"You are right. This money must be returned. I cannot take it," and Fogg too became thoughtful.
For the first time the evil of the fraud which had been perpetrated became forcibly evident to both men. One genuine act of kindness had stripped deceit of its covering more effectively than the logic of a hundred sermons.
"Perhaps the next experience," said Handy, still in a reflective mood, "will be the appearance of that tough stage carpenter who threatened to compel you to describe the beauties of your palace by Lake Como with sky borders and wings, with a supply of delicacies from his humble home, or maybe a contribution in cash exceeding the sum you agreed to pay him for his labor, in order that he might show his kindly disposition to assist when misfortune overtook you."
Both were visibly affected. The deception they practiced, though it brought a certain temporary relief from an embarrassing situation, also carried with it its own punishment. For a time they remained silent.
"Handy," began Fogg, "if the thing had been real and resulted fatally, I verily believe that old man Funkenstein would have volunteered to furnish the music for my funeral, and not have charged my friends a red cent."
"Sure! And what's more," replied Handy, the humorous side appealing to his fancy, "let me tell you, as a dead one you would have drawn a darn'd sight bigger house than you ever can as a live actor."
Notwithstanding his troubles, Fogg appreciated the humorous sally of his associate. He threw himself back on his bed and enjoyed a hearty laugh. Handy permitted him to enjoy his merriment and then reminded him that although to the outer world he was on the blink, so far as prosperity was concerned, the enforced inaction of the sick-room would never bridge over the difficulties that encompassed him. He reminded Fogg that he was financially dead broke. It is true he was in the great city, the mecca toward which all strolling players turn their eyes as well as their toes when they are in financial straits, but the fact of being in the metropolis was not sufficient. It was necessary to set about doing something.
"Let me tell you, Fogg, that thinking without action to back it up cuts no ice. Never did—never will. You may think until doomsday and accomplish nothing. I will point a moral without ornamenting a tale, by relating an experience I once had when I was out West some time ago with a company and got stranded, and if you will loan me your ear I will a tale unfold. What say you?"
"Proceed."
"First let me dispose of a quiet pipeful of tobacco to collect my scattered thoughts and I will unbosom myself."