwich or Stamford. We remained on board until about eight o'clock next morning, and then a little party went ashore to reconnoiter. The town proper was only a short distance from the little harbor. Imagine our feelings when we ascertained that North had billed this town also, and was to show there that very night. This was too much for poor, trusting human nature. The opposition show itself we wouldn't have minded, but the colored printing, streamers, and snipes that adorned the fences, barns and hen houses almost paralyzed us.
"In sheer desperation we brought the tent ashore and prepared to tackle fate and the opposition, and trust to luck. We put out no bills, and got ready to make much big noise of the proper kind when the opportune moment arrived. We hired a wagon from an enterprising farmer for our band; then sent complimentary tickets to the dominie to come to see 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' for the familiar old drama, notwithstanding the wear and tear of many years of barn-storming, is still regarded as somewhat of a religious entertainment. We toiled like beavers to work up business for the night. The attraction pitted against us was strong, but what of that? Desperation gave us strength, and we hoped for the best.
"Along in the afternoon as I was about to board the Gem I was astonished to find no appearance of the North circus steamer. It was nigh on to high water, a dead calm prevailed, and the atmosphere was hot and misty. I thought little of it at the time, until I reached the deck. I knew that, allowing a fair margin for delay, a power craft could run up in short order, and an hour or so would be ample time to put up the tent and get everything in readiness for the night's performance.
"While I sat at the head of the companionway meditating over the situation and drawing consolation from a bit of briarwood, the property man hailed me from the shore. I immediately manned the dingy and rowed for the shore to ascertain what was the matter. When I got there he informed me that some of the inhabitants from the interior had got in town to see the show and were anxious to buy reserved seats. I inquired if he had accommodated them. He told me he had not done so, as he had an idea that it was the other show they were looking for. However, he was not certain on that score. For the time being, however, he put them off with the explanation that the ticket register was out of order and the tickets were not yet ready. The family wagons and carryalls were beginning to come in, and by four o'clock or thereabouts the little place presented quite an animated appearance. The prospects for a crowd were good. Every minute I expected to hear the sound of the steamboat's whistle at the point announcing her arrival. It was getting along well in the afternoon when the thought entered my mind, 'Now, if by any chance the steamer should be delayed, what course would I pursue?'
"The more I turned the subject over in my mind the stronger I became impressed with the idea that desperate cases necessitate strenuous remedies. The heat of the afternoon became oppressive, and the haze had become a thick fog over the water. Occasionally it would lift slightly and then settle down more dense than before. Five o'clock came, and still no steamer. About ten minutes later we heard a sound that nearly knocked me out. It was the steamer with the other fellow's show. We heard the blow, but could not get a glimpse of the blowpipe. We could hear, but could not see. We remained on board some time, and then all hands went ashore. The fog still hung over the water and the whistle continued to blow. We resolved to play a desperate game. So long as the fog continued we were all safe, as I felt satisfied the captain of the steamer would not dare venture to run in closer to the shore at that stage of the tide, especially in such a fog.
"We hurried up to the tent and began to sell tickets. Buyers naturally made inquiries, but the ticket-seller economized considerably on the truth in his answers. We paid the farmer for his wagon that had been used by the band one half in cash and the balance in passes. Sharp at eight o'clock we rung the curtain up to a jammed house of the most astonished countrymen, women and children you ever set eyes upon. They did not know what to make of it, but they swallowed it all in the most good-natured manner possible. We introduced bits of 'The Old Homestead,' 'The Two Orphans,' 'Rip Van Winkle,' slices of Shakespeare, Augustus Thomas, George Ade, and other great writers, so you see we were giving them bits of the best living and dead dramatists. Our native Shakespeares do the same thing nowadays in all of their original works, and that's no idle fairy tale. We sandwiched comedy, drama, tragedy, and farce, and interlarded the mixture with Victor Herbert and Oscar Hammerstein's opera comique and May Irwin coon songs. Such a presentation of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' was never before presented, and I am free to confess the chances are never will be again. We actually played the town on the other fellow's paper. It wasn't exactly according to Hoyle, but then any reasonable thinking man will concede that necessity knows no law, and as the country people came to see a show it would have been a grievous sin to have disappointed them.
"It did not take us long to strike tent and hurry on board when the curtain fell on the last act. By this time the fog had lifted. As there was a breeze we made sail and stood out for the open sea. It was near the top of high water as we passed the point, and there we saw the steamer going in. She had run on a sandbar in the fog and was compelled to stay there for high water to get off. That's how the other fellow got left and how we turned his mishap to our advantage."
CHAPTER IV
"Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground....
The wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death."
—Tempest.
By midnight the Gem of the Ocean was well out in the Sound. A stiff breeze was now blowing, and the little craft was footing it at a rapid rate. Handy was now in his native element. He and his company felt that they had turned a clever trick. It was an achievement worthy of the most accomplished barnstormer. The idea of playing the town on the other fellow's paper, ye gods! it was an accomplishment to feel proud of; something to be stored away in the memory; something to be set aside for future use when nights were long and congenial companions were gathered about a cheerful fireside to listen to stories of days gone by.
Supper disposed of, the company were grouped together near the companionway smoking the pipes of peace and anxious to discuss the next managerial move. Handy, of course, was the prime mover in all things—the one man to whom they all looked to pilot them safely through the difficulties they expected to encounter. So far they considered he had made good. He appeared to be in the best of spirits. Seated on an up-turned bucket, drawing meditatively on his well-seasoned briarwood, he looked a perfect picture of content. Not so, however, the "little 'un," as the boys playfully addressed the dwarf. The motion of the vessel did not harmonize with peculiarities of his interior arrangements, and unless the Gem stopped rolling and pitching there was evidently trouble ahead. Matters were approaching a crisis with him. He had little or nothing to say. In fact, he was doing his best, as he afterwards admitted, to keep his spirits up while he manfully struggled to keep material matter down.
"Is it always as rough as this, Handy?" he asked in a plaintive voice.
"Rough as this, eh, my bold buccaneer," responded Handy, cheerily; "rough as this? Why, there's scarcely a whitecap on the water. You ain't going to be seasick, are you? Well, at any rate, if you are, possibly it may be all for the best. 'Twill make a new man of you."
"Maybe he don't want to be made a new man of," suggested the low comedy man.
"Oh, cork up and give us a rest," appealed the Little 'Un, somewhat testily. "I'm all right, only I don't relish the confounded motion of the craft. First she rocks one way, then another, and then again she seems to have the fidgets, and pitches in fits and starts. I don't see any sense in it. Steamboats don't cut up such capers, at least, none of those that I've had any experience with."
"Brace up, my hearty," said Handy, removing the briarwood from his lips. "Brace up. You'll feel all right anon."
"Anon isn't half bad," again jocularly interposed the comedy gentleman.
The wind was gradually freshening. There was by this time quite a sea on, and the Little 'Un was beginning to succumb to the influence of prevailing conditions. A sudden gust struck the Gem, and, yielding to it, the group that was sitting so contentedly a few seconds before about the companionway went rolling in a heap down to leeward in the cockpit. This was altogether too much for the Little 'Un. He picked himself together as well as he could, and doubled over the rail, Handy holding on to his extremities. It was a trying scene for a time, and Handy had the worst of it.
"Steady there, now, old fellow, you'll feel all serene when you give up. There's no danger."
A minute or so later the poor little chap was taken from the rail as limp as a wet rag, and was stretched out on the deck with a coil of rope for a pillow.
"When you get me on a snap of this kind again," he began in a feeble voice, after he had somewhat recovered, "you just let me know. No more water adventures for me. I know when I have had enough. Dry land for mine hereafter."
Handy endeavored to console and cheer him up, but in vain. The poor sufferer was completely used up. He had yielded his gross receipts to Neptune, and would, at that particular moment, have mortgaged his prospects in the future to have been able to set foot on terra firma. With some little difficulty Handy and one of the crew succeeded in getting him below and stowed him away in a bunk.
The wind increased during the night, and by two in the morning it was blowing a half-gale. The Gem was trimmed down to close reefs, and all but the crew and Handy had turned in—but not to sleep. Handy, who was an experienced sailor, remained on deck all night. He was never away from his post. He was as good a sailor as he was bad as a financier. This speaks volumes for his abilities as a mariner.
The night passed over without mishap, and shortly before sunrise the wind gave evidence of going down. There was, however, a high sea running, and though the little craft behaved nobly and was skillfully handled, yet to men unaccustomed to go down to the sea in ships calmer weather would have been acceptable. Daylight dawned at last. Later the sun made his appearance, red and fiery, looking as if annoyed at the capers old Boreas had been cutting up during the night. The wind went down as the sun rose higher, and long before noon all was calm and peaceful. The spirits of the company were restored. As the morning passed jokes and merriment helped to dispel the unpleasant experiences of the storm of the previous night. Handy's good humor was particularly conspicuous, as he had a cheerful word for all. His spirits were as buoyant as the craft that bore his troupers.
At breakfast—or after breakfast, rather—the momentous question rose as to where the next stand should be made. The company had already tested its ability as well as the forbearance of two audiences, and financially, if not artistically, came out fairly well. It is only fair to admit, however, not one individual member of the troupe made what is designated as a personal success. There was now money in the treasury, and plenty of confidence to go with it. The consensus of opinion, however, appeared to be that "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was a little too risky to repeat. It was admitted that Eva was not what might be described as a howling success. Moreover, the boxes that did duty for ice floes were fortunately, or unfortunately, left behind on the golden sands of Long Island. In addition to that, the artist who performed the dog act and who as a barker in Coney Island might be considered clever in a way was now as hoarse as a second-hand trombone from a third-rate pawnshop let out for hire to a broken-down German band. An hundred and one difficulties were interposed against the further presentation of the well-worn old drama. It was finally decided that Uncle Tom should be relieved from duty, for the present at least, and the play and the public given a rest.