“Hanged if I will!” exclaimed the manager. Then he put out his hand impulsively. “I beg your pardon. If I had known––but if we’re ever out of this mess, I may give a better account of my stewardship.”
Nevertheless, his plight now was comparable to that of the strollers of old, hunted by beadles from towns and villages, and classed as gypsies, vagabonds and professed itinerants by the constables. He was no better served than the mummers, clowns, jugglers, and petty chapmen who, wandering abroad, were deemed rogues and sturdy beggars. Yet no king’s censor could have found aught “unchaste, seditious or unmete” 197 in Barnes’ plays; no cause for frays or quarrels, arising from pieces given in the old inn-yards; no immoral matter, “whatsoever any light and fantastical head listeth to invent or devise;” no riotous actors of rollicking interludes, to be named in common with fencers, bearwards and vagrants.
“Better give it up, Mr. Barnes,” said a remarkably sweet and sympathetic voice, as the manager was standing in the hotel office, turning the situation over and over in his mind.
Barnes, looking around quickly to see who had read his inmost thoughts, met the firm glance of his antagonist.
“Mr. Gough, it is an honor to meet one of your talents,” replied the manager, “but”––with an attempt to hide his concern––“I shall not be sorry, if we do not meet again.”
“An inhospitable wish!” answered the speaker, fixing his luminous eyes upon the manager. “However, we shall probably see each other frequently.”
“The Fates forbid, sir!” said Barnes, earnestly. “If you’ll tell me your route, we’ll––go the other way!”
“It won’t do, Mr. Barnes! The devil and the flesh must be fairly fought. ‘Where thou goest’––You know the scriptural saying?”
“You’ll follow us!” exclaimed the manager with sudden consternation.
The other nodded.