A RIVAL COMPANY.
From Cambron, Neka and his friends went to Washingtonville.
Longfellow Wadsworth had wired ahead and secured a small but cozy
theatre, and they billed the town for a three-nights’ stand.
“Our first venture at remaining more than one night,” remarked Neka;
“I wonder how it will pan out.”
“Tell better after the third night,” laughed Bindley. “If business is
good the whole three nights, it ought to give you quite a lift.”
“We must expect some set-backs,” put in the elocutionist. “We cannot
expect the sun to shine all the time.”
“The trouble is, we are not strong enough yet to stand much of a
set-back,” responded Neka, thoughtfully. “Our expenses here are over
a hundred and twenty dollars. No business would about wipe out our
capital.”
“Never mind, don’t worry,” said Bindley.
He was always cheerful and his perpetual good humor was contagious.
Neka wondered what had become of Daniel Bambo, but heard nothing
concerning the proprietor of the Greatest Aggregation on the Globe.
On the evening of the first night in Washingtonville a cold rain set
in about six o’clock, and by seven it was pouring steadily. The lamp
in front of the little theatre flickered dismally in the downpour,
and the pavement was all but deserted.
“No audience to-night,” said Longfellow Wadsworth, as he walked up
and down inside the entrance anxiously. “You couldn’t hire country
folks to come out in the wet. They are more afraid of it than city
people.”
“Here is an audience of two, anyway,” said Neka, as a pair of young
men came in.
They shook the water from their umbrellas, strode up to the door and
presented--free passes!
With downcast face, Longfellow Wadsworth let them in. The pair, all
alone in the body of the theatre, looked uncomfortable and did not
dare to crack the peanuts they had brought along.
Five minutes passed, and a man drifted in. He paid a quarter and
joined the lonely pair within, and the three began a whispered
conversation concerning the probabilities of the show being postponed.
“This is awful!” groaned the elocutionist.
“Twenty minutes to eight,” replied Neka. “Let us keep up our courage.”
Ten minutes passed, and not another soul came in. Longfellow
Wadsworth heaved a deep sigh and retired to the ticket office to seek
consolation out of his pocket flask.
But then matters began to brighten just a wee bit. Three big boys
came in, followed by a couple of young men with their best girls.
They had hardly procured tickets when a loud fish-horn sounded
outside, and a big covered stage drove up.
“This here crowd is from Goose Run,” explained one tall, lanky youth,
who appeared to be in charge. “We wuz bound ter come, rain or no
rain, ain’t that so, Sally?”
“Thet’s so, Joel,” was the reply from a comely young woman within the
stage.
There were eighteen people in the stage, and this made twenty-eight
folks all told to see the show.
As the stage stood at the door Neka was struck by a sudden idea. He
ran in to talk it over with Longfellow Wadsworth.
“I’ve a good mind to take that stage and drum up an audience,” he
said. “I think we can get folks to come if we bring them here free.”
“But the stage will cost money, my son, and as it is now----”
“I’ll give the driver five cents for every person he brings to the
theatre.”
“Well, go ahead and do as you please.”
This settled, Neka called on Bindley to come along. Then the driver
of the big turnout was appealed to.
“Five cents fer every person I fetch in, eh?” he mused. “All right,
I’ll go ye!”
A big fish-horn remained in the stage, and this the two appropriated,
and off they started with a flourish.
They drove up and down half a dozen of the principal streets of the
town, and while Neka blew on the horn, Bindley stood by the rear
step, shouting out that they were going to the theatre, and the stage
was free to any one that wanted to go along.
The idea caught the fancy of the town folks, especially those who had
thought to witness the entertainment. In ten minutes the stage was
packed and on its way to the theatre.
Two more trips were made. In the meantime others came in on foot, and
by twenty minutes past eight the audience numbered close to a hundred
people.
“Not an extra large crowd,” said Neka, as he counted them. “But it’s
a good deal better than only thirty or forty.”
The pianist was pounding out lively airs, but those in the theatre
were growing impatient, so, without further delay, Longfellow
Wadsworth went on the stage and gave one of his best humorous
recitations. This put the people in good humor, and the remainder of
the entertainment passed off with great success.
Although the audience was limited, Neka and the others gave the best
exhibition in their power. During the course of the show Bindley
came out in a quaint monologue, in which he mentioned the fact that,
should it rain the next evening, free stages would run all over the
town to bring folks to the theatre, and he trusted the audience would
mention this to all of their friends.
This speech was well received, and it was a good thing that it was
made, for the next night it rained as hard as ever. True to the
promise, three stages were procured, each with a banner outside, and
these brought to the theater over a hundred and fifty people between
seven and eight o’clock.
Yet even the free stages did not give them a paying audience, and
when the receipts for the first and second nights in Washingtonville
were counted up, they were still some twenty dollars behind.
“Thought we would catch it some time,” muttered the elocutionist,
dismally.
“Twenty dollars is not such a loss,” replied Neka. “Remember, we have
another night to count on.”
“But it looks as if it would rain for a week still, my son.”
“Oh, no, it will clear to-night, mark my word.”
Neka was right. By midnight the storm shifted, and on the following
morning the sun arose as bright as ever.
On the day previous Bindley had brought word in that a rival
specialty company was in the vicinity and intended to come to
Washingtonville either that night or the next. At breakfast Neka
heard that the rivals were already located at a hall on the next
block.
Curious to learn something about them, the boy strolled off in the
direction.
He soon reached the hall, and in front, on the billboard, saw a
flaring poster that took him completely by surprise.
HENRY MAUL’S SPECIALTY CO.
The Finest in the World!
No Fake Show can compare to it!
See Henry Maul, King of Jugglers!
See the Wonderful Trick Pony, Stump!
See the Windoms, Joe and Jennie!
The Finest Child Mimics on the Stage!
Lowest Price! Best Show! Go to No Other!
“Henry Maul!” read Neka. “It must be Hank Maul who drove for Bambo!
It is, for there he mentions Stump, the trick pony. Bambo’s circus
must have been sold out, and Maul took the pony for back salary. I
wonder who Joe and Jennie Windom can be? I never heard of them. If
that last line isn’t cheeky, to say the least!”
Neka was about to pass on when a shrill cry of pain attracted his
attention.
“Stop! stop! Don’t whip me any more! Please don’t!”
It was a girlish voice which uttered the cry. It came from the
interior of the hall.
“Shut up, you whelp!” was the reply, in the well-known rough voice of
Hank Maul, the ex-circus driver. “You’ll do as I want you to, or I’ll
break every bone in your skinny body!”