"Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time."
--MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Within two weeks the preliminaries for the testimonial were arranged,
the night appointed, and the tickets in circulation. The company, as
intimated, was made up principally of amateurs. As they were to receive
no remuneration for their valuable services they received about five
tickets each free to sell or dispose of as they would among their
friends. Through some unaccountable oversight, they neglected to
specially mark or punch these complimentaries. This oversight led to
serious embarrassment subsequently. The demand for tickets increased as
the date for the performance approached, but none of the applicants
appeared anxious to part with money in return for them.
Strange as it may appear, there is a class of people--and a very large
and numerous class, too, and one not confined to any particular locality
or special grade of society--that will willingly spend double the price
of admission for seats in one way or other for the sake of having the
reputation of being on the free list of a theatre. This statement is not
an exaggerated one. Had Mr. Fogg decided to manage the business details
of his entertainment and suspended the free list, as he should have
done, he might have fared better; but who can tell what the future has
in store for any of us?
It was with considerable difficulty the rent was raised, and that
difficulty being overcome, everything looked bright to the sanguine
Fogg, who was really a most optimistic individual, and rarely lost
heart.
At length the night of the great event arrived. All day Fogg had been as
busy as a bee. He had been to see the costumer, perruquier, leader of
orchestra, etc., and enjoined each of them to be on hand early. Handy,
always prompt and businesslike, was on the stage at seven o'clock. A few
minutes later Fogg himself appeared, almost exhausted with the onerous
duties of outside management, but for all that as cheerful and as
confident as any man of his peculiar temperament could be. One by one
the different members of the company appeared, and by half-past seven
there was the usual commotion and excitement behind the scenes always
attendant on an amateur entertainment. All the members of the committee
were on hand to encourage Mr. Fogg and congratulate him in advance on
the prospects of a grand success. Handy, perceiving that the time for
the rising of the curtain was approaching, crossed over to where Fogg
was engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Chairman Doolittle, and
suggested to that gentleman that it was getting near the time to ring in
the orchestra, and that he had better go to his dressing-room and
complete his make-up.
"All right," said Fogg. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Doolittle. Mr. Handy, I
will now leave charge of the stage to you. Ring in the orchestra at
eight o'clock sharp. I'll be ready."
"Correct," replied the stage manager. He then proceeded to take a survey
of the front of the house through the peep-hole in the drop curtain. The
house was filling up nicely, but, as Handy subsequently remarked, the
audience had a peculiar look that did not recommend itself to the
veteran's practiced eye.
"How it is?" inquired someone at Handy's elbow. On his turning about he
found it was his old friend Smith, of the _Gem of the Ocean_.
"Hello, old pal! Well, I don't know how to size it up. There's a fair
crowd, and if it is all money it's a good house. But it doesn't look to
me like a money house. The people in the audience appear to be too well
acquainted. They act as if they came to a picnic."
"Can you blame them?" replied Smith, who had a very low estimate of
amateur actors.
"I guess I'll ring in the spielers. Time's up." Suiting the action to
the word, he pressed the button. A few seconds later and a German
professor with blond hair of a musical cut approached the prompt stand.
"Ees dot Meister Vogue somewheres about here, I don't know?" he
inquired.
"In his dressing-room," curtly answered Handy.
"Ees dot so? Veil, then, I am Professor Funkenstein, und mein men der
money want before dot overture."
"You're in a large-sized hurry, ain't you?" replied the stage manager.
"Can't you hold on until the show is over? What's the matter with you?
Don't you see the house we have?"
"Mein freund, dot's all right. But mein men der money wants. Don't dink
I'm a fool because I'm a German man. I my money wants, too."
"Mr. Handy, why don't you ring in the orchestra?" spoke Fogg, who had
just come from his dressing-room made-up for _Claude Melnotte_. Catching
sight of the leader, he exclaimed: "What's the matter, Professor?"
"The matter is, Meister Vogue, mein men der money wants before they goes
out. Dot's vot's der matter!"
For a moment Fogg gazed at the orchestra leader in surprise, and then
indignantly declared: "This is simply outrageous! What do you take me
for, sir?" Then turning to his stage manager: "Mr. Handy, have you got a
slip of paper, in order that I may give this man an order on the box
office? How much is your bill? Ah, yes, I remember--seventy-five
dollars. Here, take this and go and get your money at the box office,"
as he handed the order to the professor, who instantly made a hasty
retreat through the nearest exit leading into the front of the house,
Fogg disappearing at the same time in the direction of his
dressing-room, to add the finishing touches to his make-up.
By this time it was nearly twenty minutes past eight o'clock, and the
audience had already begun to manifest indications of impatience.
"Handy," whispered Smith, "I'm glad I came. If I am not greatly mistaken
there will be a lively time here to-night. Mark what I'm telling you."
Just then another individual approached the stage manager and inquired
for Mr. Fogg. He introduced himself as Mr. Draper, the costumer, and he
was anxious to see the star of the evening, to "put up," as he expressed
himself, for the costumes before the curtain went up. At this stage of
the proceedings Fogg, now fully dressed for the gardener's son,
appeared. He was immediately buttonholed by the costumer for the amount
of his bill.
"After the performance, when we count up, my dear Mr. Draper," pleaded
Fogg, in his most insinuating way.
"After nothing. Now, now!" emphatically declared Draper. "What do you
take me for? I'm no sardine. You pay now, or by chowder! you can play
'The Lady of Lyons' in your shirt tails! You promised me the stuff in
the afternoon."
The audience by this time had become restless and somewhat
demonstrative. To add to the complications, Professor Funkenstein
reappeared in a most excited frame of mind. He had been to the box
office, but the bill-poster had anticipated him, and had threatened to
clean out the ranch if he didn't get his money. The treasurer, who was
an amateur, settled immediately with the knight of the pastepot to save
the house from destruction. After the box office man had settled with
the bill-poster there was only $5.25 in the drawer. That was at once
secured by the florist in part payment on account of flowers that were
to be presented to _Pauline_. The florist had been given the tip by the
bill-sticker, and he got the balance of the cash on hand by also
threatening to inaugurate the cleaning-out process.
The uproar in the front of the house increased. The stamping of feet,
the beating of canes on the floor, and the catcalls in the gallery made
terrific disturbance.
"You're a sweendler, Meister Vogue!" exclaimed the excited orchestra
leader.
"I'll make it all right with you in the morning, sir," replied Fogg
indignantly, "and I wouldn't have your contemptible Dutch band to play
for me now under any circumstances. Please call the people for the first
act, Mr. Handy. I'll show you. We'll play the piece without your music."
"And you'll play it without costumes, too," interposed Mr. Draper,
"unless I get my money."
"An' begor, yez'll play it wid only sky borders and wings, iv I'm goin'
to get left," yelled the stage carpenter. "Murphy, run off thim flats."
By this time poor Fogg was nearly out of his mind. Surrounded by a
number of excited creditors behind the curtain, and frightened by an
uproarious, turbulent, and noisy audience in front, the unfortunate
fellow recognized in his bewildered condition that he would have to go
before the curtain and dismiss the public. But what explanation could he
offer? His friends were there to witness his humiliation. He wrung his
hands in despair, wished he had never been born, and mentally resolved
never again to accept the tender of a benefit. Handy watched him
intently, and in his heart felt genuine sorrow for the sad predicament
in which the poor fellow had placed himself. Touching Smith on the
shoulder, he walked back on the stage, his friend following him.
"Smith, this is a hard case. It makes me feel sad, and we must manage
somehow or other to get the unfortunate devil out of the hole. This is
the worst ever. Do as I tell you, but be careful and let no one get on
to you. You noticed that small bottle of red ink on the prompt stand.
Get it quietly, and let no one see what you are at. Be very careful. We
must devise some way of pulling him through. It's a big risk, but I'll
take it. That's all. Go now and take your cue from me."
Things were growing from bad to worse on the stage, and the commotion
and disorder in front of the curtain were increasing. Handy moved down
among the excited crowd that surrounded Fogg, and got close to him.
Smith, after exchanging a knowing glance with Handy, also edged his way
into the group.
"Great Heavens! Fogg, my dear fellow!" suddenly exclaimed Handy, seizing
him in an alarmed manner, "are you ill? What's the matter?" Then in a
hasty whisper he said: "Act now, d----n you! if you never acted before.
Go off in a fit, drop and leave the rest to me."
"Oh, nothing, nothing!" replied Fogg, with a strange stare. Then looking
wildly about him, he uttered a weird scream and fell in a heap on the
stage. In an instant Handy was on his knees beside him. So was Smith,
and before any one could realize the situation, the bottle of red ink in
his hand had dexterously performed its office over the mouth of the
prostrate actor.
Bending over him, Handy whispered: "Keep still! and act out your fit and
I'll pull you through." Then addressing those about him, he said: "Will
some one of you gentlemen kindly fetch a glass of ice water and a little
brandy? This is a bad case, I'm afraid. A serious affair. Send for a
carriage. He must be removed to his house at once and a doctor called
in. Poor fellow, the strain was too much for him. Ah, and by the way,
will one of the gentlemen be good enough to go out in front of the
curtain and explain to the audience the sad mishap which has befallen
our esteemed friend? Please break it mildly in the announcement. The
chances are it won't prove fatal, but I'm no doctor, so my say don't go
for much. Poor old chap!"
It was not without difficulty that the man who volunteered to quell the
storm in front could get a hearing from the audience. At last he
succeeded, and after he explained the suddenness and severity of the
attack, the storm subsided and the people went quietly out.
On the stage poor Fogg lay stretched out, Handy supporting his head. He
was a sight. His mouth was liberally marked with Smith's home-made
blood, for the carmine had been generously though dexterously employed.
Everyone expressed sympathy for him. Handy, with the assistance of
Smith, succeeded in getting him to his feet and managed to get him to
the stage door in his _Melnotte_ garb. Mrs. Doolittle's carriage was
outside waiting, and he was assisted into it. As Handy was about to
follow, Fogg leaned over and whispered in his ear: "For the Lord sake,
Handy, bring my street clothes from the dressing-room, or I'll never be
able to leave the house." Handy pressed his hand, Smith went after the
clothes, and the three then drove to Fogg's home, and the carriage
returned to the theatre for the lady chairman.
"Well," said Handy, when within the safety of the star's quarters, "I've
played many parts in my varied career, but this one is the limit. It
beats the deck. Fogg, you will have to keep the house for a week, at
least; then go and rusticate for another week, but above all things, for
heaven's sake don't recover too hastily!"
"Oh, bless my soul!" remarked Fogg, as he surveyed himself in the
mirror, "you have ruined Draper's _Melnotte_ blouse. What the blazes did
you inundate me with that confounded red stuff for?"
Handy looked at him seriously for a minute, and then replied: "There's
gratitude for you. Ah! well, it's the way of the world all over. Help a
man to get out of a scrape, and do you think he will appreciate your
meritorious act? Not even a little bit, and the chances are he will
begin to find fault with your manner of saving him. Darn it, man! that
fiddler, costumer, and stage carpenter would never have swallowed an
ordinary, common garden, every-day fit, but when they saw the gore, the
blood-red gore, they caved-in. It was a demonstration in red, and it did
the work. And now, then, when you are going to have your next
testimonial you can get someone else to manage your fits. Come, Smith.
Good-night, Fogg!"