Bret Winfield was suffering from stage-fright. He had met Vickery in New York and had promised to run down to see his play, and incidentally to square himself with the girl he had frightened. In the generally disheveled state of brains that characterizes a playwright during rehearsal, Vickery had neglected to tell Winfield that the company contained also the man that Winfield had vowed to square himself with.
When, years before at Leroy, Eldon, as the taxicab-driver, had floated Winfield over the footlights, he had worn a red wig and disguising make-up. When Winfield saw him on the stage as a handsome youth perfectly groomed, there was no resemblance. Eldon’s name was on the program, but Winfield was one of those who pay little heed to programs, prefaces, and title-pages. He was one of those who never know the names of the authors, actors, composers, printers, and architects whose work pleases them. They “know what they like,” but they never know who made it.
As he waited to reach Sheila, Winfield noted Eldon standing in a little knot of admirers of his own. He said to Vickery, with that elegance of diction which has always distinguished collegians:
“That lad who played your hero is a great little actor, ’Gene. He’s right there all the time. I’d like to slip it to him.”
Vickery absently led him to Eldon and introduced the two, swallowing both names. The two powerful hands met in a warm clutch that threatened to become a test of grip. Winfield poured out his homage:
“You’re certainly one actor, Mr.—er—er— You’ve got a sad, solemn way of pulling your laughs that made me make a fool of myself.”
“You’re very kind to think so,” said Eldon, overjoyed to get such praise from a man of such weight. And he crushed Winfield’s fingers with a power that enhanced the layman’s respect still further. Winfield crushed back with all his might as he repeated:
“Yes, sir. You’re sure some comedian, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Eldon,” said Eldon.
Winfield’s grip relaxed so unexpectedly that Eldon almost cracked a bone or two before he could check his muscles. Winfield turned white and red in streaks and said: