“Awfully sorry, old man, about this show of yours. I wish we could have helped you. I’d love to myself, only the committee won’t let me. Beastly nuisance I call it, a man isn’t his own master any longer. Awfully sorry, old man.”
By the time the tenth member had expressed a similar regret, Milton Hayes began to wonder whether the committee was a blind force, with a will independent of its component parts. He was naturally gratified to receive so many sympathetic condolences, but they did not materially assist him in his task of finding a company to produce his libretto. However, he beat the by-ways and hedges, and finally amassed a nondescript community, which for want of a better name he called the “Buckshees.”
The company numbered thirty-two, and was supported by voluntary contribution. The “Pows” and the “Shivers” had drawn within their folds the pick of the vocalists and humorists; two dramatic societies had gleaned after them. The remaining stubble was a sorry sight, and as an insignificant member of that distinguished caste, I must confess that I viewed the first mustering of the “Buckshees” with an eye of profound misgiving. All of them were strangers to one another; and though it is easy to talk of flowers “that blow unseen,” in a community such as a prison camp one is usually aware pretty early of those whom the Fates have endowed with talents. There had been little selection. Affairs had taken a course something like this. Hayes had been walking across the square when he had been accosted by a total stranger.
“I say, Hayes,” he would say, “you are getting up a show or something, aren’t you?”
“Well, that’s what I really came up for.”
“Done any acting?”
“Oh, not much, you know, a few charades.”
“Well, what do you fancy?”
“Low comedy.”