William made his first professional appearance in Toronto in the autumn
of that year with Joe Mertle's Company in _Old Etobicoke_, a rural
comedy-drama that was immensely popular in its day and had a long run.
The company was two weeks in the old Academy of Music before taking the
road, and from the first night drew large audiences. William had two
parts. In the first and second acts he merely "appeared," describing
himself to his friends as "part of the scenery." In the third and
fourth acts he had a speaking part, and in the latter a chance for a
little bit of comedy that, short as it was, gave him a real
opportunity. The whole Turnpike family was there, from Dorothy up, so
was Whimple, Miss Whimple, Tommy Watson, both his assistants, Sally
Miller, Lucien Torrance, and "Chuck" Epstein of course. They all sat
together, occupying two boxes. The old comedian was too happy to say
much even between the acts. He watched William keenly, and often
nodded approval, though he frowned once or twice when the youth made
little "breaks." When the curtain fell, he waited with the others for
William, and, as they stood in the lobby, the dean of the dramatic
critics, a life-long friend of the old comedian, approached him. "Not
bad, Epstein," he said.
"It will make a hit on the road," Epstein answered.
"Know any of the cast outside of Mertles?"
"A few."
"Who is the kid with the funny name--'William Adolphus Turnpike'?"
"Why?"
"He's the pick of the new ones. There's a great promise in that lad.
If he doesn't get swelled head early in the game he'll soon be shining."
The old comedian smiled happily. "He's a friend of mine: a pupil, in a
way--I'm glad you like him."
"You're a rare one to pick out the good ones, 'Chuck,'" said the
critic, warmly. "The lad will be a credit to you if----"
"If," echoed Epstein.
"If he doesn't get swelled head, as I said before. That's the trouble
with a lot of the promising ones," he added, as he walked away.
"He may get swelled head," said Epstein to himself, as William joined
the waiting group, "but it won't last long, I'm sure of that." He
greeted William affectionately. "You'll do, boy," he said kindly,
"you'll do. There are some things about your part I'd like to discuss
with you, but I'm proud of you, William."
The little supper for William and "the bunch," arranged by Tommy
Watson, was a rather gloomy affair. Pa and Ma Turnpike were not used
to such affairs; the younger Turnpikes were timid. William was silent,
and all were under the depressing spell of the knowledge that they
would soon part with him.
The morning papers the next day were very kindly in their criticism of
the play and of the company, but only one of them, that for which the
dean of critics wrote, had any special mention of William. "His part
was a small one: until the fourth act he had no real chance, and then
he made the most of it. There is rare promise in the youth, but there
are many pitfalls for those who go on the stage. The next few years
will be a time of testing for him: if he emerges successfully there is
no reason to doubt that he will win his way to the front rank as a
comedian." Epstein's eyes were tear-dimmed as he read the words:
William cut them out of his own copy of the paper and kept them stowed
away with other precious belongings that he carried on his travels for
years.
The company left Toronto on a Sunday morning for a five months' tour.
Pa and Ma Turnpike and William did not go to bed after he reached home
from the theatre on the Saturday night. There was no trunk packing to
do; that had been attended to hours before. But there was much to be
said between those three, and none could say it without tears and
broken voices. And so at last they sat together, Pa Turnpike on one
side and William on the other side of Ma's easy chair. She held one of
William's hands tightly in her own, and when she could, she talked to
him the mother talk that so many have heard and heeded not, and would
give all they have to hear again. And William made promises to keep
his feet dry; to watch his throat; to be careful of the food he ate; to
take all the sleep he could, and then, fifty times at least, to leave
liquor alone, and to write home as often as he could. Pa Turnpike
backed his wife strongly on the liquor question. "Leave it alone,
boy," he said, "leave it alone: it never was, and never will be, any
good." And William nodded assuringly. "Don't be afraid of that," he
said confidently, "I've got no use for it."
At eight o'clock in the morning there was a hurried call to the
bedrooms occupied by the younger Turnpikes, and William kissed them
gently, for all but Pete were fast asleep. Pete jumped out of bed and
dressed hurriedly. "I'm going to the station with 'Mister Actor Man,'"
he announced, and a few minutes later William, Pete, and Pa Turnpike,
in one of the latter's express wagons, with one trunk containing
William's stock of clothes, proceeded briskly down the street.
William's mother stood at the door answering with her own the waving of
William's handkerchief until the wagon turned a corner. . . . Then she
went back to weep.
Inside the Union Station--that horror of horrors that still appals the
train-borne visitors to a great city--William and his escorts were met
by Lucien, Whimple, and Epstein. There was much affected gaiety, but
the hopes for William's future were almost overwhelmed in the deep
regret at his departure. Tommy Watson was an absentee, and William
felt this keenly, although he said nothing of it. Pa Turnpike made a
shrewd guess at the cause of his boy's furtive glances around the
station, and murmured to Epstein, "I thought Mr. Watson would have been
down."
"So did I," answered the old comedian, a little apologetically, "but
perhaps----" and then he looked around sharply as the music of a brass
band echoed along the vaulted roof of the station. And what think you
the band was playing? "Will ye no come back again." Yes, and playing
it well, too. As the band came into view from one of the arched
crossings, the faces of the group around William lit up with smiles,
for, marching proudly in front, and carrying an enormous bunch of
roses, was Tommy Watson, his head erect, his shoulders well back, his
face aglow. To his signal the band aligned in front of the little
group, and broke into a new tune, a lilting march, written around a
then popular song, now almost forgotten, "Bill, our Bill." Perhaps
there are some who still remember the chorus:--
"Bill, our Bill, see him smile,
On fair days and dull days,
Oh, it's well worth while,
To watch him at work,
To see him at his play;
Bill, our Bill; see him smile."
After they had played the chorus several times, the bandsmen sang it,
William's friends joining in.
"Rotten verse," said Lucien Torrance, when they were through, "but it
fits you, William Adolphus Turnpike--our Bill."
"Where did you get the band, Tommy?" asked Epstein.
"Minstrel show; arrived in Toronto before daylight for a week's
engagement," retorted Tommy, proudly, and in curt sentences; "know the
leader; copped him at breakfast; arranged terms in five minutes; great
send-off to the coming world-famous comedian. Sorry couldn't bring
Tommy junior down; sleeping; would have enjoyed it."
Then to William he handed the roses. "Boy," he said gravely, and with
a touch of tenderness in his tone, "a lady, a young lady, gave me these
with this message, 'Please tell Mr. Turnpike I wish him success.'"
Some say William blushed. William still stoutly denies it; but he
could not speak for a moment. His heart was beating wildly; his hands
trembled as he took the roses and held them a second or two to his
face. He looked up again, self-possessed and quiet. "Thank you,
Tommy," he said, simply.
"Is there a----" began Lucien, eagerly.
William broke in gently, "Don't, Lucien," he said, "my career is
first--yet. I dare not hope--what sometimes I have dared to hope.
I----"
"All aboard!" The hoarse cry of the train despatcher rolled out the
words, and the clanging of the station bell followed. As the train
began to slowly draw out of the station the band again struck up "Bill,
our Bill." William stood on the rear platform of the train, the roses
in one hand, the other waving farewell until the train disappeared, the
while the band played on.
Then his friends slowly left the station, Lucien walking with Tommy
Watson. "Roses for William," said Lucien, "and from a young lady!"
"Yes--and a charming young lady, too, my boy."
"Who is she, Tommy?" Lucien ventured, diffidently.
Tommy shook his head slowly. "Not now, Lucien; not now. The dreams of
youth do not always come true, but," with a happy laugh, "William has
such a way of making his come true. Who knows?"