Frank Merriwell's New Comedian: or, The Rise of a Star
TextCHAPTER VIII. – 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 rôles 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.
CHAPTER IX. – WELCOME LETTERS
Frank Merriwell was determined to give a performance of his revised play in Denver for advertising purposes. He had the utmost confidence in “True Blue,” as he had rechristened the piece, but the report of his failure in Puelbo had spread afar in dramatic circles, being carried broadcast by the Eastern dramatic papers, and managers were shy of booking the revised version.
Some time before, after receiving the fortune from the Carson City Bank, Merry had made a fair and equal division, sending checks for their share to Browning, Diamond and Rattleton. Toots’ share he had been unable to forward, not knowing the address of the faithful darky, who had been forced to go forth into the world to win his way when Frank met with the misfortune that caused him to leave Yale.
And now came three letters from three Yale men. Diamond’s was brief.
“Dear Old Comrade: It is plain you are still a practical joker. Your very valuable (?) check on the First National of Denver received. I really do not know what to do with so much money! But I am afraid you are making a mistake by using a check on an existing bank. Why didn’t you draw one on ‘The First Sand Bank of Denver’? It would have served your purpose just as well.
“Can’t write much now, as I am making preparations for vacation, which is only a month away. I’m afraid it will be a sorry vacation for me this year; not much like the last one. Then we were all together, and what times we did have at Fardale and in Maine! I’m blue to-night, old friend, and do not feel like writing. I fancy it has made me feel bluer than ever to read in the Dramatic Reflector of your unfortunate failure in Puelbo and the disbanding of your company after your backer deserted you. Hard luck, Frank – hard luck! All the fellows have been hoping you would make money enough to come back here in the fall, but all that is over now.
“What are you doing? Can’t you find time to write to us and let us know? We are very anxious about you. I will write you again when I am more in the mood. Hoping your fortune may turn for the better, I remain,
“Always your friend,“Jack Diamond.”
Frank read this aloud to Hodge and Gallup in his room at the Metropole Hotel.
“Waal, by ginger!” exploded Ephraim. “What do yeou think of that?”
“Now you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you, Merry,” said Hodge.
“Well, I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe Diamond considers it a joke!” laughed Frank.
“Of course he does,” nodded Bart.
“Well, he is putting a joke on himself. He’ll be somewhat surprised when he discovers that.”
Ephraim began to grin.
“That’s so, by thutter!” he cried.
“Here is a letter from Rattleton,” said Merry, picking up another from the mail he had just received. “I wonder how he takes it?”
“Read it and find aout,” advised Gallup.
“A wise suggestion,” bowed Frank, with mock gravity, tearing it open.
This is what he read:
“Dear Merry: Cheese it! What do you take us for – a lot of chumps? We’re onto you! Eight thousand fiddlesticks! I’m going to have the check framed and hang it in my room. It will be a reminder of you.
“Say, that was tough about your fizzle in Puelbo! It came just when we were hoping, you know. The fellows have been gathering at the fence and talking about you and your return to college since Browning came back and told us how you were making a barrel of money with your play. Now the report of your disaster is spread broadcast, and we know you cannot come back. It’s tough.
“Diamond is in a blue funk. He hasn’t been half the man he was since you went away. Hasn’t seemed to care much of anything about studying or doing anything else, and, as a result, it is pretty certain he’ll be dropped a class.
“But Diamond is not the only one. You know Browning was dropped once. He is too lazy to study, but, in order to keep in your class, he might have pulled through had you been here. Now it is known for an almost certain thing that he will not be able to pass exams, and you know what that means.
“I’m not going to say anything about myself. It’s dull here. None of your friends took any interest in the college theatricals last winter, and the show was on the bum. The whole shooting match made a lot of guys of themselves.
“Baseball has been dead slow, so far this season. We are down in the mud, with Princeton crowing. It takes you, Merry, to twist the Tiger’s tail! What was the matter? Everything. All the pitchers could do for us was to toss ’em up and get batted out of the box. The new men were not in it. They had glass arms, and the old reliables had dead wings. It was pitiful! I can’t write any more about it.
“I’d like to see you, Frank! Would I? Ask me! Oh, say! don’t you think you can arrange it so you can come East this summer? Come and see me. Say, come and stay all summer with me at my home! We won’t do a thing but have a great time. Write to me and give me your promise you will come. Don’t you refuse me, old man.
“Yours till death,“Rattles.
“Here’s another!” cried Frank. “If that doesn’t beat! Why, they all think those checks fakes!”
“As I said before,” said Hodge, “you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you.”
“I see,” nodded Frank. “It is giving me a chance to get a big joke on those fellows. They will drop dead when they learn those checks actually are good.”
“Waal, I should say yes!” nodded Ephraim. “Jest naow they’re kainder thinkin’ yeou are an object fer charity.”
“Here’s Browning’s letter.”
“Mr. Frank Merriwell, Millionaire and Philanthropist.
“Dear Sir: I seize my pen in my hand, being unable to seize it with my foot, and hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your princely gift. With my usual energy and haste, I dash off these few lines at the rate of ten thousand words a minute, only stopping to rest after each word. After cashing your check with the pawnbroker, I shall use the few dollars remaining to settle in part with my tailor, who has insisted in a most ungentlemanly manner on the payment of his little bill, which has been running but a short time – less than two years, I think. The sordid greed and annoying persistence of this man has much embarrassed me, and I would pay him off entirely, if it were not that I wish to get my personal property out of my ‘uncle’s’ safe-deposit vault, where it has been resting for some time.
“It is evident to me that you have money to burn in an open grate. That is great, as Griswold would say. And it was so kind of you to remember your old friends. The little hint accompanying each check that thus you divided the spoils of our great trip across the continent was not sufficient to deceive anyone into the belief that this was other than a generous act on your part and a free gift.
“There is not much news to write, save that everybody is in the dumps and everything has turned blue. I suppose some of the others will tell you all about things, so that will save me the task, which you know I would intensely enjoy, as I do love to work. It is the joy of my life to labor. I spend as much time as possible each day working on a comfortable couch in my room; but I will confess that I might not work quite so hard if it was not necessary to draw at the pipe in order to smoke up.
“When are you coming East? Aren’t you getting tired of the West? Why can’t you make a visit to Yale before vacation time? You would be received with great éclat. Excuse my French. I have to fling it around occasionally, when I can’t think of any Latin or Greek. Why do you suppose Latin and Greek were invented? Why didn’t those old duffers use English, and save us poor devils no end of grinding?
“Unfortunately, I have just upset the ink, and, having no more, I must quit.
“Yours energetically,“Bruce Browning.”
“Well, it’s simply marvelous that he stuck to it long enough to write all that!” laughed Frank. “And he, like the others, thinks the check a fake.”
Hodge got up and stood looking sullenly out of the window.
“What’s the matter, Bart?” asked Merry, detecting that there was something wrong.
“Nothing,” muttered the dark-faced fellow.
“Oh, come! Was there anything in those letters you did not like?”
“No. It was something there was not in the letters.”
“What?”
“Not one of those fellows even mentioned me!” cried Hodge, fiercely whirling about. “I didn’t care a rap about Diamond and Rattleton, but Browning would have showed a trace of decency if he had said a word about me. He made a bad blunder and was forced to confess it, but I’ll bet he doesn’t think a whit more of me now.”
“Oh, you are too sensitive, old man. They did not even write anything in particular for news, and think how many of my friends at college they failed to mention.”
“Oh, well; they knew I was with you, and one of them might have asked for me. I hope you may go back to Yale, Merry, but wild horses could not drag me back there! I hate them all!”
“Hate them, Hodge?”
“Yes, hate them!” Bart almost shouted. “They are a lot of cads! There is not a whole man among them!”
Then he strode out of the room, giving the door a bang behind him.
Of course Frank made haste to reply to the letters of his college chums, assuring them that the checks were perfectly good, and adding that, although he had some reputation as a practical joker, he was not quite crazy enough to utter a worthless check on a well-known bank, as that would be a criminal act.
Frank mentioned Hodge, and, without saying so in so many words, gave them to understand that Bart felt the slight of not being spoken of in any of the letters from his former acquaintances.
One thing Frank did not tell them, and that was that he was on the point of starting out again with his play, having renamed it, and rewritten it, and added a sensational feature of the “spectacular” order in the view of a boat race between Yale, Harvard and Cornell.
Even though he was venturing everything on the success of the piece, Merry realized now better than ever before that no man was so infallible that he could always correctly foretell the fate of an untried play.
It is a great speculation to put a play on the road at large expense. The oldest managers are sometimes deceived in the value of a dramatic piece of property, and it is not an infrequent thing that they lose thousands of dollars in staging and producing a play in which they have the greatest confidence, but which the theater-going public absolutely refuses to accept.
Frank had been very confident that his second play would be a winner in its original form, but disaster had befallen it at the very start. He might have kept it on the road as it stood, for, at the very moment when he seemed hopelessly stranded without a dollar in the world, fortune had smiled upon him by placing in his hands the wealth which he had found in the Utah Desert at the time of his bicycle tour across the continent.
But Merry had realized that, in the condition in which it then stood, it was more than probable that the play would prove an utter failure should he try to force it upon the public.
This caused him to take prompt action. First he brought the company to Denver, holding all of them, save the two men who had caused him no small amount of trouble, namely, Lloyd Fowler and Charlie Harper.
Calmly reviewing his play at Twin Star Ranch, Frank decided that the comedy element was not strong enough in the piece to make it a popular success on the road; accordingly he introduced two new characters. It would be necessary, in order to produce the effect that he desired, to employ a number of “supers” in each place where the play was given, as he did not believe he would be warranted in the expense of carrying nonspeaking characters with him.
On his return to Denver Frank had hastened at once to look over the “mechanical effect” which had been constructed for him. It was not quite completed, but was coming on well, and, as far as Frank could see, had been constructed perfectly according to directions and plans.
Of course, one man had not done the work alone. He had been assisted by carpenters and scene painters, and the work had been rushed.
Merry got his company together and began rehearsing the revised play. His paper from Chicago came on, and examination showed that it was quite “up to the mark.” In fact, Havener, the stage manager, was delighted with it, declaring that it was the most attractive stuff he had seen in many years.
But for the loss of one of the actors he had engaged to fill one of the comedy parts, Merry would have been greatly pleased by the manner in which things moved along.
Now, however, he believed that in William Shakespeare Burns he had found a man who could fill the place left vacant.
Although Hodge had been ready enough to defend Burns from the young ruffians who were hectoring him on the street, he had little faith in the man as a comedian. Hodge could see no comedy in the old actor. To tell the truth, it was seldom that Hodge could see comedy in anything, and low comedy, sure to appeal to the masses, he regarded as foolish.
For another reason Hodge felt uncertain about Burns. It was plain that the aged tragedian was inclined to look on the wine “when it was red,” and Bart feared he would prove troublesome and unreliable on that account.
“I am done with the stuff!” Hodge had declared over and over. “On that night in the ruffians’ den at Ace High I swore never to touch it again, for I saw what brutes it makes of men. I have little confidence in any man who will drink it.”