The old actor shook his head.
“It cannot be,” he sadly said. “I am no comedian. I could not play the part.”
“If you will but dress as you are, if you will add a little that is fantastic to your natural acting, you can play the part. It is that of a would-be tragedian—a Shakespearian actor.”
“Worse and worse!” moaned the old man. “You would have me burlesque myself! Out upon you!”
“I will pay you thirty-five dollars a week and railroad expenses. How can you do better?”
“Thirty-fi——”
The old actor gasped for breath. He seemed unable for some moments to speak. It was plain that the sum seemed like a small fortune to him. At last his dignity and his old nature reasserted itself.
“Young man,” he said, “dost know what thou hast done? I—I am William Shakespeare Burns! A paltry thirty-five per week! Bah! Go to!”
“Well, I’ll make it forty, and I can get a hundred good men for that at this time of the season.”
The aged Thespian bowed his head. Slowly he spoke, again quoting: