"There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are
dreamt of in your philosophy."
--HAMLET.
The sun was making a golden set behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan as
the _Gem of the Ocean_ tied up to a wharf in the East River. The cruise
was at an end. Taken as a whole, the venture had been successful. Those
who embarked in it were once more back in sight of the great city, with
lighter hearts and heavier pockets than when they left not quite a month
before. All had had an agreeable time, and, what was of more importance,
a profitable experience. Anxious ones were awaiting them. The strolling
players, contrary to the practice of many of their guild who start out
on similar ventures, did not return empty-handed. They had practical
results to vouch for and explain their absence. Their endeavors had not
resulted in all work and no pay. If they had anxious moments and at
times hard work, they had their recompense and earned their reward, and
there were homes in which assistance was needed. They were solicitous,
too, to hasten to the cherished ones who were waiting to welcome them,
for strange as it may appear to the unthinking, the poor players who
fret and strut their brief hours upon the stage have homes--homes that
they prize beyond aught else and which to many of them are perhaps more
dearly prized than is the marble palace by the millionaire. No one knew
this better than Handy. He therefore lost no time in bringing his craft
into port.
"We can't complain, boys," he exclaimed, "after all is said and done, of
our undertaking. Here we are again under the lee of the big city, with
money in our pockets and our homes close at hand. You are not sorry you
took the chances," he continued, as the company gathered together before
separating. "May good fortune always smile upon enterprise."
"Amen!" responded Smith, who regarded that ejaculation as the proper
climax to his manager's peroration.
In half an hour the company were all ashore, each member homeward bound,
and possibly turning over in his mind the many eventful episodes of the
trip preparatory to relating them to those who might question them about
the exploit. Stories of this character lose nothing by repetition.
Handy and his fellow-craftsmen had not been home a week when their
adventures became the talk of the town, especially among the theatrical
fraternity. As usual in somewhat similar cases, every impecunious player
became desirous of immediately starting out upon the uncertain sea of
theatricals. They reasoned that if a man like Handy could succeed, why
could not they also turn the trick? Could they not even improve on his
tactics? Of course they could! Were they not, they argued, better actors
and had they not more experience as managers? Of course they were, and
had! Where Handy had made twenties and fifties, might not they pick up
hundreds? Of course there could be no doubt on that score. All this kind
of speculation in words, however, ended only in talk. Those who indulged
in it were mere theorists--not men of action and active brain like the
commander of the _Gem of the Ocean_ expedition, who put into execution
his plans after he had well considered them.
When the veteran made his reappearance on the Rialto he looked as if he
might be at peace with all mankind. He had nothing worse than a smile,
even for his enemies. But then his enemies were few. His proverbial good
humor and honesty of purpose disarmed the envious. The influence of
kindly smiles and generous impulses go further in this matter-of-fact
world than many people are willing to acknowledge. A cheerful and
encouraging word frequently helps in the accomplishment of a task which
without its influence might fall flat. Handy's dominant quality was his
uniform good nature. He rarely looked on the dark side of life. He, no
doubt, knew what it meant, but he never paraded his hardships before the
world or bored friends or acquaintances with the hard luck of his lot.
At times he was blue--what man at odd times is not so?--but at such
periods he veiled his heart, face, and feelings and drew the sunshine of
a smile between his disappointments and the outside world. With such a
disposition success, as a rule, is but a question of time.
When he made his first appearance among his confreres his manner was a
study. His face, from constant exposure in the sun, was bronzed and
ruddy and his general get up was what his old friend Smith pronounced
"regardless." In fact, Handy looked so well he scarcely recognized
himself. He generally felt well, but to look the part and feel it is
altogether a different proposition. His adventures with his all-star
company had been so freely discussed in every haunt where actors most do
congregate that inside of a week after the Pleiades returned the
frequenters of the Rialto had the story by heart.
The grand comic opera episode at Oyster Bay especially appealed to a
number of Handy's admirers. There were several who intimated that he go
right in for grand polyglot opera and try and get hold of the
Metropolitan Opera House. He smiled knowingly at the suggestion, and
furthermore gave his volunteer advisers to understand that, in his
estimation, that institution was under the control of much more
accomplished fakers than his ambition aimed to reach. Besides, he
reasoned, he was not the kind of man to attempt to take the bread and
butter away from some other fellow. "My policy," said he, "is to live
and let live; and if you cannot get enough people with the long green,
as they call it, to at least guarantee the rent for the sake of art,
fashion, and display--or as the English song puts it, 'for England,
home, and booty'--the next best thing to do is to buy, borrow, or beg a
tent and start out and go it alone in the open."
One evening as Handy was on his way homewards he accidentally ran across
a friend who, as the saying goes, had seen better days, and who had at
various times a widespread acquaintance with the ups and downs of
theatrical life. This man's name was Fogg--Philander Fogg. In his way he
was as much a character as Handy himself. The ways of each, though, were
dissimilar. Fogg was what the Hon. Bardwell Slote would designate as a Q
K (curious cuss). He on one occasion distinguished himself as an amateur
actor, and barely escaped with his life in New Jersey for attempting to
play _Othello_ as a professional. In person he was tall, very slim, very
bald, slightly deaf, and as fresh as a daisy. He had a general and
miscellaneous acquaintance. His friends liked him because of his
inability to see a joke. The consequence was they had many amusing
experiences at Fogg's expense. The gossip of the stage he cherished and
cultivated. This made him a favorite with a large circle of female
acquaintances who go in for all that kind of thing. People living, as it
were, on the fringe of society, who lay the flattering unction to their
souls that they are living in Bohemia, and they are never so happy as
when they are settled in the company of some pseudo-player discussing
the drama and ventilating the small talk of the stage.
When Handy encountered Fogg the latter appeared in a hurry. There was
nothing new in that, however. No one who had any acquaintance with him
knew him to be otherwise. There are such people to be met every day and
everywhere. He was a type.
"The very man I was looking for," was his greeting, on meeting Handy. "I
want you to help me out. Great scheme! I'll take you in. I'm in a great
hurry now to keep an appointment. Important, very important! Where can I
meet you to-morrow forenoon? How have you been? Are you up in
Beausant--no, Col Damas, I mean? Don't you do anything until you see me!
Can you get Smith to----"
"Hold! Enough!" interposed Handy. "Fogg, what do you take me for? A mind
reader or a lightning calculator? Now, then, one thing at a time! What's
up?"
"I am going to have a testimonial benefit, and I want you to manage the
stage and play a part. Do you catch on?"
"Business," answered Handy. "Anything in it, or is it a thank-you job?"
"Why, my boy, there's a cold five hundred plunks in it. Society ladies
on the committee. They will dispose of the tickets. One of them wants to
act. I've promised to let her try and give her the opening. 'The Lady of
Lyons' will be the play, and I will be the _Claude_."
"Well, Fogg, may the Lord have mercy on the audience--as well as on
_Melnotte_."
"Oh, hold up, old chap. Don't be rough on a fellow. You know very well I
have played much more difficult roles. Haven't I played _Hamlet_?"
"You have, indeed," answered Handy, "and played the devil with him,
too."
"This is positively rude," replied Fogg, "and only that I am aware you
mean no real unkindness I would feel very much put out. I know you don't
really mean it."
"Of course I don't. It was spoken in the way of fun. Now, let me know in
what way I can help you and you can count me in. Business is business,
old pal, and I know you will do the square thing."
"There's my hand on it. Now I must be off. Meet me at my apartment
to-morrow forenoon at eleven and we'll go over the details."
"Count on me. I will be there. So long."