HOW BABY OBTAINED HER SHARE IN THE STAR DRAMATIC
COMPANY.
Silver Creek could soon boast of its newspaper, of course; and equally
as a matter of course, it could almost as soon boast of its rival
newspaper. It is strange that in communities where one newspaper would
languish, two are almost sure to flourish; and the _Silver Creek
Herald_ and the _Silver Creek Mercury_ were not an exception to the
rule. They led a prosperous and noisy life, and were conducted upon
the usual abusive principles, with great vigour and some ability.
Their establishments were in the High Street, where there were also
sale-rooms, banks, hotels and restaurants, billiard-rooms, clothes and
provision stores, and a store with "Pie-office" written over it. This
was almost as good as the peripatetic vendor of baked potatoes, upon
whose tin can was painted "The Universal Baked Potato Company
(Limited)." The stores drove a roaring trade; flags waved gaily over
them; a continual stream of people was flowing up and down. It was
like a fair. Here were two Chinamen bearing a pole on their shoulders,
in the centre of which dangled, head downwards, a pig at the end of a
rope, with its four feet tied in one knot. (When the Chinaman gets to
Paradise he hopes to eat roast pig for breakfast, dinner, teas and
supper, through all eternity.) Here were half-a-dozen gold-diggers in
great thigh-boots, dragging a jibbing-horse along for their puddling
machine, cracking their whips and leaping here and there in sympathy
with the antics of their wild purchase. Here were American wagons,
with handsome teams of horses, and bullock-drays yoked by patient
long-suffering cattle, the drivers of which were unloading their
stores. Here was a negro, with his gleaming teeth, and his face alight
with humour, badgering a perplexed Mongolian, and a crowd of noisy
gold-diggers around them egging him on and laughing. The negro was
proving by the most absolute and logical of arguments that he had a
perfect right to enjoy the privileges of Silver Creek township, and
that the Mongolian was an interloper--"A foreigner, sah!" and had no
right there at all. The contest was an unequal one. All the sympathies
of the Europeans were with the negro, whose amazing flow of natural
spirits would have borne down far greater obstacles than were
presented in the distressed actions and thin voice of the Mongolian.
It was a peculiar feature of the goldfields that the African was
everywhere welcomed, and the Mongolian everywhere scowled at. Here
was a great dray creaking along, loaded with portions of the first
quartz-reefing machine which Silver Creek could boast of; and all
along the road were men buying boots and clothes, and picks and long
and short-handled shovels, and bars of steel, and powder and fuse,
calling out to one another heartily the while. It was a scene filled
with life and colour.
Among the new arrivals, of whom thousands flocked into the township
every day, were some dozen men and women, who came in dusty and weary
with the toils of the road. They had travelled more than a hundred and
fifty miles, being attracted to Silver Creek township by the news of
its wonderful prosperity. They were a common-enough troop in outward
appearance, and did not look like traders or gold-miners. They had
with them a dray drawn by one horse--a poor weak-kneed creature, to
whom existence seemed to be a burden as he toiled painfully along with
his load behind him. What this load was could not be seen, for the
dray had a tarpaulin over it. Upon the tarpaulin were seated three
women. The first who calls for notice by virtue of her position was a
stately person, probably about thirty-five years of age; her
complexion was dark, and in her face was an expression, which might be
said to be stamped upon it, and which represented all the tragic
passions in little; she bore herself loftily in more senses than one.
Her mind was a storehouse, filled with tragedy queens, intermixed with
heroines of tenderer sentiment--which latter, however, were somewhat
out of place; but you would have roused her to great indignation had
you said so in her hearing. The second, about twenty-three years of
age, was a nice-looking saucy widow, with a pretty baby in her arms.
The third was a beautiful girl, of some eighteen or nineteen summers.
The men, who were all much sunburnt, walked along by the side and in
the rear of the dray, and when they entered High Street, peered
curiously about them, and then at each other, with an air of "This
will do." The eyes of one of the party, the eldest, a man of over
sixty years of age, were expressive of something more than curiosity:
anxiety was plainly there, but presently this vanished, and bright
twinkles took their place. He rubbed his hands joyously, and smiled
upon one and another.
"It looks well," he said.
He was the chief of the party, which was nothing less than a company
of actors and actresses come to open the first theatre at Silver
Creek. Before they started from Melbourne, they had formed themselves
into a joint stock company, and agreed to divide profits in proportion
to their abilities. There were twelve in the party, not reckoning the
baby, and the number of shares were thirty-six. These, after much
anxious discussion and deliberation, and some display of the peacock's
chief attribute, were distributed as follows:--
Shares.
1. Tragedian, light comedian, and stage-manager,
playing the lead in everything. 4½
2. Heavy man. 3
3. First old man. 2½
4. Second old man. 1½
5. First low comedy. 3
6. Second low comedy. 2
7. Walking gentleman and treasurer. 3
8. Supernumerary. 1
9. Juvenile lead and general utility, scene painter,
acting-manager, and general director. 4½
10. Leading lady. 4½
11. First old woman. 3
(_There was no second_.)
12. Chambermaid (who could sing and dance). 2½
These proportions being settled, they jogged along comfortably,
dreaming of full purses; but on the second day the First Old Man drew
attention to the circumstance that although there were thirty-six
shares in the company, only thirty-five had been allotted. The Walking
Gentleman, who, as treasurer, was looked upon as the arithmetician of
the company, and was, therefore, the great authority in figures,
instantly began to reckon up, for the fifty-seventh time, and made
the number of shares thirty-seven: he tried again and made them
thirty-four; tried again, and made them thirty-eight. Then, in
desperation, he said that the First Old Man had "discovered a mare's
nest," and that the figures were right--thirty-six shares in the
company, and thirty-six allotted. Hurt in a tender point, the First
Old Man began again to pencil and reckon, and after achieving a dozen
different results, came back to his original discovery, and stuck to
his guns like a man. Thereupon high words ensued between the Walking
Gentleman and the First Old Man, and the matter was referred to the
arbitration of the other ten, who immediately set to work to settle
the dispute. The results they produced were extraordinary, varying
from seventeen to fifty-two, the highest and the lowest totals being
accomplished by the First Old Woman (who, to prove the general fitness
of things, should have been the First Old Man's wife, but in proof of
the general _un_fitness of things, wasn't) and the singing and dancing
Chambermaid.
"_I_ make it fifty-two," said the First Old Woman, in a despondent
tone, "and what's to become of us, I'm sure I don't know."
She said this in a tone which denoted that the salvation of the
Company was imperilled by this arithmetical crisis.
"Fifty-two!" exclaimed the singing and acting Chambermaid, with a
melodious laugh. "Why, my dear, its only seventeen!"
The matter was so serious, and everybody became so positive, that in a
very short time they were all wrangling and disputing. Nothing was
clear but one thing, that if these actors and actresses were a fair
sample of the profession they represented, then very few actors and
actresses are blessed with a genius for figures.
"This is a bad commencement," frowned the Heavy Man, as was becoming
in him: frowns were his special privilege.
The Supernumerary was the only indifferent person; his being the
lowest share and represented by the simple figure 1, he considered
himself safe. Besides, he was a neophyte, who had fully made up his
mind to rival the elder Kean one of these fine days; he was content,
in the meantime, to wait and suffer. Suffering is the badge of all his
tribe.
Those were most uneasy and perplexed who held fractions of shares,
such as the Tragedian and Stage-manager, and the Leading Lady of the
company.
A happy thought entered the mind of the eldest man of the party, whose
shares, represented by 4½, were set against No. 9, General Utility,
Scene-painter, Acting-manager, etc.
"I have it!" he cried, slapping his thigh with the vigour of a younger
man.
The others looked doubtful, but listened with attention, for he was
one whom they all respected and regarded with affection.
"It is easily arrived at," he continued; "let us take thirty-six
shillings, which will represent the thirty-six shares, and give each
his proportion. Then, if there is no money left, no mistake has been
made."
This proposal was received with laughter and applause, the largest
demonstrations coming from those whose pockets were bare of shillings.
For, truth to tell, these heroes and heroines of the sock and buskin
were impecunious. This circumstance is not uncommon; the condition is
almost chronic in the Profession.
"Contributions!" cried the Acting-manager, pulling out of his own
pocket no fewer than seventeen shillings: a very Cr[oe]sus he.
Others gave timidly, hesitatingly, grudgingly, doubtfully, for the
risk was not small. The Heavy Man had nothing to give; the Second Old
Man the same contribution; the Supernumerary the same. The Treasurer,
as became a "Walking Gentleman," was light of heart as he was of
pocket; he looked forward with hope, rich argosies were before him.
The First Old Woman produced a plethoric purse, which proved, however,
to be stuffed, not with bank notes, but with critical notes of her
abilities as the first of First Old Women. She managed to get together
a sixpence and two fourpenny-pieces, which she handed to the
Acting-manager, asking for twopence change. He gave her the demanded
twopence, and was haunted by visions of future complications. The
Leading Lady assumed an air of scornful indifference. The Leading
Tragedian contributed three shillings, the whole of his wealth. The
First Old Man produced four shillings, saying, "I give thee all--I can
no more," but he had money concealed. "Who steals my purse, steals
trash," observed the Low-Comedy Man, tossing a bad shilling to the
Acting-manager. In due time the full complement of thirty-six
shillings, representing thirty-six shares, lay in the Acting-manager's
palm. He apportioned them to the cry of "The Ghost walks!" Four and
sixpence to the Acting-manager, three shillings to the Heavy Man, and
so on and so on, until each had received his share. Then he found he
had a shilling left, and by this primitive arithmetic the First Old
Man was proved to be right.
The next thing to be accomplished was the difficult task of collecting
and re-distributing the shillings which had been advanced. This
occasioned some comically-distressing scenes. The responsibility fell
upon the Acting-manager, who had advanced seventeen shillings. When
everybody was satisfied, he had only fourteen shillings left (a bad
one among them which they all repudiated) which he pocketed with a
grimace, amid general laughter.
Then,
"What's to be done with the other share?" was asked.
It never occurred to these Bohemians that the matter might rest
where it was, and that the company could be carried on as well with
thirty-five shares as thirty-six.
"O! I'll take it," said First Low-Comedy, "rather than it should cause
disturbances."
"Will you?" from other throats. "But I'll take it!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
It threatened to become a bone of desperate contention.
Another happy thought occurred to the Acting-manager. Again he slapped
his thigh.
"I have it!" he cried. "Give it to the baby."
"Bravo!" cried the other ten; the mother remained silent. "Bravo! Give
it to the baby!"
"Agreed!" sang the First Low-Comedy Man, in the character of one of
"Macbeth's" witches.
"Agreed!" sang the Second Low-Comedy Man, in the character of another
of "Macbeth's" witches.
And,
"Agreed!" they all broke out in full chorus.
Then they filled the woods with the music from "Macbeth," and danced
round an imaginary cauldron.
Thus the baby became a shareholder.
It was not the worst of small comedies this that was played in the
Australian woods on a blazing summer's day in January. Many passions
and emotions were represented in it in a small way. The curtain falls
down as the mother tosses her baby in the air, and as the child is
passed from one to another to be kissed.
If in response to the general applause, which I hope will not be
wanting, the curtain is drawn aside again, the weak-kneed horse will
be seen shambling leisurely along, and the Heavy Man will be taking
great strides in advance of the others, with the baby on his
shoulders, crowing and laughing and flourishing her dimpled fists in
the air.