In January, Henry had an interview with Mr. Archer, who went over his books with a fine-tooth comb, and praised him for his accomplishment.
“But it only goes to show how the best intentions in the world can get all twisted up,” said Mr. Archer, gravely. “Here you’ve done what you were supposed to do––you’ve done it better than you were supposed to do it––and then because of that cussed enforcement that neither your uncle nor I ever dreamed about, you’re liable to get punished just as badly as if 184 you’d made a complete failure. It’s a shame, Henry, it’s a downright shame!”
“We’re packing ’em in pretty well,” said Henry. “I figured out that if we sold every seat at every performance we’d collect fourteen hundred a week gross. We’re actually taking in about eight fifty. That’s a local record, but it isn’t good enough.”
“No, you seem to be shy about––three thousand to date. You’ve got to make that up, and hit a still higher average for the next seven months, and I’m blessed if I can see how you’re going to do it.”
“Oh, well, I’ll have the theatre. That’s something.”
“Yes, it’ll bring you a good price. But not a half of what you should have had. One thing, Henry, I wish your uncle could know how you’re taking it. As far as I know, you haven’t swung a golf club or sat a horse for six months, have you?”
“Oh, shucks!... When Uncle John went to a ball game, he always liked to see a man run like fury on a fly ball. Nine times out of ten an outfielder’d catch it and the batter’d get a 185 big hoot from the grand-stand. The other time he’d drop it, and the batter’d take two bases. That’s all I’m doing now. Playing the percentage. And golf takes too much time––even if there weren’t snow on the ground––and stable feed’s so high I can’t afford it. The fool horse would cost more to feed than I do myself.”
“And even if the percentage beats you, you’ve got something you never had before, Henry, and that’s the solid respect of your community. Everybody knows you hated this job. Everybody’s back of you.”
“Up on the farm,” said Henry, thoughtfully. “There was a field-hand with a great line of philosophy. Some of it was sort of crude, but––one day Uncle John was saying something about tough things we all have to do, and this fellow chimed in and said: ‘Yes, sir, every man’s got to skin his own skunk.’”
Mr. Archer smiled and nodded. “Your year won’t have been wasted, Henry. And when it’s over, if you want to get out of the picture business, you’ll find that you can get a dozen first-rate jobs from men who wouldn’t have taken you in as their office-boy a season ago.... 186 Give my love to your wife, Henry, and tell her for me that I’m proud of you.”