“A fair robbery!” laughed Barnes, “as Dick Turpin said when he robbed the minister who robbed the king who robbed the people! A happy thought that, turning 74 the helmet into a collection box! It tided us over; it tided us over!”
Saint-Prosper returned the manager’s glance in kind; Barnes’ candor and simplicity were apparent antidotes to the other’s taciturnity and constraint. During the country dance the soldier had remained a passive spectator, displaying little interest in the rustic merry-making or the open glances cast upon him by bonny lasses, burned in the sunlit fields, buxom serving maids, as clean as the pans in the kitchen, and hearty matrons, not averse to frisk and frolic in wholesome rural fashion.
But now, in the face of the manager’s buoyancy at the success of a mere expedient––a hopefulness ill-warranted by his short purse and the long future before him!––the young man’s manner changed from one of indifference to friendliness, if not sympathy, for the over-sanguine custodian of players. Would the helmet, like the wonderful pitcher, replenish itself as fast as it was emptied? Or was it but a make-shift? The manager’s next remark seemed a reply to these queries, denoting that Barnes himself, although temporarily elated, was not oblivious to the precarious character of “free performances,” with voluntary offerings.
“What we need,” continued the manager, “is a temperance drama. With what intemperate eagerness would the people flock to see it! But where is it to be found? Plays don’t grow on bushes, even in this 75 agricultural district. And I have yet to discover any dramatists hereabouts, unless”––jocularly––“you are a Tom Taylor or a Tom Robertson in disguise. Are you sure you have never courted the divine muse? Men of position have frequently been guilty of that folly, sir.”
“But once,” answered the other in the same tone. “At college; a political satire.”
“Was it successful?”
“Quite so––I was expelled for writing it!”
“Well,” retorted Barnes, irrelevantly, “you have at least mildly coquetted with the muse. Besides, I dare say, you have been behind the scenes a good deal. The green room is a fashionable rendezvous. Where are you going? And what––if I may ask––is your business?”
“I am on my way to New Orleans,” said the traveler, after a moment’s hesitation. “My business, fortune-getting. In sugar, tobacco, or indigo-culture!”
“New Orleans!” exclaimed the manager, poising the ladle in mid air. “That, too, is our destination. We have an engagement to play there. Why not join our band? Write or adapt a play for us. Make a temperance drama of your play!”