The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Pirate of Parts, by Richard Neville This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Pirate of Parts Author: Richard Neville Release Date: September 14, 2008 [EBook #26612] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PIRATE OF PARTS *** Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) A Pirate of Parts By RICHARD NEVILLE NEW YORK THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 1913 All rights reserved "One man in his time plays many parts." —Shakespeare "All the worlds' a stage And all the men and women merely players" To my sister, Mrs. Mary Hughes, who for years has been associated with several of the most notable presentations on the American stage and with many of the most prominent and talented of American players, both male and female. "BILL OF THE PLAY" I.—Is all our company here?—Shakespeare II.—What stories I'll tell when my sojerin' is o'er.—Lever III.—Come all ye warmheart'd countrymen I pray you will draw near.—Old Ballad IV.—Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of ground.—Shakespeare V.—I would rather live in Bohemia than in any other land.—John Boyle O'Reilly VI.—What strange things we see and what queer things we do.—Modern Song VII.—He employs his fancy in his narrative and keep his recollections for his wit.—Richard Brindsley Sheridan VIII.—Every one shall offer according to what he hath.—Deut. IX.—One man in his time plays many parts.—Shakespeare X.—Originality is nothing more than judicious imitation.—Voltaire XI.—All places that the eye of heaven visits are happy havens.—Shakespeare XII.—There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.—Shakespeare XIII.—Life is mostly froth and bubble.—The Hill XIV.—Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time.—Shakespeare XV.—Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.—Shakespeare XVI.—A new way to pay old debts. XVII.—The actors are at hand.—Shakespeare XVIII.—Twinkle, twinkle little star.—Nursery Rhymes XIX.—Experience is a great teacher—the events of life its chapters.—Sainte Beuve XX.—I am not an imposter that proclaim myself against the level of my aim.—Shakespeare XXI.—I'll view the town, peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings.—Shakespeare XXII.—Is this world and all the life upon it a farce or vaudeville.—Geo. Elliott XXIII.—All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players.—Shakespeare XXIV.—There's nothing to be got nowadays, unless thou can'st fish for it.—Shakespeare XXV.—Joy danced with Mirth, a gay fantastic crowd.—Collins XXVI.—Say not "Good Night," but in some brighter clime bid me "Good Morning."—Barbauld A Pirate of Parts CHAPTER I "Is all our company here?" —MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. Yes, he was a strolling player pure and simple. He was an actor by profession, and jack of all trades through necessity. He could play any part from Macbeth to the hind leg of an elephant, equally well or bad, as the case might be. What he did not know about a theatre was not worth knowing; what he could not do about a playhouse was not worth doing— provided you took his word for it. From this it might be inferred he was a useful man, but he was not. He had a queer way of doing things he ought not to do, and of leaving undone things he should have done. Good nature, however, was his chief quality. He bubbled over with it. Under the most trying circumstances he never lost his temper. He laughed his way through life, apparently without care. Yet he was a man of family, and those who were dependent upon him were not neglected, for his little ones were uppermost in his heart. Acting was his legitimate calling, but he would attempt anything to turn an honest penny. In turn he had been sailor, engineer, pilot, painter, manager, lecturer, bartender, soldier, author, clown, pantaloon, and a brass band. To preach a sermon would disconcert him as little as to undertake to navigate a balloon. He could get away with a pint of Jersey lightning, and under its stimulating influence address a blue ribbon temperance meeting on the pernicious effects of rum. Where he was born no one could tell. He claimed laughingly that it was so long since he was first produced he had lost track of the date. A friend of his maintained that he was bred in the blue grass region, he was such an admirable judge of whisky. On that score he might as well have been born in the County Galway as in the state of Kentucky. He had a voluminous shock of red hair; his name was Handy, and no one ever thought of addressing him otherwise, even on the slightest acquaintance. When he had an engagement he was poorer than when he was out of a job. He was a daisy of the chronic impecunious variety. The summer of —'7 was a hard season with actors, and as Handy was one of the guild he suffered like the rest of his calling. He was not so fortunate as to have country relatives with whom he might visit and spend a brief vacation down on the old farm, so he had to bestir himself to hit upon some scheme or other to bridge over the so-called dog days. He pondered over the matter, and finally determined to organize a company to work the towns along the Long Island Sound coast. Most men would have shrunk from an undertaking of this character without the necessary capital to embark in the venture. Handy, however, was not an individual of that type. He was a man of great natural and economical resources, when put to the test. Moreover, he had a friend who was the owner of a good-sized canvas tent; was on familiar terms with another who was the proud possessor of a fairly good-sized sailing craft; his credit at the printer's was good for twenty or twenty-five dollars, and in addition he had eleven dollars in hard cash in his inside pocket. What more could an enterprising man, with energy to burn, desire? On the Rialto Handy picked up seven good men and true, who, like himself, had many a time and oft fretted their brief hour upon the stage—and possibly will again,—who were willing to embark their fame and fortune in the venture. They knew Handy was a sailor bold, and so long as they had an angel in the shape of a vessel to perform the transportation part of the scheme without being compelled to count railroad ties, in case of ill luck, sailing was good enough for them. Besides, time was no object, for they had plenty of it to spare. They were all actors like Handy himself. The stories they could unfold of barn-storming in country towns in years gone by would fill a volume as bulky as a census report. Moreover, they could turn their talents to any line of business and double, treble, quintuple parts as easily as talk. They were players of the old stock school. One of the company played a cornet badly enough to compel the inhabitants of any civilized town to take to the woods until he had made his departure; another was a flutist of uncertain qualifications, while a third could rasp a little on the violin; and as for Handy himself, he could tackle any other instrument that might be necessary to make up a band; but playing the drum,—the bass drum,—or the cymbals, was his specialty. A company was accordingly organized, the day of departure fixed, the printing got out—and the printer "hung up." The vessel was anchored off Staten Island, and was provisioned with one keg of beer, a good-sized box of hardtack, a jar of Vesey Street pickles, a Washington Street ham, five large loaves and all the fishes in the bay. The company, after some preliminary preparations, boarded the Gem of the Ocean, for such was the pretentious name of the unpretentious craft that was to carry Cæsar and his fortunes. Perhaps Handy's own description of the first night's adventure might prove more interesting than if given by another. CHAPTER II "What stories I'll tell when my sojerin is o'er." —LEVER. "Well, sir, you see," said Handy some weeks after in relating the adventure to a friend, "we had previously determined to start from Staten Island, when one of the company got it into his head that we might show on the island for 'one night only,' and make a little something into the bargain. Besides, he reasoned, all first-class companies nowadays adopt that plan of breaking in their people. Some cynical individuals describe this first night operation as 'trying it on the dog,' but as that is a vulgar way of putting it we'll let it pass. We turned the matter over in our minds, and almost unanimously agreed that it was too near the city to make the attempt, but the strong arguments of Smith prevailed—he was the one who first advocated it—and we therefore resolved to set up our tent and present 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' with an unparalleled cast from the California Theatre. "You must remember we desired to have the company hail from a point as far distant as possible from New York, and we could hardly have gone further or we would have slid right plumb off the continent. But we told no lie about the company being unparalleled. No, sir. You couldn't match it for money. It was what might be legitimately considered a 'star cast company.' "One of the company was a dwarf. That was lucky, or we would have been stuck for a Little Eva. So the dwarf was cast for Eva; and he doubled up and served as an ice floe, with a painted soap box on his back to represent a floating cake of ice in the flight scene. He played the ice floe much better than he did Eva. But that's neither here nor there now, as he got through with both. What's more, he's alive to-day to tell the tale. Between ourselves, he was the oddest looking Eva—and the toughest one, too, for that matter—you ever clapped eyes upon. "In the dying scene, where Eva is supposed to start for heaven, we struck up the tune of 'Dem Golden Slippers' in what we considered appropriate time. Well! whatever it was—whether it was the music, the singing, or little Eva's departure for the heavenly regions—it nearly broke up the show. The audience simply wouldn't stand for it. Just at that impressive moment when the Golden Gates were supposed to be ajar, and dear little Eva's spirit was about to pass the gate- keeper, a couple of rural hoodlums in the starboard side of the tent began to whistle the suggestive psalm, 'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night.' When I heard it I felt convinced it wouldn't be safe to give that programme for more than one night in any town. "We hurried through the performance for two special reasons: first, because the audience evidently did not appear to appreciate or take kindly to the company from the California Theatre, and secondly on account of the rising wind which was beginning to blow up pretty fresh, and the tent was not sufficiently able-bodied to stand too much of a pressure from outside as well as from within. Consequently we rang down the curtain rather prematurely on the last act. It is nothing more than candid to allow that the audience was not as quiet at the close as in the earlier scenes of the drama. We had no kick coming, however, as the gross receipts footed up seventeen dollars and fifty cents. "We struck tent without much delay and managed to get our traps together. We were about to carry them down to the Gem of the Ocean when Smith, the property man, approached me with the information that there was a man looking for me who intimated that he was going to levy on our props. 'What's up?' I asked. "'Don't know,' answered Smith, 'but I think you had better see him yourself.' "I did, and it proved to be the sheriff, or some fellow of that persuasion. He came to make it warm for us because, forsooth, we showed without a license. And this, mind you, in what we regard as a free country. Ye gods! Well, be that as it may, you can readily see we were in a bad box, and how to get out of it was the perplexing problem that confronted me. "I claimed ignorance of the law, but it was no go. I then attempted a bluff game, but it wouldn't work for a cent. I tried him on all the points of the compass of strategem, but he was a Staten Islander, and I failed satisfactorily to inoculate him with my histrionic eloquence. The members of the company, however, were not wasting time and were getting the things down to the dock, only a short distance off. "Finally, as if inspired, I suggested to the official that we drop over the way, to Clausen's, and talk the matter over. I was thirsty, and I had an instinctive idea that my political friend also was. He hesitated a moment, and then started across with me. We walked slowly and talked freely. At length we got down to hard pan. I was ready to settle up and pay the license fee, but he wasn't ready to receive it. The fee, I think, was five dollars, but he wanted something in addition for his trouble. He didn't say as much, but I knew that was what he was hinting at. These politicians are so modest. I know them from past experience. "When we reached Clausen's we retired to a quiet corner in the back room and continued our conversation. I set up the beer, called for the cigars, and then motioned for another round. The sheriff was quite agreeable. Suddenly it flashed through my mind that I did not have one cent in my clothes. Sy Jones, whom we had appointed treasurer, had taken possession of the gross receipts. I was nonplussed for the time being. What to do I couldn't tell for the moment, but I didn't communicate that fact to my official friend. We had some more refreshments, and then I excused myself for a minute and went out into the yard back of the house. As fate would have it, the fence was not high. Without much hesitation I took chances, sprang over it, and started for the water-side as quickly as my legs would travel. "I knew exactly where the Gem of the Ocean lay. The boys had worked like beavers in the interim. They had everything stowed away snugly. It did not take me long to get aboard with the rest of the boys. "'Get to work and cast off as quickly as you can,' I whispered, rather than yelled. It was an anxious moment, I tell you, for just at that moment the front door of Clausen's power house was flung wide open and loud and angry voices were borne on the night wind to where we lay. 'Push her bow off, for the Lord's sake!' I yelled, while I was busily engaged in running up the jib. "It wasn't then a question of sheriff alone. Clausen, the German saloon-keeper, and his gang were coming down on us like a pack of wolves on a sheepfold. Clausen, naturally enough, was considerably put out, simply because I was forced through the contradictory nature of conflicting circumstances to arbitrarily stand him up for the refreshments and smokes, and he appeared desirous of getting square. Fortunately for us, the high wind that had threatened to blow over our tent was off-shore, and by the time the Staten Islanders reached the end of the dock we had a good breeze full on the sails and were laying our course for the hospitable shore of Long Island." CHAPTER III "Come all ye warm-hearted countrymen, I pray you will draw near." —OLD SONG. "About daybreak we passed through Hell Gate, with a kiting breeze, and were pointing for Whitestone, where we proposed to show the following night. We reached there some time in the forenoon. Fancy our dismay when we learned that North's Circus was billed there the same evening. North had chartered a steamer and was bent on precisely the same lay as we were, with this difference, that he was more thoroughly equipped for the undertaking. As soon as we made this unpleasant discovery our spirits fell to zero and our hearts slipped into our boots. Some of the people were so discouraged that they were in favor of giving up the 'snap' there and then, but the more optimistic ones determined to stick it out, and stick we did. "Along in the afternoon we saw the North steamer come along with flags flying and a band playing. If we hadn't been on professional business ourselves we possibly might have enjoyed the exhibition. We should have left Whitestone right away, but the wind had died out and there wasn't a capful of air stirring. Some of the members of the company expressed a desire to go ashore, but I objected. I had made up my mind to start with the first breath of wind that sprang up. To profitably employ our time we set to work to fish for our supper. Our larder was not over and above flush, and a few fish would prove quite acceptable. Just about sundown a breeze sprang up, and we took advantage of it. We hoisted anchor and stood up the Sound with every stitch of canvas set and drawing. "I forget just the name of the next stopping place we reached, but I should judge it was a point opposite, or nearly opposite, to Greenwich or Stamford. We remained on board until about eight o'clock next morning, and then a little party went ashore to reconnoiter. The town proper was only a short distance from the little harbor. Imagine our feelings when we ascertained that North had billed this town also, and was to show there that very night. This was too much for poor, trusting human nature. The opposition show itself we wouldn't have minded, but the colored printing, streamers, and snipes that adorned the fences, barns and hen houses almost paralyzed us. "In sheer desperation we brought the tent ashore and prepared to tackle fate and the opposition, and trust to luck. We put out no bills, and got ready to make much big noise of the proper kind when the opportune moment arrived. We hired a wagon from an enterprising farmer for our band; then sent complimentary tickets to the dominie to come to see 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' for the familiar old drama, notwithstanding the wear and tear of many years of barn-storming, is still regarded as somewhat of a religious entertainment. We toiled like beavers to work up business for the night. The attraction pitted against us was strong, but what of that? Desperation gave us strength, and we hoped for the best. "Along in the afternoon as I was about to board the Gem I was astonished to find no appearance of the North circus steamer. It was nigh on to high water, a dead calm prevailed, and the atmosphere was hot and misty. I thought little of it at the time, until I reached the deck. I knew that, allowing a fair margin for delay, a power craft could run up in short order, and an hour or so would be ample time to put up the tent and get everything in readiness for the night's performance. "While I sat at the head of the companionway meditating over the situation and drawing consolation from a bit of briarwood, the property man hailed me from the shore. I immediately manned the dingy and rowed for the shore to ascertain what was the matter. When I got there he informed me that some of the inhabitants from the interior had got in town to see the show and were anxious to buy reserved seats. I inquired if he had accommodated them. He told me he had not done so, as he had an idea that it was the other show they were looking for. However, he was not certain on that score. For the time being, however, he put them off with the explanation that the ticket register was out of order and the tickets were not yet ready. The family wagons and carryalls were beginning to come in, and by four o'clock or thereabouts the little place presented quite an animated appearance. The prospects for a crowd were good. Every minute I expected to hear the sound of the steamboat's whistle at the point announcing her arrival. It was getting along well in the afternoon when the thought entered my mind, 'Now, if by any chance the steamer should be delayed, what course would I pursue?' "The more I turned the subject over in my mind the stronger I became impressed with the idea that desperate cases necessitate strenuous remedies. The heat of the afternoon became oppressive, and the haze had become a thick fog over the water. Occasionally it would lift slightly and then settle down more dense than before. Five o'clock came, and still no steamer. About ten minutes later we heard a sound that nearly knocked me out. It was the steamer with the other fellow's show. We heard the blow, but could not get a glimpse of the blowpipe. We could hear, but could not see. We remained on board some time, and then all hands went ashore. The fog still hung over the water and the whistle continued to blow. We resolved to play a desperate game. So long as the fog continued we were all safe, as I felt satisfied the captain of the steamer would not dare venture to run in closer to the shore at that stage of the tide, especially in such a fog. "We hurried up to the tent and began to sell tickets. Buyers naturally made inquiries, but the ticket-seller economized considerably on the truth in his answers. We paid the farmer for his wagon that had been used by the band one half in cash and the balance in passes. Sharp at eight o'clock we rung the curtain up to a jammed house of the most astonished countrymen, women and children you ever set eyes upon. They did not know what to make of it, but they swallowed it all in the most good-natured manner possible. We introduced bits of 'The Old Homestead,' 'The Two Orphans,' 'Rip Van Winkle,' slices of Shakespeare, Augustus Thomas, George Ade, and other great writers, so you see we were giving them bits of the best living and dead dramatists. Our native Shakespeares do the same thing nowadays in all of their original works, and that's no idle fairy tale. We sandwiched comedy, drama, tragedy, and farce, and interlarded the mixture with Victor Herbert and Oscar Hammerstein's opera comique and May Irwin coon songs. Such a presentation of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' was never before presented, and I am free to confess the chances are never will be again. We actually played the town on the other fellow's paper. It wasn't exactly according to Hoyle, but then any reasonable thinking man will concede that necessity knows no law, and as the country people came to see a show it would have been a grievous sin to have disappointed them. "It did not take us long to strike tent and hurry on board when the curtain fell on the last act. By this time the fog had lifted. As there was a breeze we made sail and stood out for the open sea. It was near the top of high water as we passed the point, and there we saw the steamer going in. She had run on a sandbar in the fog and was compelled to stay there for high water to get off. That's how the other fellow got left and how we turned his mishap to our advantage." CHAPTER IV "Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.... The wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death." —TEMPEST. By midnight the Gem of the Ocean was well out in the Sound. A stiff breeze was now blowing, and the little craft was footing it at a rapid rate. Handy was now in his native element. He and his company felt that they had turned a clever trick. It was an achievement worthy of the most accomplished barnstormer. The idea of playing the town on the other fellow's paper, ye gods! it was an accomplishment to feel proud of; something to be stored away in the memory; something to be set aside for future use when nights were long and congenial companions were gathered about a cheerful fireside to listen to stories of days gone by. Supper disposed of, the company were grouped together near the companionway smoking the pipes of peace and anxious to discuss the next managerial move. Handy, of course, was the prime mover in all things—the one man to whom they all looked to pilot them safely through the difficulties they expected to encounter. So far they considered he had made good. He appeared to be in the best of spirits. Seated on an up-turned bucket, drawing meditatively on his well-seasoned briarwood, he looked a perfect picture of content. Not so, however, the "little 'un," as the boys playfully addressed the dwarf. The motion of the vessel did not harmonize with peculiarities of his interior arrangements, and unless the Gem stopped rolling and pitching there was evidently trouble ahead. Matters were approaching a crisis with him. He had little or nothing to say. In fact, he was doing his best, as he afterwards admitted, to keep his spirits up while he manfully struggled to keep material matter down. "Is it always as rough as this, Handy?" he asked in a plaintive voice. "Rough as this, eh, my bold buccaneer," responded Handy, cheerily; "rough as this? Why, there's scarcely a whitecap on the water. You ain't going to be seasick, are you? Well, at any rate, if you are, possibly it may be all for the best. 'Twill make a new man of you." "Maybe he don't want to be made a new man of," suggested the low comedy man. "Oh, cork up and give us a rest," appealed the Little 'Un, somewhat testily. "I'm all right, only I don't relish the confounded motion of the craft. First she rocks one way, then another, and then again she seems to have the fidgets, and pitches in fits and starts. I don't see any sense in it. Steamboats don't cut up such capers, at least, none of those that I've had any experience with." "Brace up, my hearty," said Handy, removing the briarwood from his lips. "Brace up. You'll feel all right anon." "Anon isn't half bad," again jocularly interposed the comedy gentleman. The wind was gradually freshening. There was by this time quite a sea on, and the Little 'Un was beginning to succumb to the influence of prevailing conditions. A sudden gust struck the Gem, and, yielding to it, the group that was sitting so contentedly a few seconds before about the companionway went rolling in a heap down to leeward in the cockpit. This was altogether too much for the Little 'Un. He picked himself together as well as he could, and doubled over the rail, Handy holding on to his extremities. It was a trying scene for a time, and Handy had the worst of it. "Steady there, now, old fellow, you'll feel all serene when you give up. There's no danger." A minute or so later the poor little chap was taken from the rail as limp as a wet rag, and was stretched out on the deck with a coil of rope for a pillow. "When you get me on a snap of this kind again," he began in a feeble voice, after he had somewhat recovered, "you just let me know. No more water adventures for me. I know when I have had enough. Dry land for mine hereafter." Handy endeavored to console and cheer him up, but in vain. The poor sufferer was completely used up. He had yielded his gross receipts to Neptune, and would, at that particular moment, have mortgaged his prospects in the future to have been able to set foot on terra firma. With some little difficulty Handy and one of the crew succeeded in getting him below and stowed him away in a bunk. The wind increased during the night, and by two in the morning it was blowing a half-gale. The Gem was trimmed down to close reefs, and all but the crew and Handy had turned in—but not to sleep. Handy, who was an experienced sailor, remained on deck all night. He was never away from his post. He was as good a sailor as he was bad as a financier. This speaks volumes for his abilities as a mariner. The night passed over without mishap, and shortly before sunrise the wind gave evidence of going down. There was, however, a high sea running, and though the little craft behaved nobly and was skillfully handled, yet to men unaccustomed to go down to the sea in ships calmer weather would have been acceptable. Daylight dawned at last. Later the sun made his appearance, red and fiery, looking as if annoyed at the capers old Boreas had been cutting up during the night. The wind went down as the sun rose higher, and long before noon all was calm and peaceful. The spirits of the company were restored. As the morning passed jokes and merriment helped to dispel the unpleasant experiences of the storm of the previous night. Handy's good humor was particularly conspicuous, as he had a cheerful word for all. His spirits were as buoyant as the craft that bore his troupers. At breakfast—or after breakfast, rather—the momentous question rose as to where the next stand should be made. The company had already tested its ability as well as the forbearance of two audiences, and financially, if not artistically, came out fairly well. It is only fair to admit, however, not one individual member of the troupe made what is designated as a personal success. There was now money in the treasury, and plenty of confidence to go with it. The consensus of opinion, however, appeared to be that "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was a little too risky to repeat. It was admitted that Eva was not what might be described as a howling success. Moreover, the boxes that did duty for ice floes were fortunately, or unfortunately, left behind on the golden sands of Long Island. In addition to that, the artist who performed the dog act and who as a barker in Coney Island might be considered clever in a way was now as hoarse as a second-hand trombone from a third-rate pawnshop let out for hire to a broken-down German band. An hundred and one difficulties were interposed against the further presentation of the well-worn old drama. It was finally decided that Uncle Tom should be relieved from duty, for the present at least, and the play and the public given a rest. CHAPTER V "I would rather live in Bohemia than in any other land." —JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. The main point to be decided was the selection of the town in which the next exhibition should be made. Various places were named, their resources summed up, and the peculiarities of the inhabitants canvassed. None of them seemed to the assembled wisdom of the company to fill the bill. Handy apparently appeared to take slight interest in the deliberations, but his active brain, notwithstanding, was at work. He was considering the situation, and quietly letting his companions ventilate their views before offering his. At length the exchange of opinions reached the stage when the sage deemed it was proper to speak. "Eureka!" he exclaimed, "I have it." "Suffer us not to remain in ignorance," urged the comedian. "Do not dissemble—enlighten us." "Newport!" "Newport!" they all repeated in surprise. "Newport!" Handy replied calmly, and the company looked at each other and then turned their gaze on Handy. "He's off his base," said the dwarf. "Why, we wouldn't take in money enough to pay for the lights. Newport! Great Cæsar's ghost!" "We'll never get out of the place alive," volunteered the dog-man. Handy merely smiled as he listened to his companions' objections, but he was firm in his resolve to have his way. "Newport, my friends," began Handy, complacently, "is our mutton; and when I explain my reason for the selection I think you will concede the wisdom of my choice. Society, or the blue blood of the country, as it is regarded by some, make annual visits about this time to Newport, to enjoy themselves and to be amused and entertained. We can give them an entertainment such as they have never seen before, and possibly may never see again. However, you never can tell. Anything and everything in the way of novelty goes with them. It matters not what it may be so long as it is odd, new, or novel. Remember, we live in a changeable, hustling, ragtime age. Coon songs are almost as popular with the best of them as grand opera, and more readily appreciated. If we don't surprise and amuse them I shall be very much disappointed. A tent show in staid, fashionable old Newport is an unheard-of undertaking, and we will have the honor, and, I may add, the profit of inaugurating the fashion. There's the rub. The very novelty and the boldness of the undertaking cannot, in my humble judgment, fail to appeal to these pleasure-seekers. Of course, we can hardly expect them to invite us to remain for the rest of the season. But let that pass. That's another consideration. It is a one night only racket, and trust me we'll do business. When they will have the—the a—well, call it pleasure of listening to that strenuous band of ours on parade, it will be the talk of the town. Mark what I say," and Handy smiled. "Good heavens, Handy, old man!" exclaimed the Little 'Un tremulously, "you are not going to let that band loose on the unsuspecting inhabitants, are you?" "Such is my fell purpose," he replied. "Is there a police force there?" queried the comedian; "for if there be you can hand me my divvy right now. Tie the Gem up to the first rock we come to and put me ashore. No Newport for mine, thank you." "Say, what is the matter with all of you? Does the name of Newport faze you? Don't you know that human nature is the same the world over in all time and in all places, and that the venturesome fellow appeals to all classes—rich as well as poor? Let me tell you, boys, if you will stand by me in this deal I'll pull you through all right. Besides, the success of our Newport date—and in the height of the season, too—will be something to boast of when we get back to the Great White Way. It sounds big—some style about it, and, take it from me, boys, style is everything in our profesh just now. You may have no talent, and not be able to act even a little bit, but if you have style and cheek and put up a good front you can count on an engagement every time. That's the kind of stuff stars are made of now." Handy's matter-of-fact argument was sufficient. He carried his point. The company agreed to do Newport and take chances. It had previously been decided to shelve "Uncle Tom's Cabin." So that perplexing matter was settled. The important consideration, however, arose, what should they substitute. A variety of pieces were named, but no decision was reached. Handy's wonderful fertility of resource at length came to the rescue and brought forth, much to the amazement of all, "Humpty Dumpty." They had, it is true, no columbine, but a little thing like that did not trouble the irrepressible Handy. "Do not the annals of the American stage lay bare the fact," quoth he, "that on one occasion in Wallack's old theatre, when it was located downtown on Broadway, near Broome Street, in New York, during the run of John Brougham's brilliant burlesque, 'Pocahontas,' with the famous author himself in the cast as Powhattan, and Charles Walcot as Captain John Smith, the extravaganza was given for one night only without a Pocahontas. And the records say it was the most remarkable and amusing performance of its entire run." Plays with and without plots are frequently presented nowadays in many of our so-called first-class theatres, with players of no experience and little natural ability. The public accepts them because they are offered nothing better. But that's neither here nor there at present. In "Humpty Dumpty" they had a good standard name. Just old enough to be new. "It is true," Handy argued, "we have not the necessary stage equipment for a metropolitan production. The only thing we have, for that matter, is the name. That is enough for us, and we are going to do the best we can with it. Ordinary actors, together with all the necessary equipment of props and scenery, might be able to attempt a presentation of the famous pantomime, but it takes your strolling players, bred and brought up in the old stock school, to turn the trick without them." It was a lazy day on board the little vessel. There was no wind. The sun poured down his rays so fiercely that it was almost unbearable. It was a dead calm. All the sailing vessels within sight were motionless. Not a sound disturbed the monotony of the scene, save the distant beat of the paddles or propellers of an approaching or receding steamboat. Newport, the gay world of the summer metropolis of fashion, loomed up in the distance, looking as beautiful as an alliance of art with nature could make a favored location. This was the Mecca toward which those on board directed their eyes and thoughts. Evening came, and with it a refreshing breeze. Once more the Gem was under headway, and shortly after sundown the little vessel was safely in port, her anchor dropped, and the sails snugly furled. As soon as everything was made shipshape on board, Handy and a member of the company rowed ashore to see how the land lay from a stroller's point of view as well as to select a site for the tent. CHAPTER VI "What strange things we see and what queer things we do." —'TIS ENGLISH, YOU KNOW. It was the height of the season. The colony was alive with the wealthy and fashionable ones of the republic. Thousands of bright lights shone through the clearness of the purple night, and music filled the summer air with melodious sound. Life, apparently devoid of care, and pleasures with youth, beauty and excitement, were blended in harmonious ensemble. Handy took in the entire situation. He read, and read correctly, too, the constituency to which he was about to appeal. An ordinary theatrical company going there and hiring a hall, he concluded, would be nothing out of the usual run, and the chances are the performance would fall flat, stale and unprofitable. The possibility for the success of the tent, on account of its novelty, appealed strongly to his optimistic imagination. He was determined to carry the place by storm. A vacant lot close to one of the fashionable drives was secured for the scene of the thespian operations. "Here pitch we our tent," said Handy, "and don't you make any bloomin' error about it. 'Tis the boss place. Elegant surroundings; magnificent locality, easy to reach, and lots of room for carriages to come and go!" It may, perhaps, be as well to mention that the date selected for the entertainment was Saturday, just two nights ahead. For that same night a grand operatic concert was announced, under the patronage of an aspiring clique, in another part of the town. Good artists, though somewhat ancient, were billed to take part in it. The craze for the antique then, as now, had no such potency as may be positively relied upon. Well-seasoned age has its disadvantages. Fashion is ever capricious in the selection of objects for its recognition. So far as Handy was concerned, the operatic enterprise did not in the least disturb his mind. It was rather late when he got aboard. All hands, however, were on the look-out for him, anxiously awaiting his return. He briefly summed up the result of his work on shore; explained what he purposed to do, and concluded by impressing upon the members of his company the necessity of making all preparations with a view to rapid movements both before and after the performance. After all the others had turned in for the night Handy remained on deck cogitating over his plans and perplexing his brain over approaching futurities. At length he too stretched himself out for sleep. He was up with the sun. Like a celebrated statesman of bygone days, he was going to make the greatest effort of his life. By noon next day he received from the local printer the proof sheet of a bill of the play. It was a curiosity in its way, and a copy of it may interest the reader. It read as follows: THE INDEPENDENT THEATRE! THE GREATEST SHOW OF ITS KIND ON EARTH! FUN UNDER A TENT. On this Saturday Evening Will be presented for the first and only occasion, Under the Distinguished Patronage of Everybody, the Great Spectacular and Classic Pantomime HUMPTY DUMPTY, By a company of well trained star artists. THE ONLY SHOW OF ITS QUALITY IN EXISTENCE. Those who see the performance will never forget it. SECURE YOUR SEATS EARLY. By special request of a number of distinguished visitors the performance will not begin until 8:30. Carriages may be ordered for any hour. Box sheet ready at noon Saturday, corner of Vanderbilt and Astor Avenues. When Handy read the programme to his company they were so astonished they scarcely knew what to say. At first they appeared to regard it as a joke. Handy's manner betokened earnestness. His companions thought it best to withhold their curiosity and await further developments. Their manager they knew to be a man of action—a species of Oscar Hammerstein in embryo, with a blending of Wilkins Micawber and Mulberry Sellers mixed in. The company employed the afternoon in folding circulars and programmes. Handy himself was deep in the study of the élite directory, and under his direction a large number of envelopes were carefully addressed. The work went on systematically. Night at last arrived, and all hands enjoyed a respite from clerical labor. At nine o'clock the company went ashore, carrying with them their tent, costumes and properties—such as they were. It was a busy night on land, and their strenuous exertions, under the cover of darkness, accomplished wonders under Handy's guidance. It was next door to daylight when they got back to the ship to take a rest before the arduous work of the eventful day began. Before noon the canvas showhouse on the corner was the principal subject of conversation throughout the town. During the night the strollers had set up their tent, and there was scarcely a house in town in which they had not placed handbills and circulars announcing the coming performance. No matter where an inhabitant wandered one of the "Humpty Dumpty" programmes was sure to be found. The people at first glance regarded the announcement with some degree of doubt, but the appearance of the tent, with the flags flying, dispelled that fear. The tent seemed to have got there by magic. Like the palace of Aladdin, it had sprung into existence during the night. Its appearance excited curiosity and provoked gossip, and the announcement of "Humpty Dumpty" was a puzzle. With the most unparalleled nerve messenger boys were dispatched to the fashionable cottages with circulars soliciting patronage and inviting attendance, and a considerable number of the cottagers, attracted by the novelty of the undertaking, concluded it would be a good joke to go to see the extraordinary show. "We'll paralyze 'em," said Handy to his fellow-players, as they were grouped together on the stage preparing red lights, which he proposed to use as a species of illumination. "Wait until I let the band loose in the streets, and if it don't fetch 'em, well, I'll quit the business." "Handy, methinks we made a bloomin' blunder," remarked the Little 'Un. "We ought to have billed the town for a week." "A week?" queried the property man in some surprise. "Why so, may I ask, my noble critic?" "Well, to be frank with you, because if we did, methinks after once or twice having made acquaintance with our band, 'tis dollars to doughnuts they would have substantially staked us to leave town." Handy looked at the speaker with a glance of mingled cynicism and humor, and turning to the treasurer inquired, "How is the advance sale?" "Ninety-seven and a half dollars," replied the secretary of the treasury. "Good enough! We're away ahead of expenses now." At eight o'clock there was some excitement noticeable down near the water convenient to one of the avenues. A few minutes later and the band, led by Handy, came forth. As the musicians marched the crowd increased. Up the principal street the strollers paraded, preceded and accompanied by a crowd of urchins and curiosity seekers. People came to the doors to look and hear, and many windows had their occupants. The streets were crowded, and by the time the band reached the tent it was fairly well filled. It might be as well to say that the majority of those who went to witness "Humpty Dumpty" did so for the pure fun of the thing, and determined to have the lark out. There was no orchestra, for the orchestra was the band, and the band had to do the acting. The curtain went up somewhere about the hour announced. Had poor dead and gone G. L. Fox, the original Humpty, and the greatest pantomimist of the American stage, been living and among the audience, he could not have failed to enjoy the performance. It is impossible to describe it in detail. After a brief period the most friendly relations were established between the people before and beyond the footlights. Remarks full of fun and humor were freely exchanged. Handy played Humpty, and introduced by way of variety a breakdown that, in the manipulation of his legs, would have made Francis Wilson grow green with envy. Smith was the Pantaloon, and obligingly entertained the audience, by special request, with the song of "Mr. Dooley," in the chorus of which the audience joined with vigor. The song is not new, but Smith's particular version, as well as his vocal rendition, was. The dwarf, who posed somewhat as a magician and sleight-of-hand man, undertook for some reason or other to attempt the great Indian box trick. Two gentlemen from the audience were invited to come on the stage to tie the performer with a rope. This was a most unfortunate move. Two well-known yachtsmen, and good sailors to boot, saw the chance for additional fun, and accepted the invitation with alacrity. They set to work and knotted the little man so tightly that he yelled to them, for heaven's sake, to let up. The audience could restrain itself no longer with laughter. It was plainly to be recognized that the show was fast drawing to a close. "Stand him on his head," spoke some one at the rear of the tent. "Pass him along this way, my hearties, and we'll take a reef in his dry goods," cried out someone else. "We won't do a thing to him," chipped in a third humorist in the center of the tent. The tent was convulsed with laughter and merriment had full swing. It was indeed a most remarkable performance, and the best of good nature prevailed. At the moment when the hilarity was at its height a commotion was heard outside of the tent. The band, or a portion of it, burst forth once more in the street with the most discordant sounds mortal ears ever heard. This brought the performance on the stage to a close. "I would never have been able to get them out of the tent," explained Handy afterwards, "only for my letting the band— that is, the worst portion of it—loose on the outside." To make a long story short, as the saying goes, the poor players cleared over three hundred dollars by the night's show, while the distinguished artists who gave grand opera in homeopathic doses in another end of the town sang to almost empty benches. Handy told no untruth when he announced on the bills that "those who witnessed the performance will never forget it." Years have rolled by since this company of poor strolling players attempted "Humpty Dumpty" in Newport, but the memory of that night still remains green in the minds of many. CHAPTER VII "He employs his fancy in his narrative and keeps his recollections for his wit." —RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. A more delightful morning than that which followed the night of the strollers' eventful performance it would be difficult to imagine. It was the Sabbath, and the spirit of peace seemed to exercise its influence all around. The sun shone brightly; a gentle breeze diffused its cooling power, and the surface of the water was calm and placid. The graceful yachts riding at anchor were decked as daintily in their gay bunting as village maidens celebrating a fête. There was little of active life afloat or ashore. Those on board the pleasure craft presented an appearance different from that which characterized their movements the days previous. It was, indeed, a day of rest. Among the fleet of pleasure craft lay the Gem of the Ocean. She was not a comely craft; her sides were weather- beaten, and her general appearance homely and unprepossessing; but the same waters that bore the others bore her. In her homeliness she presented a strange contrast to her surroundings. In the composition of those who were her occupants there was still greater difference. The men who trod the decks of the yachts were seekers after the pleasures of life, while those on board the Gem were engaged in the hard struggle to win bread for the loved ones who were miles and miles removed—living in want, perhaps, yet hoping for the best and for what expectancy would realize. The one set comprised the lucky ones of fortune—the butterflies of fashion; the other the strugglers for life—the vagabonds of fate. Yet these vagabonds had homes and mothers, wives and children, to whom the rough, sun-browned, coarsely clad men of the Gem of the Ocean were their all, their world, and on the exertion of whose hands and brain they depended for food, raiment, and shelter. These poor strolling players had homes,—humble, it is true,—but still they were homes, which they loved for the sake of the dear ones harbored there. The forenoon was spent in letter writing. How eagerly these letters were longed for only those who hungered for tidings from absent loved ones can explain. There is a magic influence in these silent messengers. Freighted with consolation, joy, or sorrow, they are anxiously awaited. How much happiness do they not bring into a home when laden with words of tenderness and affection! Home! ah, he is indeed no vagabond who has a home, however modest, and dear ones awaiting to welcome him when he returns, tired and weary with his struggle in the race for advancement. Before midday the occupation of the morning was completed, and after a hearty meal the company gathered aft to pass away the time and talk over the past as well as to ventilate the prospects for the future. They were enjoying one day's rest, at least. Seated in the companionway was Handy, the high priest of the little organization. "Do you think, gentlemen, on mature reconsideration," began Handy, "we mi...