“It was a goodly deed, a deed well done. Thy arms are strong, thy hearts are bold. Methinks I see before me two noble youths, fit to have lived in the days of knighthood.”
“You are very complimentary,” smiled Frank, amused at the old man’s quaint way.
The actor took his hand from his bosom and made a deprecating gesture, saying:
“‘Nay, do not think I flatter; for what advancement may I hope from thee?’ I but speak the thoughts my heart bids me speak. I am old, the wreck of a once noble man; yet you did not hesitate to stand by me in my hour of need, even at peril to yourselves. I cannot reward you. I can but offer the thanks of one whose name it may be you have never heard—one whose name to-day, but for himself and his own weakness, might be on the tongues of the people of two continents. Gentlemen, accept the thanks of William Shakespeare Burns.”
“Mr. Burns,” said Frank, “from your words, and your manner, I am led to believe that you are an actor.”
“Nay, nay. Once I trod the boards and interpreted the characters of the immortal bard, for whom I was named. That time is past. I am an actor no longer; I am a ‘has been.’ My day is past, my sun hath set, and night draweth on apace.”
“I thought I could not be mistaken,” said Frank. “We, too, are actors, although not Shakespearian ones.”
“Is this true?” exclaimed the old tragedian. “And I have been befriended by those who wouldst follow the noble art! Brothers, I greet thee! But these are sad, sad days, for the drama hath fallen into a decline. The legitimate is scoffed at, the stage is defiled by the ribald jest, the clownish low-comedy star, the dancing and singing comedian, and vaudeville—ah, me! that we should have fallen into such evil ways. The indecencies now practiced in the name of art and the drama are enough to make the immortal William turn in his grave. Oh, for the good old days! But they are gone—forever gone!”
“It seems strange to meet an actor like you ‘at liberty,’ and so far from the Rialto,” declared Merry.
“I have been touring the country, giving readings,” Burns hastened to explain. “Ah, it is sad, sad! Once I might have packed the largest theater of the metropolis; to-day I am doing well if I bring out a round dozen to listen to my readings at some crossroad schoolhouse in the country. Thus have the mighty fallen!”