He started out with dramatic gesture,—
“‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air—
On air—air—’”
Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen countenance.
When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it would reflect upon the troupe.”
That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two shillings.
He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the principle he objected to; it appeared penurious.
Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect.
Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in all directions.