The tent was convulsed with laughter and merriment had full swing. It was indeed a most remarkable performance, and the best of good nature prevailed. At the moment when the hilarity was at its height a commotion was heard outside of the tent. The band, or a portion of it, burst forth once more in the street with the most discordant sounds mortal ears ever heard. This brought the performance on the stage to a close.
"I would never have been able to get them out of the tent," explained Handy afterwards, "only for my letting the band—that is, the worst portion of it—loose on the outside."
To make a long story short, as the saying goes, the poor players cleared over three hundred dollars by the night's show, while the distinguished artists who gave grand opera in homeopathic doses in another end of the town sang to almost empty benches. Handy told no untruth when he announced on the bills that "those who witnessed the performance will never forget it."
Years have rolled by since this company of poor strolling players attempted "Humpty Dumpty" in Newport, but the memory of that night still remains green in the minds of many.
CHAPTER VII
"He employs his fancy in his narrative and keeps his recollections for his wit."
—Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
A more delightful morning than that which followed the night of the strollers' eventful performance it would be difficult to imagine. It was the Sabbath, and the spirit of peace seemed to exercise its influence all around. The sun shone brightly; a gentle breeze diffused its cooling power, and the surface of the water was calm and placid. The graceful yachts riding at anchor were decked as daintily in their gay bunting as village maidens celebrating a fête. There was little of active life afloat or ashore. Those on board the pleasure craft presented an appearance different from that which characterized their movements the days previous. It was, indeed, a day of rest.
Among the fleet of pleasure craft lay the Gem of the Ocean. She was not a comely craft; her sides were weather-beaten, and her general appearance homely and unprepossessing; but the same waters that bore the others bore her. In her homeliness she presented a strange contrast to her surroundings. In the composition of those who were her occupants there was still greater difference. The men who trod the decks of the yachts were seekers after the pleasures of life, while those on board the Gem were engaged in the hard struggle to win bread for the loved ones who were miles and miles removed—living in want, perhaps, yet hoping for the best and for what expectancy would realize. The one set comprised the lucky ones of fortune—the butterflies of fashion; the other the strugglers for life—the vagabonds of fate. Yet these vagabonds had homes and mothers, wives and children, to whom the rough, sun-browned, coarsely clad men of the Gem of the Ocean were their all, their world, and on the exertion of whose hands and brain they depended for food, raiment, and shelter. These poor strolling players had homes,—humble, it is true,—but still they were homes, which they loved for the sake of the dear ones harbored there.