“Nor Othello either,” replied another. “Forest must be worth upwards of a hundred thousand dollars. Do you know whether he has got any money by his wife?”
“I do not,” observed the former; “but Forest is a sensible man, and so I rather think he has.”
“But he must have made a good deal of money in London. Do you know what his engagements were?”
“I have heard different accounts; but he must have made money in this country.”
“How much do you think?”
“Fifty thousand dollars at least; and, now that he has succeeded in England, he will make a great deal more.”
“How much do you suppose he makes to-night?”
“Let us count the boxes, and I will tell you in an instant. Have you got a piece of paper and a lead pencil?”
“I won’t stay here either,” said my friend. “Let us see whether we cannot find a place up stairs. When these fellows once begin to talk about money, they are not likely soon to change their conversation: and, besides, I can only stay another act; I have a particular reason for being early at Mrs. * * *’s.”
I willingly consented to the proposition; and, the first act being over, accompanied my friend to the second tier of boxes. This time we took our seats among a set of people evidently “from the Western country,” from the natural sagacity of whose remarks my friend and I anticipated a great deal of amusement. They seemed to be in the best humour; and, though somewhat noisy, (for they looked upon the theatre with little more deference than upon a public-house, and “upon the fun that’s going on there” in the light of “an election spree,”) enjoyed the play better than the people of fashion who had congregated to endorse the opinion of the British public. I had not, however, much time to listen to them, as I had promised to meet a friend at half-past eight; but the little I heard satisfied me that, much as they liked Forest, they loved Rice more,—the latter being, after all, “the real genuine nigger, the very bringing down of whose foot was worth the price of a ticket.”