The song had just sprung into popularity, and, in a moment, men, women and children had added their voices to the instruments. It was not the thrill of temperance fanaticism that stirred their hearts, but it was 127 the memories of the old pioneer home in the wilderness; the rail-splitting, road-building days; the ancient rites of “raisings” and other neighborly ceremonies; when the farmer cut rye with a cradle, and threshed it out with his flail; when “butter and eggs were pin money” and wheat paid the store-keeper.
“How solemnly they take their amusements in the North, Mr. Barnes!” exclaimed a voice in one of the entrances. “What a contrast to the South––the wicked South!”
The manager turned sharply.
“We are mere servants of the public, Mr. Mauville.”
“And the public is master, Mr. Barnes! How the dramatic muse is whipped around! In Greece, she was a goddess; in Rome, a hussy; in England, a sprightly dame; now, a straight-laced Priscilla. But you have a recruit, I see?”
“You mean Saint-Prosper?”
“Yes, and I can hardly blame him––under the circumstances!” murmured the land baron, at the same time glancing around as though seeking some one.
“Circumstances! What circumstances?” demanded the manager.
“Why, the pleasant company he finds himself in, of course,” said the visitor, easily. “Ah, I see Miss Carew,” he added, his eye immediately lightening, “and must congratulate her on her performance. Cursed dusty hole, isn’t it?” Brushing himself with his handkerchief as he moved away.
“What business has he behind the scenes anyway?” 128 grumbled the manager. “Dusty hole, indeed! Confound his impudence!” But his attention being drawn to the pressing exigencies of a first night, Barnes soon forgot his irritation over this unwarranted intrusion in lowering a drop, hoisting a fly or readjusting a flat to his liking.