"There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
—Hamlet.
The sun was making a golden set behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan as the Gem of the Ocean tied up to a wharf in the East River. The cruise was at an end. Taken as a whole, the venture had been successful. Those who embarked in it were once more back in sight of the great city, with lighter hearts and heavier pockets than when they left not quite a month before. All had had an agreeable time, and, what was of more importance, a profitable experience. Anxious ones were awaiting them. The strolling players, contrary to the practice of many of their guild who start out on similar ventures, did not return empty-handed. They had practical results to vouch for and explain their absence. Their endeavors had not resulted in all work and no pay. If they had anxious moments and at times hard work, they had their recompense and earned their reward, and there were homes in which assistance was needed. They were solicitous, too, to hasten to the cherished ones who were waiting to welcome them, for strange as it may appear to the unthinking, the poor players who fret and strut their brief hours upon the stage have homes—homes that they prize beyond aught else and which to many of them are perhaps more dearly prized than is the marble palace by the millionaire. No one knew this better than Handy. He therefore lost no time in bringing his craft into port.
"We can't complain, boys," he exclaimed, "after all is said and done, of our undertaking. Here we are again under the lee of the big city, with money in our pockets and our homes close at hand. You are not sorry you took the chances," he continued, as the company gathered together before separating. "May good fortune always smile upon enterprise."
"Amen!" responded Smith, who regarded that ejaculation as the proper climax to his manager's peroration.
In half an hour the company were all ashore, each member homeward bound, and possibly turning over in his mind the many eventful episodes of the trip preparatory to relating them to those who might question them about the exploit. Stories of this character lose nothing by repetition.
Handy and his fellow-craftsmen had not been home a week when their adventures became the talk of the town, especially among the theatrical fraternity. As usual in somewhat similar cases, every impecunious player became desirous of immediately starting out upon the uncertain sea of theatricals. They reasoned that if a man like Handy could succeed, why could not they also turn the trick? Could they not even improve on his tactics? Of course they could! Were they not, they argued, better actors and had they not more experience as managers? Of course they were, and had! Where Handy had made twenties and fifties, might not they pick up hundreds? Of course there could be no doubt on that score. All this kind of speculation in words, however, ended only in talk. Those who indulged in it were mere theorists—not men of action and active brain like the commander of the Gem of the Ocean expedition, who put into execution his plans after he had well considered them.
When the veteran made his reappearance on the Rialto he looked as if he might be at peace with all mankind. He had nothing worse than a smile, even for his enemies. But then his enemies were few. His proverbial good humor and honesty of purpose disarmed the envious. The influence of kindly smiles and generous impulses go further in this matter-of-fact world than many people are willing to acknowledge. A cheerful and encouraging word frequently helps in the accomplishment of a task which without its influence might fall flat. Handy's dominant quality was his uniform good nature. He rarely looked on the dark side of life. He, no doubt, knew what it meant, but he never paraded his hardships before the world or bored friends or acquaintances with the hard luck of his lot. At times he was blue—what man at odd times is not so?—but at such periods he veiled his heart, face, and feelings and drew the sunshine of a smile between his disappointments and the outside world. With such a disposition success, as a rule, is but a question of time.
When he made his first appearance among his confrères his manner was a study. His face, from constant exposure in the sun, was bronzed and ruddy and his general get up was what his old friend Smith pronounced "regardless." In fact, Handy looked so well he scarcely recognized himself. He generally felt well, but to look the part and feel it is altogether a different proposition. His adventures with his all-star company had been so freely discussed in every haunt where actors most do congregate that inside of a week after the Pleiades returned the frequenters of the Rialto had the story by heart.
The grand comic opera episode at Oyster Bay especially appealed to a number of Handy's admirers. There were several who intimated that he go right in for grand polyglot opera and try and get hold of the Metropolitan Opera House. He smiled knowingly at the suggestion, and furthermore gave his volunteer advisers to understand that, in his estimation, that institution was under the control of much more accomplished fakers than his ambition aimed to reach. Besides, he reasoned, he was not the kind of man to attempt to take the bread and butter away from some other fellow. "My policy," said he, "is to live and let live; and if you cannot get enough people with the long green, as they call it, to at least guarantee the rent for the sake of art, fashion, and display—or as the English song puts it, 'for England, home, and booty'—the next best thing to do is to buy, borrow, or beg a tent and start out and go it alone in the open."
One evening as Handy was on his way homewards he accidentally ran across a friend who, as the saying goes, had seen better days, and who had at various times a widespread acquaintance with the ups and downs of theatrical life. This man's name was Fogg—Philander Fogg. In his way he was as much a character as Handy himself. The ways of each, though, were dissimilar. Fogg was what the Hon. Bardwell Slote would designate as a Q K (curious cuss). He on one occasion distinguished himself as an amateur actor, and barely escaped with his life in New Jersey for attempting to play Othello as a professional. In person he was tall, very slim, very bald, slightly deaf, and as fresh as a daisy. He had a general and miscellaneous acquaintance. His friends liked him because of his inability to see a joke. The consequence was they had many amusing experiences at Fogg's expense. The gossip of the stage he cherished and cultivated. This made him a favorite with a large circle of female acquaintances who go in for all that kind of thing. People living, as it were, on the fringe of society, who lay the flattering unction to their souls that they are living in Bohemia, and they are never so happy as when they are settled in the company of some pseudo-player discussing the drama and ventilating the small talk of the stage.
When Handy encountered Fogg the latter appeared in a hurry. There was nothing new in that, however. No one who had any acquaintance with him knew him to be otherwise. There are such people to be met every day and everywhere. He was a type.
"The very man I was looking for," was his greeting, on meeting Handy. "I want you to help me out. Great scheme! I'll take you in. I'm in a great hurry now to keep an appointment. Important, very important! Where can I meet you to-morrow forenoon? How have you been? Are you up in Beausant—no, Col Damas, I mean? Don't you do anything until you see me! Can you get Smith to——"
"Hold! Enough!" interposed Handy. "Fogg, what do you take me for? A mind reader or a lightning calculator? Now, then, one thing at a time! What's up?"
"I am going to have a testimonial benefit, and I want you to manage the stage and play a part. Do you catch on?"
"Business," answered Handy. "Anything in it, or is it a thank-you job?"
"Why, my boy, there's a cold five hundred plunks in it. Society ladies on the committee. They will dispose of the tickets. One of them wants to act. I've promised to let her try and give her the opening. 'The Lady of Lyons' will be the play, and I will be the Claude."
"Well, Fogg, may the Lord have mercy on the audience—as well as on Melnotte."
"Oh, hold up, old chap. Don't be rough on a fellow. You know very well I have played much more difficult roles. Haven't I played Hamlet?"
"You have, indeed," answered Handy, "and played the devil with him, too."
"This is positively rude," replied Fogg, "and only that I am aware you mean no real unkindness I would feel very much put out. I know you don't really mean it."
"Of course I don't. It was spoken in the way of fun. Now, let me know in what way I can help you and you can count me in. Business is business, old pal, and I know you will do the square thing."
"There's my hand on it. Now I must be off. Meet me at my apartment to-morrow forenoon at eleven and we'll go over the details."
"Count on me. I will be there. So long."
CHAPTER XIII
"Life is mostly froth and bubble;
Two things stand like stone—
Kindness in another's trouble
Courage in your own."
—The Hill.
Next forenoon, promptly at eleven o'clock, Handy was at Fogg's house. A ring at the door-bell was responded to by that gentleman in person. Half a minute later both were settled down in Fogg's Bohemian quarters, which consisted of a small reception-room and still smaller bed-chamber. The reception-room was not luxuriously furnished, but it was by no means shabbily equipped. A piano stood in one corner, a writing-desk placed close to the window, and a well-used Morris chair were the most conspicuous articles of furniture. Photographs in abundance were scattered all around on the walls, and on a table there were enough old playbooks to make a respectable showing in a second-hand book store. The two men had not been seated more than five minutes when the bell at the hall door was rung, and in an instant Fogg was out of his chair and on his feet.
"What's the matter?" inquired Handy.
"I guess," replied Fogg, "that's the committee. They promised to be here at this hour. Excuse me for a moment," and before Handy could say another word Fogg was half-way down the first flight of stairs. The noise of the opening and closing of the street door was heard, and then succeeded a buzz of female voices accompanied by a patter of feet on the stairs. Before Handy had time to prepare to receive visitors, the door opened and Fogg, his face lighted up with the broadest kind of a smile, made his appearance, and ushered in the committee, which consisted of five blooming matrons who were instrumental in talking up and arranging for the proposed complimentary benefit. The ladies were not young; in fact, it was a long time since they had been. But their hearts were juvenile and they themselves were sympathetic and generously inclined. Handy was duly introduced, and then the female philanthropists and lovers of art commenced the business which brought them there, somewhat after this fashion:
"What a unique little snuggery you have here, Mr. Fogg," began one.
"It is so artistic, don't you know, that it is too awfully sweet for anything," replied another.
"Ah! there's one of the best photos I have ever seen of the divine Sarah. Where did you get it, Mr. Fogg?" added a third. "That one of Maude Adams is fair, and that of Mrs. Fiske there in the character of—I forget the name—does not do her justice."
This medley of inconsequential conversation and chatter continued for fully half an hour without one word being spoken on the all-important subject they had presumably been brought together to arrange. They touched on everything theatrical, according to their lights, but that in which their friend was most interested. At length Fogg, in sheer desperation, broke the ice, and in a somewhat hesitating manner explained the way in which he had induced his friend, Mr. Handy, to be present at the conference and give them the benefit of his vast managerial experience and acknowledged histrionic ability in arranging the programme of the proposed complimentary testimonial. Moreover, Mr. Handy had postponed an important engagement in order that he might have the honor of managing the stage at the rehearsals as well as on the evening of the performance.
The ladies were in ecstasies.
"Oh, how charmingly delightful!" ejaculated the most rubicund of the committee. "And so you have finally determined, Mr. Fogg, on 'The Lady of Lyons' for the attraction."
"Yes, ladies, I have. A determination with which I feel satisfied you all will concede. Revivals of well-known successful plays are rapidly coming into fashion, and it is well to keep up with the progress of the times. I might mention a number of old plays managers have in contemplation but as Shakespeare says—I think it was the sweet Bard of Avon that so expressed himself—'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' That is why I have selected Bulwer's great romantic and poetic masterpiece—'The Lady of Lyons.' Besides, ladies, bear in mind it will afford Miss Daisy Daffodil a magnificent opportunity to appear as Pauline, a character, ladies, which has claimed the histrionic talents of many of the bright luminaries of the stage from the days of the glorious Peg Woffington to those of Leslie Carter."
"How well, how touchingly, Mr. Fogg speaks, and what a fund of valuable and truthful information he has entertained us with," said Mrs. Doolittle, the chairman of the committee. "A better selection than 'The Lady of Lyons' could not have been made, and what a splendid opportunity it will be for dear Daisy to show off that light blue watered silk of hers. It is so suitable to her complexion."
"Yes, dear," responded the lady sitting near her, "but will it light up well? I am given to understand that the electric light is most trying on blue. Now, don't you think that——"
"No, I do not, my dear. Pardon me, but I know what you were about to say. You were about to remark that——"
"Ladies," said Mr. Fogg, rising to the occasion and in a polite manner, "will you kindly excuse me when I venture to suggest that the matter of toilet is a thing you can arrange between yourselves and the fair young star, let us proudly hope, that is to be. But as my friend here, Mr. Handy, is a very busy man and his time valuable, might I suggest that we get down to business?"
"Quite right, Mr. Fogg," one of the ladies answered. "Let us amuse ourselves with business."
"How many will the house hold, Mr. Fogg?" inquired Mrs. Doolittle, in a rather authoritative manner, thoroughly in keeping with her exalted position as chairman.
"About eleven hundred," said Fogg.
"Only eleven hundred!" exclaimed the stout lady.
"Altogether too small."
"Certainly it is," continued the weighty one. "The Metropolitan Opera House should have been secured."
"Ladies," interposed Handy, "excuse me for buttin' in, but business is business, and that's the humor of it. Let me tell you, in all frankness, that if you can fill the house, take my word for it, as a man of some experience, you will have reason to congratulate yourselves on a great accomplishment. Bear in mind, ladies, that benefits are benefits, and that the theatre-going public take little or no stock in them. Unless you can rely on your friends coming up to the scratch—pardon me, I mean box office—and before the night of the show, mind you—you stand a good chance of getting it, as the poet touchingly tells us—I don't know what poet—where the chicken got the axe. Them's my sentiments!"
Handy's review of the situation and his matter-of-fact way of placing it before the committee caused some agitation. At length Mrs. Doolittle arose.
"Let me assure you, Mr. Handy, we have hosts of friends, and when they see our names on the programme they will be sure to come. Don't you agree with me, ladies?"
"It would be real mean if they didn't," volunteered the heavyweight lady of the committee. "But I know they will."
"Of course, ladies, you know best," replied Handy, "but my advice is sell all the pasteboards you can before the show, and don't depend any on the public the night of the show, when you intend to pull 'The Lady' off."
Handy's practical admonitions and advice evidently were not appreciated in the spirit in which they were tendered. The ladies' stay after the episode was not prolonged. Mrs. Chairman Doolittle remembered she had an engagement in the shape of a pink tea, and must speed homeward to make a change of dress. The remainder of the committee considered that as their cue for departure, not, however, without reassuring both Messrs. Fogg and Handy that everything would be all right.
Handy and Fogg were once more alone.
"Well," said Fogg, "what do you think of it? A great scheme, eh?"
"What's a great scheme? I pause for a reply!"
"Why, the testimonial benefit, of course!"
"Say, Fogg. Are you right in your head? Is your nut screwed on properly? Is this a joke? The ladies are all serene and mean well—but darn it, man! you don't mean to tell me that you believe there's five hundred in this snap?"
"Why, certainly I do, and more."
"Cents."
"No. Please be serious. Dollars."
"Well, let us get down to cases and figure it out. What'll be your expenses?"
"Oh, 'way down. There's $75 for the house, dirt cheap—the ladies have a pull with the landlord; $65 for the orchestra; stage hands, $15; advertising and printing, $60; flowers, $20; costumes, $11.75; sundries, $10. How much is all that?"
"Let me figure it up. Have you a pencil? Never mind, I have one. Well, that, my friend, foots up $256.75."
"Why, that ain't much."
"No. 'Tain't much for a Vanderbilt, but then, the Vans' ancestors put in some lively hustling in days of yore, and the Vans of the present day are now taking solid comfort and shooting folly as it flies out of the result of the old Commodore's hustling on land and water. An' now let me ask you, have you got the dough to go on with this great scheme of yours?"
"Well, no, I haven't got the dough, as you call it, but I have the tickets, and the committee propose to sell them to their numerous friends. I tell you 'tis a dead-sure thing."
"I notice in your expenses you allow nothing for your company."
"The company have all volunteered. Most of them are amateurs."
"And where does your humble servant come in?"
"Why, I propose to make it all right with you out of my share."
"Ye gods on high Olympus, look down on us in compassion and smile!" spoke Handy in the most tragic voice of which he was capable of employing. "Has it come to pass that a verdant experimentalist like you, Fogg, could intimate to a veteran of my standing that I should take my chances of remuneration from the proceeds of such a quixotic scheme? Go to, Fogg! I love thee, but never more be officer of mine." Then laying aside his serio-comic manner and assuming one that more easily appertained to him, he continued: "Fogg, old pal, I told you that you could count on me to help you out, and you can. I will manage the stage, but skip me on the acting. If the stuff comes in, I know you'll do the square thing. If the receipts are shy, well and good. You'll get left as well as I. Get the old girls to sell all the tickets they can—beforehand. Mind now, beforehand. Depend on nothing from the public for a benefit, and as for the night sale, it won't amount to a paper of pins. I've been there before, old man, and I know of what I speak. Let me tell you—some friends of mine once upon a time got up a benefit for a widow. They gave a good show, had lots of fun, but——"
"But what?" inquired Fogg anxiously.
"Oh, nothing! Only they landed the poor woman fifty dollars or so in debt. That's all."
"Holy Moses!" was all the response that Fogg could make; but he evidently was doing a great deal of thinking. In this state of mind Handy left him.