“I was going to the village myself,” said the soldier, 49 “and will join you, if you don’t mind?” he added suddenly.
“Mind? Not a bit. Come along, and you shall learn of the duties of manager, bill-poster, press-agent and license-procurer.”
An hour or so later found the two walking down the road at a brisk pace, soon leaving the tavern behind them and beginning to descend a hill that commanded a view to eastward.
“How do you advertise your performances?” asked the younger man, opening the conversation.
“By posters, written announcements in the taverns, or a notice in the country paper, if we happen along just before it goes to press,” answered Barnes. “In the old times we had the boy and the bell.”
“The boy and the bell?”
“Yes,” assented Barnes, a retrospective smile overspreading his good-natured face; “when I was a lad in Devonshire the manager announced the performance in the town market-place. I rang a cow-bell to attract attention and he talked to the people: Ding-a-ling!––‘Good people, to-night will be given “Love in a Wood”;’ ding-a-long!––‘to-morrow night, “The Beaux’ Strategem‘”;’ ding!––‘Wednesday, “The Provoked Wife”;’ ling!––‘Thursday, ”The Way of the World.”’ So I made my début in a noisy part and have since played no rôle more effectively than that of the small boy with the big bell. Incidentally, I had to clean the lamps and fetch small beer to the leading lady, which duties were perfunctorily performed. My art, however, 50 I threw into the bell,” concluded the manager with a laugh.
“Do you find many theaters hereabouts?” asked the other, thoughtfully.
Barnes shook his head. “No; although there are plenty of them upon the Atlantic and Southern circuits. Still we can usually rent a hall, erect a stage and construct tiers of seats. Even a barn at a pinch makes an acceptable temple of art. But our principal difficulty is procuring licenses to perform.”
“You have to get permission to play?”