"No," Loveland replied; but flushed again, instantly guessing where and in what connection Jacobus must have seen his portrait—a sketch, or some snapshot, perhaps. Evidently the man did not yet associate him with anything in particular, but the connection between the new juvenile lead and a certain Englishman made notorious by one or two New York papers might at any instant link itself in Mr. Jacobus's head. This Loveland was far from desiring: not that he thought his value to the management would be decreased by the discovery—rather the contrary, judging by his experience with Alexander—but because he could not bear to repeat that experience.
Luckily, Jacobus did not pursue the subject, which apparently interested him less than others. When he had described the members of his company according to his own conception of their characters and social status, he went on to tell the new recruit something about the parts he would be required to play. Then it was that Loveland learned the esoteric difference between being a leading man, and a "juvenile lead."
Jack Jacobus was himself, it seemed, leading man for Miss Lillie de Lisle, the Little Human Flower: "Heavy Lead" he called it, but to the Heavy Lead apparently belonged all the really good parts in the company's repertoire. Their productions struck Loveland as being wonderfully good for a strolling troupe, playing week by week in extremely small towns, but Jacobus laughed when he remarked that it must be expensive to obtain the rights of such popular pieces as Sidney Cremer's, for instance, and to put them on the stage properly.
"Properly!" he echoed, grinning. "Well, that depends. Folks here ain't perticular about scenery. They don't travel, and don't have no chance to see anything better than we give 'em. I guess I may as well let you into the secrets of the prison-house, for you're one of us now, and you'll soon find out for yourself, anyhow, what we are, for good and bad. We carry six men in our show, counting me and you, and there ain't many pieces we put on, except Sidney Cremer's comedies, where there's less than a dozen or fifteen male characters, sometimes more. We all double; sometimes each one of us—even me—the leading man, because I ain't proud, and needs must when somebody drives—manages to do two or three small parts besides his own. It takes it out of us, but it's all in the night's work. What characters we can't double we leave out. Same with the women. We carry four of them, counting Lillie herself, and they earn their money. You see, we must bill popular pieces, melodramas and comedies mostly, or we shouldn't get no houses; so we can't choose plays with few characters to please lazy actors. As for the rights to produce—why, we don't trouble ourselves about them, any more than we do about the pasts of our juvenile leading gentlemen. It simply don't run to it. What we want we take. Good motto in this life, eh? There are fellows make their livin' by writin' down the words and biz of successful plays, in shorthand, copyin' 'em out at home, and then sellin' 'em on the sly to poor but honest show folks like us, who must live but can't afford luxuries. It's quite an industry. 'Pirates,' the Puritans call our sort, but it don't kill us—or our business. And as we always work only the smallest towns, which the stage papers don't touch, it ain't as risky as you'd think, though once in a way the police do shove their noses in where nobody wants them, and I confess I'm a bit scared about Sidney Cremer's new piece, which we're just puttin' up. Say, you're lookin' kind o' sick. I hope you ain't one of the Puritans, are you? Don't they have shows of our sort in your country?"
Loveland said he really didn't know; but as he hastened to add he was not a Puritan, and anyhow, Mr. Jacobus's business was his own, that gentleman did not feel called upon to translate into words the thoughts his eyes had begun to express.
Mr. Perceval Gordon, it appeared, was expected to play seven parts, at the least, during the season, and must be "letter-perfect" in the first one by that very night. It was, however, but a small rôle; that of an old man, who conveniently expired at the end of the first act in great agony. It was, the manager explained, a "fat acting part," though there weren't many lines to speak; and—yes, certainly, a juvenile lead was occasionally expected to play old men or, indeed, to do anything he was asked to do; and an amateur like Mr. Gordon might think himself jolly lucky to get varied experience under such stage management as he would find in the Human Flower's company. This particular piece, a melodrama called "The Dead Hand," had been chosen for the closing night of the engagement at Modunk because the part for the juvenile lead wasn't too long or difficult to "get up in" with one rehearsal, which they would have after noon; and indeed the Dead Hand was to be that of Mr. Gordon himself. He would appear as a ghost near the end of the last act, and wave the said hand behind a gauze, with strong lime-light turned upon it; which was the scene which made the part so "fat." Also, incidentally, at a ball, he would be asked to "walk on" as a young gentleman of fashion. Could he waltz? Good! Then he should have Mrs. Jacobus for his partner, as she liked a decent dancer in that scene, where she had experienced considerable trouble with awkward brutes who stepped on her "party dress." Mrs. Jacobus—known professionally as Miss Thora Moon, was—her husband went on to state—Miss de Lisle's leading lady, who played adventuresses, villainesses, and important parts of that ilk, to the Human Flower's soubrettes and ingenues.
"My wife had some money—when I married her," he mentioned, with an introspective look, accompanied by a faint sigh. Thus Loveland was enabled to guess how it was that Mr. Jacobus might have been induced to forget his early penchant for Miss de Lisle, Bill's "little gal."
A bitter wind was blowing, but exercise kept Loveland warm, and he did not envy Jacobus the overcoat, which the actor was obliged to hold together with one cold, red hand (as several buttons were missing) while he frantically seized the brim of his silk hat with the other, each time they turned a corner. At last they came into the town of Modunk, which consisted of one long business thoroughfare, named, of course, Main Street, and various other avenues sacred to the home, branching off from it at right angles and regular intervals.
Main Street was paved with red brick, and most of the residence streets were content with a coating of tar, or else they wallowed in their native mud. The shops, or "stores," as Jacobus called them, appeared depressingly unattractive to Loveland, though they were not inferior to those in villages of the same size in England or Scotland. Millinery, "dry goods," and groceries were sold in the same establishments, and seemed to the uninitiated eye to be hopelessly mixed in some of the show windows. Most of the private houses were built of wood, painted white, brown, grey or pale green. They had outside shutters to the windows, such as Loveland associated with Southern France, and stood surrounded with neat little "yards" fenced off from each other and publicity by painted or whitewashed palings. There were, however, a few more pretentious houses, rising from among less important neighbours, with the air of being mansions. They were of brick, or stone, but Loveland liked the little frame houses best, and was hoping he might be lodged in one of them, when Jacobus stopped in Main Street, in front of an ugly, new building constructed of wood and brick. There was a kind of veranda, above which appeared a large signboard with the words "Smith's Hotel" in green and gold letters.
"Here we are," said Jacobus, sighing as he looked at his mud-encrusted patent leathers. "The whole crowd's here. I'll show you to your room, and by the time you've had a wash, if you want it, dinner'll be ready. I guess you'll be ready for it, too!"