The meter of the train had hitherto been but a dry, monotonous clickety-click like the rattle bones of a dolorous negro minstrel. Now it was a jig, a wedding jig. The wheels and the rails fairly sang to him time after tune. The amiable hippety-hop fitted itself to any joyful thought that cantered through his heart.
By and by a town came sliding to the windows—Milton, a typical smallish city with a shabby station, a stupid hotel, no history, and no sights; it had reached the gawky age and stopped growing. But Eldon bade it welcome. He liked anybody and any place. He set out for the hotel, swinging his suit-case as if it were the harp of a troubadour. He walked with two or three other men of the company.
Old Jaffer had said: “The Mansion House is the only hotel. It’s three blocks to the right from the station and then two blocks to the left.” Jaffer knew the least bad hotel and just how to find it in hundreds of towns. He was a living gazetteer. “I’ve been to every burg in the country, I think,” he would say, “and I’ve never seen one yet that had anything to see.” The highest praise he could give a place was, “It’s a good hotel town.”
But they were all paradises to Eldon. He had fed so dismally and so sparsely, as a man out of a job, that even the mid-Westem coffee tasted good to him. Besides, to-day he had fed on honey dew and drunk the milk of paradise.
He was so jubilant that he offered to carry the hand-bag of Vincent Tuell, who labored along at his side, groaning. Eldon’s offer offended Tuell, who was just old enough to resent his age. It had already begun to lop dollars off his salary and to cut him out of the line of parts he had once commanded.
Tuell had never reached high—but he had always hoped high. Now he had closed the books of hope. He was on the down grade. His career had not been a peak, but a foot-hill, and he was on the wrong side of that. He received Eldon’s proffer as an accusation of years. He answered with a bitter negative, “No, thank you, damn you!”
Eldon apologized with a laugh. He felt as hilariously contented and sportive as a young pup whom no rebuff can offend. As he strode along he glanced back and saw that Sheila and Mrs. Vining were footing it, too, and carrying such luggage as Pennock could not accommodate. Eldon was amazed. He had supposed that they would ride. He dropped back to Sheila’s elbow and pleaded:
“Won’t you let me take a cab and ride you to the hotel?”
Sheila thanked him No, and Mrs. Vining finished him off:
“Young man, if you’re going to be an actor you must learn to practise small economies—especially in small towns where you gain nothing by extravagance. You never know how short your season may be. The actor who wastes money on cabs in the winter will be borrowing car fare in the summer.”