In the evening I drove a drunken man to his home, four miles on the North Side, and when I helped him out in front of his door, he tried to hold me, to tell me that I was his friend, but I broke loose from him, and almost furiously I drove to the theatre. I had not time to go to the stable; I hired a boy to look after my horse, and hastened to buy a balcony ticket. The night was warm for the time of the year, but a threat of rain was in the air, and I was afraid that the house would be small, but the people kept sprinkling in, and I stood in a corner to watch them, uneasy and annoyed whenever anyone passed along, without even looking in toward the box office. The orchestra began with Dixie, and my blood tingled as I went up the stairs. Viewed from my seat, the lower part of the house appeared to be well filled and the balcony was crowded. I had not taken account of those who had gone in before I arrived. No program had been given to me and I was almost afraid to ask for one. I did not permit myself to speculate upon my misfortune, an outcast sneaking in to see his own play; I did not muse upon fate; I sat there with my pulse beating fast. But I did indulge the comfort of the thought that should the play prove a failure no one could discover the humiliation of the author.
The music ceased, the curtain went up, my heart leaped, and the soft beauty of the scene brought tears to my eyes. Could I believe it, there were Culpepper and Miss Hatch, their mouths full of "The Elephant's" words. A droll line, and the people laughed; a sentiment, and they applauded. So the ice was broken. The curtain went down with generous applause. Culpepper and Miss Hatch were called out; but I could hardly see them, for the foolish tears in my eyes. I knew that the acts to come were better and my heart swelled with the thought. There were many faults, of course, but good humor and enthusiasm do not hunt for flaws, and I laughed and cried and yearned to grasp the hand of a friend.
"What do you think of it?" I asked of a rough man who sat beside me.
"Great," he answered.
"Would you mind shaking hands with me?"
"I don't know you," he replied, "but I'm a good ways from home, and we'll call it a go. Put her there."
He thrust forth his hand. I grasped it and pressed it hard—the first I had touched in sentiment for many a day; and I was loth to let it go, but he was forbearing. "Shake again whenever you want to," he said. "A man that cries at a putty thing ain't a bad feller."
At the end of the third act there was a roar for the author, and at that moment I felt almost willing to risk my neck to thank those generous hearts.
It was over—and the great organ lifted its voice in triumph as the audience arose. But if I strode out with the tread of a conqueror, it was not unmixed with a sorrowful limp, the halting walk of one who sees the black word "bitterness" written upon the bright banner of his victory. A cold rain was falling. I stood against the wall to catch the echo of my achievement, the "good," "enjoyed it so much," "beautiful," of the hastening throng. The loud cab-calls ceased, and I stepped forward to drive my vehicle to the stable, when, glancing back, I saw something that almost wrung a cry from my heart. Beneath the awning stood the Senator and his daughter. I ran to my cab, threw money to the boy, seized the horse by the bridle, led him to the curb in front of the Senator, and bowing under the glistening drip I said, "Cab, Sir?"
"Yes, I think so," he replied. "We haven't far to go, just around yonder to the Great Northern Hotel. Let me help you in, Florence. I reckon they are right in saying that this place has about the worst climate in the world."