THE OLD ACTOR'S CHAMPIONS.
Along a street of Denver walked a man whose appearance was such as to
attract attention wherever seen. That he had once been an actor could be
told at a glance, and that he had essayed great roles was also apparent.
But, alas! it was also evident that the time when this Thespian trod the
boards had departed forever, and with that time his glory had vanished.
His ancient silk hat, although carefully brushed, was shabby and
grotesque in appearance. His Prince Albert coat, buttoned tight at the
waist, and left open at the bosom, was shabby and shining, although it
also betokened that, with much effort, he had kept it clean. His
trousers bagged at the knees, and there were signs of mannish sewing
where two or three rents and breaks had been mended. The legs of the
trousers were very small, setting tightly about his thin calves. His
shoes were in the worst condition of all. Although they had been
carefully blackened and industriously polished, it was plain that they
could not hold together much longer. The soles were almost completely
worn away, and the uppers were breaking and ripping. The "linen" of this
frayed gentleman seemed spotlessly white. His black silk necktie was
knotted in a broad bow.
The man's face was rather striking in appearance. The eyes had once been
clear and piercing, the mouth firm and well formed; but there was that
about the chin which belied the firmness of the mouth, for this feature
showed weakness. The head was broad at the top, with a high, wide brow.
The eyes were set so far back beneath the bushy, grayish eyebrows that
they seemed like red coals glowing in dark caverns--for red they were
and bloodshot. The man's long hair fell upon the collar of his coat.
And on his face was set the betraying marks of the vice that had wrought
his downfall. The bloodshot eyes alone did not reveal it, but the
purplish, unhealthy flush of the entire face and neck plainly indicated
that the demon drink had fastened its death clutch upon him and dragged
him down from the path that led to the consummation of all his hopes and
aspirations.
He had been drinking now. His unsteady step told that. He needed the aid
of his cane in order to keep on his feet. He slipped, his hat fell off,
rolled over and over, dropped into the gutter, and lay there.
The unfortunate man looked round for the hat, but it was some time
before he found it. When he did, in attempting to pick it up, he fell
over in the gutter and rolled upon it, soiling his clothes. At last,
with a great effort, he gathered himself up, and rose unsteadily to his
feet with his hat and cane.
"What, ho!" he muttered, thickly. "It seems the world hath grown
strangely unsteady, but, perchance, it may be my feet."
Some boys who had seen him fall shouted and laughed at him. He looked
toward them sadly.
"Mock! mock! mock!" he cried. "Some of you thoughtless brats may fall
even lower than I have fallen!"
"Well, I like that--I don't think!" exclaimed one of the boys. "I don't
'low no jagged stiff to call me a brat!"
Then he threw a stone at the old actor, striking the man on the cheek
and cutting him slightly.
The unfortunate placed his crushed and soiled hat on his head, took out
a handkerchief, and slowly wiped a little blood from his cheek, all the
while swaying a bit, as if the ground beneath his feet were tossing like
a ship.
"'Now let it work,'" he quoted. "'Mischief, thou art afoot; take thou
what course thou wilt. How now, fellow?'"
The thoughtless young ruffians shouted with laughter.
"Looker the old duffer!" cried one. "Ain't that a picture fer yer!"
"Look!" exclaimed the actor. "Behold me with thy eyes! Even lower than I
have fallen may thou descend; but I have aspired to heights of which thy
sordid soul may never dream. Out upon you, dog!"
With these words he reached the walk and turned down the street.
"Let's foller him!" cried one of the gang. "We can have heaps of fun
with him."
"Come on! come on!"
With a wild whoop, they rushed after the man. They reached him, danced
around him, pulled his coat tails, jostled him, crushed his hat over his
eyes.
"Give the old duffer fits!" cried the leader, who was a tough young thug
of about eighteen.
There were seven boys in the gang, and four or five others came up on
the run, eager to have a hand in the "racket."
The old actor pushed his hat back from his eyes, folded his arms over
his out-thrown breast and gazed with his red, sunken eyes at the leader.
As if declaiming on the stage he spoke:
"'You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty
That they pass me by as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.'"
This caused the boys to shout with laughter.
"Git onter ther guy!"
"What ails him?"
"He's locoed."
"Loaded, you mean."
"He's cracked in the nut."
"And he needs another crack on the nut," shouted the leader, dancing up,
and again knocking the hat over the old man's eyes.
Once more pushing it back, the aged actor spoke in his deep voice, made
somewhat husky by drink:
"Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen and lovers! hear me for my
cause; and be silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honor; and
have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your
wisdom, and awaken your senses, that you may----"
"Oh, that's too much!" cried the ruffianly young leader. "We can't stand
that kind of guy. What're yer givin' us, anyway?"
"He's drunk!" shouted several.
"Alas and alack!" sighed the old man. "I fear thou speakest the truth.
"'Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And the fall of many kings.'"
"That's what causes your fall," declared the ruffianly leader, as he
tripped the actor, causing him to fall heavily.
"What's this?" exclaimed Frank Merriwell, who, with Hodge for a
companion, just returned from Twin Star Ranch, at this moment came into
view round a corner. "What are those fellows doing to that poor man?"
"Raising hob with him," said Bart, quickly. "The old fellow is drunk and
they are abusing him."
"Well, I think it's time for us to take a hand in that!"
"I should say so!"
"Come on!"
Frank sprang forward; Bart followed.
The old actor was just making an effort to get up. The young ruffian who
led the gang kicked him over.
The sight made Frank's blood leap.
"You cowardly young cur!" he cried, and he gave the fellow a crack on
the ear that sent him spinning.
Hodge struck out right and left, quickly sending two of the largest
fellows to the ground.
"Permit me to assist you, sir," said Frank, stooping to aid the actor to
rise.
The leader of the gang had recovered. He uttered a mad howl.
"At 'em fellers! Knock the stuffin's outer them!" he screamed, rushing
on Frank.
Merry straightened up instantly. He whirled about and saw the biggest
tough coming at him, with the rest of the gang at his back. Then Frank
laughed.
"Walk right up, you young terriers!" he cried, in a clear, ringing
voice. "We'll make it rather interesting for you! Give it to them,
Hodge!"
Hodge did so. Together the two friends met the onslaught of the gang.
Their hard fists cracked on the heads of the young ruffians, and it was
astonishing how these fellows were bowled over. Bart was aroused. His
intense anger was betrayed by his knotted forehead, his flashing eyes,
and his gleaming teeth. He did not speak a word, but he struck swift,
strong and sure.
If those chaps had expected an easy thing with the two well-dressed
youths who had interfered with their sport, they met the disappointment
of their lives.
It actually seemed that, at one time, every one of the gang had been
knocked sprawling, and not one was on his feet to face the fighting
champions of the old actor.
It was a terrible surprise for the toughs. One after another, they
sprang up and took to their heels.
"What have we struck?" gasped the leader, looking up at Frank.
"Get up!" invited Merry, standing over him--"get up, and I will give you
another dose!"
"Excuse me!" gasped the fellow, as he scrambled away on his hands and
knees, sprang up and followed the rest of the young thugs.
It was over; the gang had been put to flight, and it had been
accomplished in a very few moments.
Hodge stood there, panting, glaring about, looking surprised and
disappointed, as well as angry.
"That was too easy!" he exclaimed. "I thought we were in for a fight."
"Evidently they did not stand for our kind of fighting," smiled Frank.
"It surprised them so that they threw up the sponge before the fight was
fairly begun."
"I didn't get half enough of it," muttered Bart.
During the fight the old actor had risen to his feet. Now Frank picked
up his hat and restored it to him, after brushing some dirt from it. The
man received it with a profound bow. Placing it on his head, he thrust
his right hand into the bosom of his coat, struck a pose, and cried:
"'Are yet two Romans living such as these?
The last of all the Romans!'"
"We saw you were in trouble," said Merry, "and we hastened to give you
such assistance as we could."
"It was a goodly deed, a deed well done. Thy arms are strong, thy hearts
are bold. Methinks I see before me two noble youths, fit to have lived
in the days of knighthood."
"You are very complimentary," smiled Frank, amused at the old man's
quaint way.
The actor took his hand from his bosom and made a deprecating gesture,
saying:
"'Nay, do not think I flatter; for what advancement may I hope from
thee?' I but speak the thoughts my heart bids me speak. I am old, the
wreck of a once noble man; yet you did not hesitate to stand by me in my
hour of need, even at peril to yourselves. I cannot reward you. I can
but offer the thanks of one whose name it may be you have never
heard--one whose name to-day, but for himself and his own weakness,
might be on the tongues of the people of two continents. Gentlemen,
accept the thanks of William Shakespeare Burns."
"Mr. Burns," said Frank, "from your words, and your manner, I am led to
believe that you are an actor."
"Nay, nay. Once I trod the boards and interpreted the characters of the
immortal bard, for whom I was named. That time is past. I am an actor no
longer; I am a 'has been.' My day is past, my sun hath set, and night
draweth on apace."
"I thought I could not be mistaken," said Frank. "We, too, are actors,
although not Shakespearian ones."
"Is this true?" exclaimed the old tragedian. "And I have been befriended
by those who wouldst follow the noble art! Brothers, I greet thee! But
these are sad, sad days, for the drama hath fallen into a decline. The
legitimate is scoffed at, the stage is defiled by the ribald jest, the
clownish low-comedy star, the dancing and singing comedian, and
vaudeville--ah, me! that we should have fallen into such evil ways. The
indecencies now practiced in the name of art and the drama are enough to
make the immortal William turn in his grave. Oh, for the good old days!
But they are gone--forever gone!"
"It seems strange to meet an actor like you 'at liberty,' and so far
from the Rialto," declared Merry.
"I have been touring the country, giving readings," Burns hastened to
explain. "Ah, it is sad, sad! Once I might have packed the largest
theater of the metropolis; to-day I am doing well if I bring out a round
dozen to listen to my readings at some crossroad schoolhouse in the
country. Thus have the mighty fallen!"
"I presume you are thinking of getting back to New York?"
"Nay, nay. What my eyes have beheld there and my ears have heard is
enough. My heart is sick within me. I was there at the opening of the
season. One Broadway theater was given over to burlesque of the very
lowest order, while another was but little better in character. A
leading theater close to Broadway was packed every night by well-dressed
people who went there to behold a vile French farce, in which the
leading lady disrobed upon the stage. Ah, me! In truth, the world hath
gone wrong! The ways of men are evil, and all their thoughts are vile.
It is well that Shakespeare cannot rise from his grave to look upon the
horrors now perpetrated on the English-speaking stage. If he were to be
restored to life and visit one of our theaters, I think his second
funeral would take place the following day. He would die of heart
failure."
Frank laughed heartily.
"I believe you are right. It would give William a shock, that is
certain. But there are good modern plays, you know."
The actor shook his head.
"I do not know," he declared. "I have not seen them. If there is not
something nasty in the play of to-day, then it must of a certainty have
its 'effect' in the way of some mechanical contrivance--a horse race, a
steamboat explosion, a naval battle, or something of the sort. It seems
that a piece cannot survive on its merits as a play, but must, perforce,
be bolstered up by some wretched device called an 'effect.'"
"Truer words were never spoken," admitted Frank. "And still there are a
few plays written to-day that do not depend on such devices. In order to
catch the popular fancy, however, I have found it necessary to introduce
'effects.'"
"You speak as one experienced in the construction of plays."
"I have had some experience. I am about to start on the road with my own
company and my own play."
Of a sudden Frank seemed struck by an idea.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Did you say you were at liberty?"
"Just at present, yes."
"Then, if I can get you, you are the very man I want."
The old man shook his head.
"Your play can contain no part I would care to interpret," he said, with
apparent regret.
"But I think it is possible that you might be induced to play the part.
I had a man for it, but I lost him. I was on my way to the Orpheum, to
see if I could not find another to fill his place."
"What sort of a part is it?" asked Burns, plainly endeavoring to conceal
his eagerness.
"It is comedy."
"What!" cried the old actor, aghast and horrified. "Wouldst offer me
such a part? Dost think I--I who have played _Hamlet_, _Brutus_, _Lear_
and _Othello_--would stoop so low? 'This is the most unkindest cut of
all!'"
"But there is money in it--good, sure money. I have several thousand
dollars to back me, and I am going out with my piece to make or break. I
shall keep it on the road several weeks, at any cost."
The old actor shook his head.
"It cannot be," he sadly said. "I am no comedian. I could not play the
part."
"If you will but dress as you are, if you will add a little that is
fantastic to your natural acting, you can play the part. It is that of a
would-be tragedian--a Shakespearian actor."
"Worse and worse!" moaned the old man. "You would have me burlesque
myself! Out upon you!"
"I will pay you thirty-five dollars a week and railroad expenses. How
can you do better?"
"Thirty-fi----"
The old actor gasped for breath. He seemed unable for some moments to
speak. It was plain that the sum seemed like a small fortune to him. At
last his dignity and his old nature reasserted itself.
"Young man," he said, "dost know what thou hast done? I--I am William
Shakespeare Burns! A paltry thirty-five per week! Bah! Go to!"
"Well, I'll make it forty, and I can get a hundred good men for that at
this time of the season."
The aged Thespian bowed his head. Slowly he spoke, again quoting:
"Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play
upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck to the heart
of my mystery."
"But the money, you seem to need that. Money is a good thing to have."
"'Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.' It is true. Ah! but how
can I thus lower myself?"
"As you have said, the good old days are past. It is useless to live for
them. Live for the present--and the future. Money is base stuff, but we
must have it. Come, come; I know you can do the part. We'll get along
splendidly."
"'Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.' As Cassius saith,
'Men at some time in their lives are masters of their fates;' but I
think for me that time is past. But forty dollars--ye gods!"
"It is better than reading to a scant dozen listeners at crossroads
schoolhouses."
"Ah, well! You take advantage of my needs. I accept. But I must have a
dollar at once, with which to purchase that which will drown the shame
my heart doth feel."
"You shall have the dollar," assured Frank. "Come along with us, and we
will complete arrangements."
So the old actor was borne away, outwardly sad, but inwardly
congratulating himself on the greatest streak of luck he had come upon
in many moons.