“Never mind where I left it. Get it, get it; do you hear! Nell’s on the stage already.” Hart rushed to the door and looked off in an increasing state of excitement.
“Why, you’ve got your dagger on, sir,” hesitatingly suggested the lad, as he caught the gleam of a small scimiter among the folds of Almanzor’s tunic.
Hart’s face flushed.
“Devil take you, boy,” he exclaimed; “you are too stupid ever to make an actor!”
With this speech, the manager strode out of the greenroom toward the stage.
Poor Dick sank back in an attitude of resignation. “How long, O Rome, must I endure this bondage?” he said, sadly.
He again observed his boyish figure in the mirror, and the pretty face brightened as he realized that there might still be hope in life, despite Manager Hart’s assertion that he would never be able to act. His features slowly sank into a set expression of tremendous gloom, such as he thought should characterize his conception of himself as Hamlet when in days to come the mantles of Burbage and of Betterton should be his and Manager Hart must bow to him. He stood transfixed before the glass in a day-dream, forgetful of his ills. His pretty lips moved, and one close by might have heard again, “To be or not to be” in well-modulated phrase.
“Ah, boy; here!”
Dick started.
It was a richly dressed gallant, in old-rose with royal orders, who had entered the room quietly but authoritatively from the street–the same lordly personage we observed in the pit. His manner was that of one accustomed to be obeyed and quickly too. The lad knew him and bowed low.