I am not an imposter that proclaim
Myself against the level of my aim.
--ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
After Handy returned to the hotel, having parted with his "angel" and
his star at the station, the first man he met was his landlord, a
somewhat smart and shrewd, speculative individual, who was not adverse
at odd times to trying to turn an honest penny by occasional incursions
into the alluring and fascinating domain of speculation. He had a
weakness for the theatre, the race-track, the stock market, the trotting
circuit, etc. He was willing, when the opportunity presented itself, to
put a trifle into any of these hazards by way of a flyer, as he termed
it, provided he thought he saw a chance to make a little something on
the side. He had already made a small stake on stocks, secured a fair
return from an investment in oil, and came out about even on the
race-track. Up to this time, however, he had never indulged in the
luxury of a theatrical venture, notwithstanding the hankering he had at
times to dabble in that direction. As soon as he saw Handy he called him
aside and began a little preliminary skirmishing, and in a roundabout
way started in to lay bare the strenuous thoughts that were agitating
his mind. He opened up the subject by inquiring when the company
proposed to go back.
"On the 2.30 train," answered Handy, not knowing or caring whether there
was a train at that particular hour or not. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I was just thinking"--and the landlord spoke with measured
care--"I was just thinking, as I said, that perhaps you and I might be
able to arrange some kind of a deal to give a show at Gotown, make a
stake, and whack up on the profits. What do you say?"
"Gotown! Gotown!" replied Handy. "Never heard of it. No, I guess not.
You see, times are pretty brisk now; good people are in demand, and if
we remain away from the city for any length of time some of the company
might lose the opportunity of a steady engagement for the season. No, I
can't take the risk."
Handy was anxious, nevertheless, to make the venture, and he felt
satisfied the company would stick by him.
"There's money in it for the two of us," urged mine host of the inn.
"The outlay will not be much, and the profits will be all ours to split
up. It will be the first show that was ever given in the place!"
"What!" exclaimed the veteran, in surprise.
"It will be the first show ever given in the town."
"You take my breath away. Say, you don't mean to tell me there is one
town in the United States that has escaped the showman?"
"Yes. Gotown has, an' I'll gamble on it," said the landlord.
"Stay! There must be some kind of a rink there?"
"No."
"No rink."
"No."
"A museum, then--moving-pictures snap?"
"No."
"Has there been a circus there recently?"
"Never had a circus within miles of it."
Handy seemed puzzled. He looked at the landlord, and his face bore a
quizzical expression as he said: "Say, mister, what in thunder kind of a
place is this Gotown, anyway--a cemetery?"
The landlord laughed, Handy wondered, and neither spoke for some time.
It perplexed the veteran to reconcile with his mind the fact that there
happened to be hid away, a town in the United States that had not yet
been tapped by the industrious and ubiquitous showman. Reflection,
however, might have convinced him that it was not such an extraordinary
circumstance, after all. In this glorious and growing country cities and
towns spring up in an unprecedentedly brief period through the magic
influence of intelligence and industry. The discovery of some product
that for ages has laid sealed up in the secret laboratories of nature in
a little time has transformed the seeming sterility of a wilderness into
the productiveness of a cultivated garden. The labor of brains and
hands, preceding the employment of energy and capital, breaks the
silence of time and makes way for the music of practical development.
Active brain and toiling hands had won from mother earth rich stores and
transformed the apparent barrenness of the ground convenient to where
Gotown sprang up into the nucleus of a flourishing city. Someone had
struck oil.
"Is it a cemetery? you ask," said the landlord, after he had enjoyed
Handy's amusing inquiry. "A cemetery, eh? Well, all I can say is that
you'll find in Gotown the liveliest lot of ghosts you ever tackled in
your life, if you visit the place. Gotown, a cemetery! Well, I'll be
darned if that ain't the best I've heard in a blue moon!" and again he
started in laughing. "Why, bless your soul, man, no one has had time to
die there yet. Not on your life! Gotown will be Petroleum City before it
gets out of its knickerbockers, or I'm a Dutchman."
Handy opened his eyes in surprise. The actual situation flashed suddenly
on him.
"Struck oil there, eh?"
"Rich."
"Many wells?"
"Let me see! There's the Anna Held, the Billy Brady, the Bob Hilliard,
the Peerless One, the Teddy on the Spot, the----"
"Oh, never mind the names. Skip them. Oil wells by any old names smell
just the same. How many of them?"
"Ten, fifteen--maybe double that. Can't exactly tell. They are boring
all the time and striking it rich."
"'Nuff sed. And you tell me they never had a show there?"
"Why, darn it, man! the town was only christened about a year ago."
"Then we'll confirm it and open its gates to the histrionic industry of
the country. I'll have a talk with the company. But we will have to
arrange about some printing."
The gleam that illumined the landlord's face at the mention of printing
was a study. Handy was somewhat mystified, and he was still more
surprised when the landlord, with a knowing look--a look all landlords
seems to hold a patent on--bent over and said: "Leave that to me, and
you'll be satisfied. We'll get the winter's supplies out of this snap.
Come, let's have something." With this hospitable suggestion, both men
made a flank movement in the direction of the cafe.
"Now, then," began Handy, "did I understand you to say you could fix the
printing?"
"You did."
"How?"
"Well, I will put you wise in that direction. Will you smoke? All right.
Now, then, light up an' we'll take a comfortable seat by the stove."
"Lead on, Macbeth, and--well, you know the rest of it."
Drawing up a couple of well-seasoned chairs, they both settled down for
a practical business talk.
"I have," said the landlord, "in the storeroom a stack of printing. I
came by it in this way. There was a show out here about a year ago. The
company got stranded; could go no further, and, to make a long story
short, when the troupe started to walk home the printing remained
behind. Exhibit No. 1."
"I'm on. Proceed."
"Let me further elucidate. I had a partner who at one time was in the
bill-posting profession--it is a profession now, isn't it?" Handy
smiled. "Well, he had a bit of money--not a great deal, and he invested
in the line of publicity. Well, he was called away suddenly. He didn't
exactly die--but that's of no consequence, and his assets dropped into
my hands for safe-keeping. Among the valuables was a lot of
miscellaneous printing of all kinds, plain and colored--and of all sorts
and sizes--a dandy assortment. Exhibit No. 2."
"Fire away!"
"Furthermore, old Phineas Pressman, the town printer here, owes me a
bill. It isn't much, but little as it is I can't squeeze a red cent of
ready money out of him, and I see no earthly way of getting square with
him only by giving him an order for whatever new printing stuff we may
require, and in that way change the balance of trade in my direction.
Exhibit No. 3. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly."
"But you don't seem to enthuse over the prospects."
"No," answered Handy calmly. "No, I'm no enthuser. I was just turning
over in my mind your proposition. As I have not seen your paper, how it
would suit, I can't imagine what it looks like."
"What in thunder has that got to do with the case? Paper is paper,
printing is printing, and pictures are pictures, ain't they?"
"Quite correct, my friend. But you must bear in mind that they might not
fit any show that the company could do itself credit in."
"Stuff and nonsense! You make me slightly weary," replied the landlord.
"Suppose it don't--what then? If the printing don't suit the play or the
entertainment, what's the matter with the entertainment being made to
fit in and suit the printing? Don't they all do it? What do you think
printers and lithographers butt in and become theatrical managers for?
For the sake and love of art, eh? Rot! You know as well as I do that
this pictorial work you see stuck up all around hardly ever represents
the thing they give on the stage and to see which the theatre-going
public puts up its good coin to enjoy. Why, bless my soul, Mr. Handy,
there's hardly a show on the road to-day that don't lay its managers
liable to arraignment for obtaining money under false pretenses by the
brilliancy of the printing and the stupidity and poverty of the
performance."
"You talk like a reformer!"
"Reformers be hanged! I was about to tell you that some time ago there
was a movement on foot in one or two of the Western States to secure the
passage of a legal measure compelling showmen to actually present on the
stage what their pictorial work on the dead walls and billboards
promised. If the shows now going the rounds were half as good as their
printing, they'd be works of art."
"Say, boss!" remarked Handy admiringly, "you have the real Simon pure
theatrical managerial instinct in you, you have. You haven't always been
in the hotel business?"
"Nix, I had at one time the candy privilege with a circus, and I had to
keep my eyes open, I tell you."
"Shake, old man," as Handy extended his hand. "When you began talking
printing I knew you were on to the racket and understood something about
the theatrical biz. Why, you're one of us. You belong to the profesh."
"Oh, give us a rest with your nonsense! What are you chinning about? I
am just a plain, common, every-day innkeeper."
"Suppose you are. Let it go at that, and let me tell you times are
advancing. We live in a great age--a progressive and changeable age.
There was a time when theatres and theatrical companies were managed or
directed by men who were actors, or had been actors, or by men who had a
love for the business, and had some particular talent or fitness for the
trade; but nowadays all that is changed, and all sorts of chaps have
butted in for the sake of what's in it for them. It is not, let me tell
you, an unusual thing to find the druggist of yesterday, or the
commercial drummer, or newspaper man of the week previous, become the
impresario of an opera troupe or the manager of a playhouse the
following week. This is a most changeable as well as progressive and
strenuous age."
"You speak like a philosopher, Mr. Handy."
"Do they tell the truth?"
"They are credited with doing so."
"Then you can safely bet on my talk."
"Now, then--what about Gotown?"
"I'm with you. We'll tackle Gotown on miscellaneous paper. There's my
hand on it."
That afternoon Handy and the landlord started for the scene of
operations, to look the place over. Before going, Handy had an interview
with the members of the company, unfolded his plans to them, and drew a
flattering picture of the prospects of success. A few of them hesitated
and decided to go home, but enough remained to enable the veteran to
carry out his scheme. To Smith was entrusted the duty of ascertaining
the strong points of the individual members of the troupe and finding in
what particular line their talents would show to the best advantage.
"Try them in song and dance," were Handy's instructions to his
lieutenant, "and all that kind of thing. We will have to fake this show
in red-hot style. We are not going to play to any Metropolitan Opera
House, Dan Frohman, or Dave Belasco audience. Don't forget, old man, we
are going into a mining district where we will have the first go at it.
Quantity not quality must be our motto. Remember, above all things,
Smith, that the corned beef and cabbage of the menu will be more
acceptable for a starter than the roast beef and plum pudding of
dramatic art. Take your cue from the great far West. The young towns out
there have all gone through a similar experience, until now they have
become so fastidious that nothing less than grand opera, with a bunch of
foreign stars, or a presentation of imported plays and play actors can
satisfy their cultivated tastes. Let your show dish be well hashed and
don't, above all things, neglect the histrionic pepper and mustard. The
more highly seasoned it is the more kindly our patrons will take to the
theatrical feast we will be compelled to give them."
"Leave that to me."