MR. PETTICORD.
Early the next day I was formally installed as manager of the Bolanyo
Opera House. The Senator directed the ceremony, marking long meter with
his hat, and by his solemn mien appearing to demand of me a serious and
majestic chant, the tune of Old Hundred, to express a deep sense of my
responsibility--a mere fancy, of course; but as a matter of fact, he did
seem to believe that we ought to make a sentiment of this commonplace
and businesslike procedure. But I told him that we would waive the
rights of a mysterious incantation and look upon the affair as a
commercial transaction.
"Yes, of course," he said. "But you know there has always been a sort
of mystery about the stage. It holds us to the past, makes us children,
afraid of ghosts. It has a peculiar smell; and one thing about it is,
that all the people on the stage seem to be foreigners, it makes no
difference how well you may have been acquainted with them. I don't know
that it's true in all cases. Come to think of it, you don't seem strange
to me."
"There has always been a prejudice against the stage, in England and
America," I replied. "Our race cannot associate art and religion, when,
in fact, there's true religion in every phase of art."
"Well, now, I don't know about that, Belford. The Pagans worshiped idols
and some of their idols were works of art, but there was no true
religion in that. But be that as it may, we're going to make a success
of this thing."
A number of boys, having scented an unusual activity, were hanging about
the door, and one of them made bold to ask if there was going to be a
show. The Senator answered him. "Yes, there is, my little man, and
we'll want you to take around some bills when it comes, next fall. Whose
son are you, anyway?"
"Mr. Vark's."
"Oh, yes, the shoemaker down stairs. Well, run along now."
The boys scampered off, and the Senator, looking about, declared that we
were making great progress. "Yes, Sir, we'll coin money here; and do you
know, Belford, I am beginning to believe that money is a pretty good
thing after all? Yes, Sir, I have about arrived at that conclusion. It
won't take a man to Heaven, but it arms him against a hell on earth. Let
me see, there was something else I intended to say. Oh, yes. Now it's
all right to be friendly with everybody, but intimacy is a dangerous
thing. Encourage it and the first thing you know the loafers about town
will begin to call you by your first name. That kills a man if he's in
any sort of public life. Why, Sir, if I had let those fellows call me
Giles, I couldn't have remained in the Senate more than one term; would
have killed me, Sir, as dead as a door nail. In this human family a man
thinks more of you in the long run if you compel him to bow to you than
if you permit him to put his arm on your shoulder. Our natures respect
exclusiveness. We may make fun of what we conceive to be a groundless
dignity, but at its face we bow to it. Well, you can now begin your
correspondence. I have put money to your credit at the bank, and there's
nothing to keep you from going ahead. There are some other little
details that can be arranged at our leisure. And now, as to a boarding
place. Our hotels are not first class. And here's what I regard as a
good idea. This room off here you can fit up as a sleeping apartment,
and you can take your meals at a restaurant. Suit you?"
"Perfectly. And I want to thank you for your--"
"Wait till the end of next season, Sir; we haven't time now. And, by
the way, I want you to come out to the house as often as you can
conveniently. Just come and go as you please. Well, Mr. Manager, I'll
bid you good-morning."
My room was airy, and, proportioned in that wastefulness of space which
marks one of the interior differences between the town and the great
city, it afforded the luxury of many an imaginary path over which I
could walk in meditation upon my play; and that piece of work was
uppermost in my mind. It was my hope to exist as a manager until I could
pip the shell as a dramatist--selfish, I confess; and so is art a
selfishness, and so is every high-born longing in the breast of man.
Indeed, philanthropy itself cannot escape the accusation: To give to the
needy awakens the applause of the conscience.
A slight tapping attracted my attention, and looking round I saw
standing in the doorway a tall, gaunt man with a beard so red as to
shoot out the suggestion that it had been put on hot and that sufficient
time had not elapsed for it to cool. I invited him in; and, stepping
forward, he handed me a card on which in black type and with heavy
impression was printed the name Lucian C. Petticord, followed by the
information (also heavy and black) that I was in the presence of the
Editor of the Bolanyo _Daily Times_, and the enemy of Senator Giles
Talcom.
"Sit down, Mr. Petticord. Glad to meet you," I added, with lie number
one.
"Thank you," he said, seating himself. "Match about you?"
I found a match for him, and lighting the stub of a cigar, he said
"Thanks," crossed his legs and hooked his thumbs in the arm-holes of his
"vest."
"How do you like our town?" he asked.
"Charming place," I answered.
"Used to be, but hard times hit it a crack and it's been staggering ever
since. Had two banks--one of them failed. Tough, I tell you, but we'll
come out all right. Just heard of your deal. Ought to make the thing
pay, I should think. Got to spend some little money, of course. By the
way, is old man Talcom interested in it?"
"Well, only as a friend," I answered, with lie number two.
"I heard he was. Always was a sort of a theatrical fellow."
"He is a gentleman, if that's what you mean."
"Yes, in a way," he drawled. "Oh, I know him."
"Then, Sir, you know one of the most generous of men."
"Yes, generous in a way. Pretty keen, though--he's not throwing anything
over his shoulder this year, and he didn't last year either, for that
matter."
"I didn't know," said I, "that throwing a thing over one's shoulder was
esteemed as an example of generosity."
He rolled his cigar about between his fiery lips. "I take it that you
know what I mean," he replied. "I mean that Brother Giles ain't giving
anything away without cause."
"Who is?" I asked, and I looked at him hard, but, in the vernacular of
the neighborhood, I did not "faze" him.
"In general, nobody; and in particular, not Brother Giles. Well, it's
all right. Glad he ain't interested financially. Presume, however, he
advanced you the necessary money."
"Pardon me, but if he did it doesn't concern you."
"Oh, it's all right; no business of mine except as a matter of news."
"But what doesn't concern the public is not news," I replied.
"No, that's a fact, but then, there comes up a difference of opinion as
to what does concern the public." He paused for a few moments and then
continued: "Thought I'd step over and see if I could get an ad from you.
Do all my own work in that line; do all the editorials and write most of
the local leaders. It keeps me busy, but I'm getting out the best paper
the city ever had. And my ad rates are not high when the circulation is
considered."
"I shall give you an advertisement later on," said I, "but just at
present there could be no object in it. It's out of season and there's
nothing to advertise."
"But you'll want a write-up announcing the change of management. The
people will be interested in it, you know."
"Yes, but doesn't that very fact make it a piece of legitimate news?"
"Well, yes, in a way. But you know I can't afford to print news for
nothing. I'm not printing news for my health, you know. Write you up in
good shape for ten dollars."
It was the easiest way out of what appeared to be the beginning of an
unpleasant entanglement, and I told him that he might proceed with his
"write-up." It was a sort of bribery, the purchase of his good opinion
in the hope of securing his silence, for I knew that there must be war,
and perhaps a complete change of geographical lines, so far as I was
concerned, if the newspaper should offensively associate the Senator
and the playhouse. But as I sat there, the subject of a "pleasant
interview"--meeting smile with smile--I actually ached to kick that red
gargoyle down the stairs.
"Well," he said, blowing the cigar stub out of his mouth and letting it
fall where it might, "I'll get back to work. Come over sometime."
"Thank you. I may see more of you when the season opens."
"Guess that's right. Haven't got a cut of yourself, have you?"
"No, and I don't care for one."
"You're wrong there; good cut's a first-rate thing--catches the women,
and I want to tell you that unless you catch the women you don't catch
anybody. Well, good day."
Almost as soothing as a melody was his passing footstep down the stairs.
But he halted, and I heard him talking to someone who evidently was
coming up. I was afraid that he had turned to come back, and I stood in
a tremor of dread, when in stepped old Zack Mason, the steamboat pilot.
"Hah, united we stood and divided we went up!" he cried, grasping my
hand. "How are you?--first-rate, I know. Oh, this climate will bring a
man out of the kinks if he isn't killed instantly. All this atmosphere
needs is a few minutes' start. A man can grow a set of new lungs down
here. How are you, anyway? Didn't hurt me much--made a trip since then
on a snag-boat. Tickled to death to see you again. How are you, anyway?"
During all this time he held me with a grip so tight as to assure me
that not even an explosion could blow us apart. And whenever I attempted
to tell him how I was, or to impress him with my share of the pleasure
derived from our meeting, he gripped me tighter, to hold me under the
outpour of his congratulations. "Felt like a brother had left me that
day when you were snatched out of my hand. Said to myself, as I flew
through the air, 'he's got a little bit the start of me and I don't
believe I'll ever see him again.' And last night, when I got home and
heard you were around all right, I went straight over to old Jim
Bradley's and swallowed a drink as long as a pelican's neck. I want to
tell you that Jim's got the stuff right there in his house--been here
ever since the Mississippi River was a creek; and he's got licker older
than Adam's off ox. And I'll tell you what we'll do this minute--we'll
go right over there and take a snort as loud as the sneeze of a
hippopotamus."
By this time I had forced him back into his chair, but he showed such a
keenness to get at me again that I had to remind him that I had been but
a short time out of bed.
"Well, now, I'd about forgotten that," he declared. "But I don't want
you to handle me after you get plum back at yourself. You are as strong
as a panther right now. But that's neither here nor there. The question
is, will you come over with me to see old Jim? I've got a lay-off for
about a week, and I've got to have a little fun as I go along. Eat,
drink and be merry, for to-morrow you may be blowed up. And we'll see
old Joe Vark over there. Joe's got a shoeshop right down here--best
shoemaker that ever pounded the hide of a steer--works till he gets
ready to have fun, and then he whoops it up. He's smarter than a
serpent, even if he ain't always as harmless as a dove. They started a
little public library here once, and the first thing they knew old Joe
had nearly all the books stacked up in his shop; and he read them, too.
Come on and we'll go down to old Jim Bradley's; and he's all right, too.
What do you say?"
"To tell you the truth, I'd rather go with you than to do almost
anything; it would fit me like a glove; but I can't. I've had to quit.
One drink would mean a spree, and that would ruin everything."
"Yes, but here," he insisted, "the liquor that Bradley keeps won't put a
man off on a spree. It's a fact. It would take a man two weeks to get
drunk on it, and by that time he'd have enough. Come on."
"No, I can't go."
"Well, if you can't drink without taking too much I'm the last man in
the world to persuade you. Glad to see you, anyway. And I reckon you're
going to give us a first-rate line of shows. Met the Senator just now
and he told me. He's another man that can't drink. I can drink and I can
let it alone--that is, I know I can drink, and I think I can let it
alone. Well," he said, getting up and taking my hand, "I'm glad to have
seen you again, anyway. Take care of yourself, and when your first show
opens up I'll come round with the boys and we'll whoop things up."