Directly opposite the theatre lounging in chairs on the sidewalk was a gang of men, about sixty I should say. They were rather a rough looking lot but I thought they might be human. I suggested we invite them in. Goodi approached them. After a moment they silently slouched out of their chairs and shuffled into the lobby in a body. Here they gathered into little groups and held a consultation. Finally one of them approached Goodi and pulling off his cap asked, "It's all right, guv'nor, but what do we get for our time?"
One other incident of that Australian visit was not so humorous. It happened early in our stay. I had noticed for several days that McClellan was nervous and ill at ease. Finally I asked him to explain.
"Well," he began haltingly, "I guess I've got to tell you. It'll come out soon enough. I'm broke."
"That's all right, George. My guarantee of $1500 a week gives us a profit of $600. And you have the tickets back to San Francisco."
"That's it," wailed McClellan. "I haven't! I haven't even paid for the tickets that brought us over."
"How did you get them then?" I asked.
"I went to Adolph Spreckles," he replied, "and on the strength of your name got him to lend me the money and I signed notes for it. And the first one is due to-morrow."
I felt like pitching him out of the window. The tickets cost almost $9,000! And I was stung for it! That was the end of George B. McClellan so far as I was concerned, at least for many years. (Finally I made it up with him at a supper in London given by the Savage Club to the Lambs.) I never have thought George meant to do wrong. He simply took a gamble and lost out. It was fortunate for the company that it was I who was the goat. Had it not been so most of them would have been stranded in that awful land! As it was I got them all back to San Francisco.
In the previous chapter I referred casually to my becoming engaged to Maxine. It may be well to enlarge a bit. The divorce proceedings instituted by my attorneys against Nella Baker Pease had been quite forgotten by me. It was not until we had been in Australia four weeks that it was called to my attention and then as I have already described. The day it happened had been an especially profitable one for me at the track and I came back to the hotel buoyant and full of good spirits. I remember detached bits of our conversation following the hysterical entrance of Maxine and Gertrude.
"I'll never go back to that beastly country," wailed Maxine. "Just see what they say about you and me," and she thrust an armful of newspapers at me. "Never mind me," I replied. "Think of yourself." And when I discovered that that attempt at consolation was no go I added, "Why, it will all be dead by the time we get back." Maxine was not to be comforted, however. She was sure our arrival in America would result in a fresh outburst of scandal. "Maybe it will," I agreed, "but we haven't done any wrong, any harm, so why should we worry?" Maxine wrung her hands and sobbed. "We know our behavior has been absolutely right," I urged. "We know," said Maxine, "but the world doesn't know." And I confess I could find nothing to say to that. I was rattled. A chicken I had bought on my way home from the track and had put on a spit to roast over my grate fire was a mass of charcoal when I finally discovered it. At dinner I upset a bottle of claret all over the table cloth and spilled a pot of hot tea into Gertrude's lap. It was the most inharmonious meal I ever ate. I was rattled!