The truth as to William's turn at the Variety having gradually become
known among his friends, he assumed, in the opinion of various of his
youthful associates, an importance not hitherto felt for him, and this
manifested itself in the form of an invitation to take part in "Uncle
Tom's Cabin," to be presented by the Berkeley Junior Dramatic Society.
William's eager consent was somewhat dampened when he was informed by
the young and ambitious manager of the production that he would have to
take the part of a small coloured boy and that there were no lines for
him--particularly. "You'll just come in kind of incidental," said the
manager--who was not much older than William--"and sing a piece."
"Not much. No singing for mine."
"Pshaw! It'll be dead easy, and I bet it'll make a hit too. You know
the stunt--lights down--spotlight on the stage--you in it singing in a
low sweet voice 'Loch Lomond.'"
"What!"
"Sure thing."
"What in Sam Hill has 'Loch Lomond' gotter do with 'Uncle Tom's
Cabin!'" demanded William truculently. "Them niggers never even heard
of it, I'll bet."
"Well, this ain't no ordinary Uncle Tom's show, let me tell you that,"
retorted the manager. "We've doctored it up quite a bit. It's too
slow for our bunch the way it is put on by most companies."
"But 'Loch Lomond' in a nigger show! Gee! you're crazy. Next thing I
know you'll want me to wear kilts."
"I never thought of that," said the manager thoughtfully; "but, say,
that would be an elegant stunt. Let's do it."
"Not with my legs," said William. "Didjer ever see 'em? They're about
as fat as fishing rods."
"All the better. It'll bring the house down, I tell you."
"Well, I don't want any house falling on me the way that'll be liable
to when it sees me in kilts and me face black--'oh! mother, mother,
mother, pin some clothes on me,'" he concluded sarcastically. But in
the end William was won over, and he entered into the rehearsals with a
whole-hearted determination that gladdened the manager's heart, and
made half of the rest of the cast jealous.
You who discriminate in the choice of plays; who talk learnedly of the
art of Irving, Mansfield, Forbes Robertson, and Miller; you should have
seen that presentation given to a packed house. There were all of
three hundred people in the Berkeley Junior Dramatic Society's club
house that night, and every one of them parted with coin of the realm
to the amount of one quarter of a dollar for admission, and never a one
complained that he or she didn't get all of it back in real value.
The scenery and all accessories, including the costumes, were
home-made. Who can value the loving care and thoughtfulness that
mothers and sisters put into every stitch of those costumes; with what
interest they studied the play, as "doctored," in order that the
garments might be historically correct? And who shall fittingly
describe William's kilts, as made by Mrs. Turnpike from a Scottish
shawl? William appeared in the first scene, without having anything to
say, but the costume spoke for him. There was a shout of laughter as
he walked across the stage for the first time, to be renewed when a
shrill voice invited all and sundry to "pipe them legs." The audience
piped them--they were encased in black stockings--and laughed again,
whereupon William advanced to the front and, pointing an accusing
finger in the direction of the original "piper," shouted, "I'm on to
you, Tom Edwards: everybody knows you're so bow-legged you wouldn't
dare wear anything but long pants." It took the audience some time to
recover its equilibrium, but eventually the play proceeded to the scene
where Eliza made the perilous trip across the floating ice.
Eliza, a buxom girl with a heavy tread, carrying a large rag doll, made
the flight very slowly. She didn't trust "them cakes of ice," knowing
full well that packing cases, however stoutly built, and however ably
disguised in white cheese cloth, were parlous things for a lady of her
weight. The prompter urged her in an audible voice to get a move on,
to which she retorted sharply, "Shut up, I ain't going to break any of
my legs for fun."
But when the baying of the bloodhounds, faithfully imitated by the
entire company, only partially concealed in the wings, was joined by
the barking of the real live dog in the show, she began to move a
little faster. She moved faster still when the real dog, a fair-sized
animal of uncertain breed, wearing a stout muzzle, broke away from the
"crool slave masters" and dashed towards her, and just as she lit on
the last cake of ice it gave way. The excited and hilarious applause
of the audience, together with Eliza's frantic screams, struck panic to
the heart of the already frightened dog, which, turning towards the
foot-lights, made a flying leap into the audience. Fortunately it
landed on the stout knees of William's Pa, and that worthy, firmly
grasping it by the neck, and thus effectually stopping its barking,
carried it to the main door and threw it into the street. Whereupon
the scene proceeded, the stage carpenter and his staff of one having
meanwhile extricated Eliza from the cake of ice and started her on the
concluding portion of her journey to safety. It was then that William,
burning to distinguish himself, and having a vague notion that "Chuck"
Epstein, who was in the audience, had once declared that the actor who
could interpolate telling lines in his part was on a fair way to fame,
advanced solemnly to the front, regardless of the dropping curtain
which landed on his shoulders and flopped ungracefully around him, to
declare in his loudest voice, "And I wish to say, that the man what
hits a woman is a coward." William and the curtain were somehow parted
by the now irate manager, but the audience insisted on the "nigger
kiltie" returning to the front, while they gave him another hearty
round of applause.
A lecture behind the curtain, in which the manager, the stage
carpenter, Eliza and Legree, and Uncle Tom combined, seared William's
soul to the centre, though he said not a word, and the play went on.
The death-bed scene, described in the home-made programmes as the
"grand finally," included the appearance of "the sweet boy singer,
William Adolphus Turnpike, in 'Loch Lomond.'" Little Eva was dying
beautifully when the pianist, who was not at all merciful to the
uncertain age and still more uncertain tone of his instrument, began
the air. William, who was one of the group around the bed, advanced
and began to sing. The audience ceased its snickering after the first
few words to listen intently. To many it was a beloved song; they
could forget the incongruous surroundings in the sweet memories it
recalled, and to others it appealed, as many old-world songs do, by its
plaintive sweetness. William was making a hit, and he knew it. Boy
though he was, he felt to the full the bond of sympathy between himself
and the audience. There was a queer sensation in his heart as he began
the last verse, and he wondered if he could finish it. He had reached
the second line when the voice of the prompter, imploringly pitched,
begged him to "hurry it up; little Eva's bed's a falling down."
William turned sharply toward the bed and, as he turned, something gave
way at his waist. He rushed to the death-bed, snatched therefrom the
coverlet, wrapped it majestically around him, and walked off the stage,
leaving behind him a little plaid heap--the kilts. The curtain dropped
suddenly in response to the manager's frantic signals. Little Eva, the
boy who had also taken the part of Legree, jumped from the bed
hysterically crying, "You spoiled me part," grappled madly with the
manager, and while the battle raged, William Adolphus Turnpike,
coverlet and all, slipped quietly out of the back door and raced
frantically for home, only two short blocks away.