So, a day or so later, Frank, Bart and Ephraim were once more in Denver.
CHAPTER VIII.—THE OLD ACTOR’S CHAMPIONS.
Along a street of Denver walked a man whose appearance was such as to attract attention wherever seen. That he had once been an actor could be told at a glance, and that he had essayed great rôles was also apparent. But, alas! it was also evident that the time when this Thespian trod the boards had departed forever, and with that time his glory had vanished.
His ancient silk hat, although carefully brushed, was shabby and grotesque in appearance. His Prince Albert coat, buttoned tight at the waist, and left open at the bosom, was shabby and shining, although it also betokened that, with much effort, he had kept it clean. His trousers bagged at the knees, and there were signs of mannish sewing where two or three rents and breaks had been mended. The legs of the trousers were very small, setting tightly about his thin calves. His shoes were in the worst condition of all. Although they had been carefully blackened and industriously polished, it was plain that they could not hold together much longer. The soles were almost completely worn away, and the uppers were breaking and ripping. The “linen” of this frayed gentleman seemed spotlessly white. His black silk necktie was knotted in a broad bow.
The man’s face was rather striking in appearance. The eyes had once been clear and piercing, the mouth firm and well formed; but there was that about the chin which belied the firmness of the mouth, for this feature showed weakness. The head was broad at the top, with a high, wide brow. The eyes were set so far back beneath the bushy, grayish eyebrows that they seemed like red coals glowing in dark caverns—for red they were and bloodshot. The man’s long hair fell upon the collar of his coat.
And on his face was set the betraying marks of the vice that had wrought his downfall. The bloodshot eyes alone did not reveal it, but the purplish, unhealthy flush of the entire face and neck plainly indicated that the demon drink had fastened its death clutch upon him and dragged him down from the path that led to the consummation of all his hopes and aspirations.
He had been drinking now. His unsteady step told that. He needed the aid of his cane in order to keep on his feet. He slipped, his hat fell off, rolled over and over, dropped into the gutter, and lay there.
The unfortunate man looked round for the hat, but it was some time before he found it. When he did, in attempting to pick it up, he fell over in the gutter and rolled upon it, soiling his clothes. At last, with a great effort, he gathered himself up, and rose unsteadily to his feet with his hat and cane.
“What, ho!” he muttered, thickly. “It seems the world hath grown strangely unsteady, but, perchance, it may be my feet.”
Some boys who had seen him fall shouted and laughed at him. He looked toward them sadly.