CHAPTER THIRTY
Show Folks
"Mo – dunk!" shouted a brakeman, slamming the door of the day coach in which Loveland had traveled since some vaguely remembered hour in the night, when he had changed trains.
He had dozed, sitting on the hard red seat, his head leaning wearily against the window-frame; and he started up at the yell which for an instant seemed part of his dream.
But then, everything lately had been a dream. His weird experiences in New York; the absence of replies from his mother and the London Bank, in answer to his cabled appeals; the coming of the telegram from Jack Jacobus, accepting the very modest terms named at Bill's suggestion; his start from the magnificent Grand Central Station in New York, where the new "juvenile lead" had found his ticket awaiting him. And now, as he bundled half dazed out of the local train he had boarded some hours ago, the dream suddenly grew more bewildering than ever.
What a contrast was this little country "depot" with the splendours of the Grand Central in New York! The rough frame building was little better than an exaggerated shed, and no town was to be seen, across the desolate waste of brown fields which billowed round the railway shelter and its high platform, like a wintry sea round a small, bleak island.
Through an open door of the passengers' waiting-room Loveland caught a glimpse of a squat stove, rising like a fat-bodied grey dwarf from a big box of sawdust, and a man who had been warming his hands came out of the room as the train stopped. There were also three or four other men, lolling on a bench outside the window, but they were long-bearded, soft-hatted, tobacco-chewing individuals who had evidently dragged themselves hither through the mud for the excitement of seeing a train come in, and took no interest beyond that of curiosity in the passengers.
The man who came out of the waiting-room was a very different order of being, and almost offensively conscious of the difference. He was fifty, perhaps, and tall, with a swaggering walk, which caused the shabby fur-lined coat he wore to swing like the skirt of a woman's dress as he moved forward. He had on patent-leather boots, cracked with old age and caked with new mud. His rather long, straight hair and the heavy double curve of his moustache clearly owed their raven tint to artificial means, but his big chin was blue, and the thick brows over a pair of light grey eyes were still black. The nose and mouth, though ineffectively cut, contrived to express cruelty and an insolence which was accentuated by the upward tilt of a cigar between the strong yellowish teeth and the downward tilt of his badly kept silk hat.
Every line of the face and figure, every article of clothing, bespoke the fifth rate, seedy actor who has parted in his time with most things, except his self-conceit.
The idlers on the bench stared at him, then at the newcomer, and regarded with lazy curiosity the meeting between the two: for this gentleman in the tall silk hat and fur overcoat was Mr. Jack Jacobus, come to claim Mr. P. Gordon, the new member of his company.
If it had been possible for Loveland's heart to sink lower – which at the moment he did not believe – it would have sunk at sight of Miss de Lisle's manager. But, he asked himself, what else had he a right to expect from the advertisement, and Bill's assurance that it would be useless to demand a higher weekly screw than ten dollars, the management paying board?
One quick glance, and the glass-grey eyes had taken in each detail of Loveland's appearance, from the smartly made travelling cap, which still kept its shape, down to the neat brown boots. He approved all, it was evident, except the battered gladstone bag which Bill Willing had bought extraordinarily cheap at a pawnbroker's sale, as a gift for his friend Gordon. This Loveland carried in his hand, and he saw the actor-manager's gaze rest sardonically upon it.
In a deep, measured voice, as theatrical as the rest of his personality, Mr. Jacobus enquired if he had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Perceval Gordon. Then when answered in the affirmative, he delivered himself of a few polite words of greeting.
"Glad you got here all right. Don't know what we should have done if you hadn't turned up. Our juvenile lead came down with typhoid at our last week's stand, and we've been fakin' our best ever since – any old play we could, that had the fewest men, and the lot of us doublin' parts till we was ready to drop on the stage with the curtain. Got the checks handy for your big baggage?"
Loveland had to explain that he had no big baggage, and under the changing, freezing eyes of Jacobus felt as insignificant as a crushed worm. Until very lately he had not known the meaning of this sensation; now, he was becoming accustomed to it as to a daily worn coat; but never perhaps had his pride been more flatly ironed out than in this brief instant.
"What – no wardrobe?" demanded the manager; his tone of friendly condescension to a new member of his company altered to one of bullying suspicion.
"My wardrobe is here," said Loveland, holding out Bill's present.
"Sorry I forgot to bring a magnifying glass," sneered Jacobus. "But see here, I call this false pertences. How are you going to play a new part every night of the week, some of 'em costoom ones, all out of a grip no bigger than your pocket? You ought to have told me what you didn't have – if it wouldn't have taken you too long."
"You ought to have told me I had to play a new part every night," said Loveland, and the young man and the middle-aged one, looking each other straight in the eyes, conceived for one another an intense dislike. "I was given to understand by a person of experience, that I should have enough to get on with until I could buy something – if necessary."
"Well, that depends on how soon you buy," returned Jacobus, less bitterly. "You knew very well that you'd have me on the leg, once you got out here at this Godforsaken place, with your ticket paid. Our show ain't made of money, especially the past two weeks. Heavens! What a frost! We've been livin' on our gleanings from last month (when we were going like smoke) and countin' on the new juvenile lead to help work up better business. That's why I'm so sore at your cheek, Mr. Gordon, shootin' yourself out West with what you stand up in. But as you are here, we must make the best of a bad business. The girls may like you even with whiskers on your shirtcuffs, and I suppose among us, we'll rig you up somehow, out of our theatre trunks. That's what you were layin' for, eh?"
"Look here, if you're going to insult me much more, I shall turn round and go back, if I have to walk," said Loveland, cold, hungry, tired and miserable, but with just spirit enough left in him to be furious.
Jacobus saw that he had gone too far, if the juvenile lead were not to slip through his fingers. He did not want that to happen, though he already had an uneasy jealousy of P. Gordon. So used was he to bullying the members of his company, male and female, that he had hardly realised what was likely to be the effect of his sarcasm, until he saw the expression of the newcomer's face.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Don't you know a joke from an insult in your part of the country? It give me a start to see you land without a wardrobe, and I have a right to be mad; but I've just said we'd make the best of it, and help you out all we can. What can we do more? I suppose you don't grudge me a bit of fun? Come along to the great and glorious city of Modunk, which must have as many as one thousand inhabitants. Hope you don't mind goin' on Shanks's Mare? It's the only kind we'd get in this town – even if we ran to something better; but it ain't far – about a mile and a half; and your grip can't weigh much."
Loveland wished that he had no heavier burden to carry than his bag, but he kept the thought to himself, and trudged off with the arbiter of his destiny. The loungers on the bench, too far away to overhear the conversation, guessed that it was not altogether of a friendly nature, and transferred their quids of tobacco to their cheeks, in order to discuss the situation with a new, if fleeting, animation. As he passed them to descend the platform steps to the muddy country road, Loveland caught the words, "Show folks."
"Show folks!" Yes, he was one of the show folks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Dignity and Delight of Being a Juvenile Lead
"Show folks – show folks! Say, come look at the show men!" Impish little boys and girls yelled to each other, taking up the refrain from cottage to cottage along the roadside, on that Via Dolorosa which led to the town of Modunk.
Loveland pricked all over, as if with a million stabs of tiny pins, but Jacobus only laughed, and said that it was a good advertisement. Business had been bad during the week at Modunk which would come to an end that night – Saturday; but he attributed this ill luck to the fact that the company had been forced, for lack of a juvenile lead, to choose plays which were not the most popular in their repertoire. Things would be different next week, he hoped, when they were going across the river into Kentucky, to a small but lively show town, whence the advance-agent sent encouraging accounts.
He questioned Loveland sharply concerning his theatrical experience, seeming to incline towards distrust since the incident of the travelling bag. Very soon he found out, in all its nakedness, the truth which had been veiled in the letter dictated by Bill; that Mr. Perceval Gordon's experience had all been as an amateur, and not very extensive at that. However, as Bill had prophesied, he did not appear to think it mattered much, though he sniffed and "hum'd" a little, by way of curbing the new man's self-esteem. "You've got a good stage presence and voice," said he, "though I don't know what the folks here will think of that English accent of yours. Pity you can't talk United States. They're mighty sharp at guying anything foreign or affected, so don't be knocked silly if the little boys in the dime seats mock you a bit. Just keep your hair on, and go along as if nothing had happened, and they'll shut up in a minute or so, when they've got used to you."
This was – as Bill would have said – a new "proposition" to Loveland; that he had an "English accent," which might be objected to on the ground of affectation. He had heard a good deal in England about the American accent, and had chaffed Jim Harborough because of it, but as after all the English nation had more or less invented the language current on both sides of the water, he had supposed that theirs was, without question, the only right way of using it. However, opinion seemed to differ over here, and he did not choose to argue with Mr. Jacobus.
The actor-manager watched his new acquisition furtively as he plowed through the mud, and at last interrupted himself in describing with some acerbity the absent members of the company, to remark suddenly: "You look like a soldier."
"I am a soldier," Loveland replied before he stopped to think.
"Oh!" said Jacobus, regarding him keenly. "English army, of course?"
"Yes," answered Val shortly, regretting his frankness.
"H'm! What were you – sergeant?"
Loveland could have broken out into savage laughter. He, a lieutenant in the Grenadier Guards, asked by this seedy theatrical man if he were a sergeant! But he kept his countenance, for fear of committing himself unwittingly under the catechismal fire.
"No. I wasn't a sergeant," he replied.
"H'm! See here. I hope you didn't leave the army – er – on short notice, eh? You know what I mean?"
"Do you mean, am I a deserter?" Loveland flashed out, turning red.
"Well, excuse me if I'm offensive. But the arm of Edward is supposed to be a long one, if any of his red coats take a vacation without permission, and I don't want to get into no trouble with kings. We may not be Noo York stars, but we're a pretty respectable crowd, take us all round."
"Well, set your mind at rest," said Loveland, swallowing his wrath. "I'm not a deserter, and I shan't bring disgrace upon your company."
"All right, all right. I'll take your word for it. I guess there's nothing else to do, as you're the only man on the spot. But say, the more I look at you, the more I have a kind of sneaking idea I've seen your picture lately. Did you get your photo stuck in any of the theatrical papers, since you landed?"
"No," Loveland replied; but flushed again, instantly guessing where and in what connection Jacobus must have seen his portrait – a sketch, or some snapshot, perhaps. Evidently the man did not yet associate him with anything in particular, but the connection between the new juvenile lead and a certain Englishman made notorious by one or two New York papers might at any instant link itself in Mr. Jacobus's head. This Loveland was far from desiring: not that he thought his value to the management would be decreased by the discovery – rather the contrary, judging by his experience with Alexander – but because he could not bear to repeat that experience.
Luckily, Jacobus did not pursue the subject, which apparently interested him less than others. When he had described the members of his company according to his own conception of their characters and social status, he went on to tell the new recruit something about the parts he would be required to play. Then it was that Loveland learned the esoteric difference between being a leading man, and a "juvenile lead."
Jack Jacobus was himself, it seemed, leading man for Miss Lillie de Lisle, the Little Human Flower: "Heavy Lead" he called it, but to the Heavy Lead apparently belonged all the really good parts in the company's repertoire. Their productions struck Loveland as being wonderfully good for a strolling troupe, playing week by week in extremely small towns, but Jacobus laughed when he remarked that it must be expensive to obtain the rights of such popular pieces as Sidney Cremer's, for instance, and to put them on the stage properly.
"Properly!" he echoed, grinning. "Well, that depends. Folks here ain't perticular about scenery. They don't travel, and don't have no chance to see anything better than we give 'em. I guess I may as well let you into the secrets of the prison-house, for you're one of us now, and you'll soon find out for yourself, anyhow, what we are, for good and bad. We carry six men in our show, counting me and you, and there ain't many pieces we put on, except Sidney Cremer's comedies, where there's less than a dozen or fifteen male characters, sometimes more. We all double; sometimes each one of us – even me – the leading man, because I ain't proud, and needs must when somebody drives – manages to do two or three small parts besides his own. It takes it out of us, but it's all in the night's work. What characters we can't double we leave out. Same with the women. We carry four of them, counting Lillie herself, and they earn their money. You see, we must bill popular pieces, melodramas and comedies mostly, or we shouldn't get no houses; so we can't choose plays with few characters to please lazy actors. As for the rights to produce – why, we don't trouble ourselves about them, any more than we do about the pasts of our juvenile leading gentlemen. It simply don't run to it. What we want we take. Good motto in this life, eh? There are fellows make their livin' by writin' down the words and biz of successful plays, in shorthand, copyin' 'em out at home, and then sellin' 'em on the sly to poor but honest show folks like us, who must live but can't afford luxuries. It's quite an industry. 'Pirates,' the Puritans call our sort, but it don't kill us – or our business. And as we always work only the smallest towns, which the stage papers don't touch, it ain't as risky as you'd think, though once in a way the police do shove their noses in where nobody wants them, and I confess I'm a bit scared about Sidney Cremer's new piece, which we're just puttin' up. Say, you're lookin' kind o' sick. I hope you ain't one of the Puritans, are you? Don't they have shows of our sort in your country?"
Loveland said he really didn't know; but as he hastened to add he was not a Puritan, and anyhow, Mr. Jacobus's business was his own, that gentleman did not feel called upon to translate into words the thoughts his eyes had begun to express.
Mr. Perceval Gordon, it appeared, was expected to play seven parts, at the least, during the season, and must be "letter-perfect" in the first one by that very night. It was, however, but a small rôle; that of an old man, who conveniently expired at the end of the first act in great agony. It was, the manager explained, a "fat acting part," though there weren't many lines to speak; and – yes, certainly, a juvenile lead was occasionally expected to play old men or, indeed, to do anything he was asked to do; and an amateur like Mr. Gordon might think himself jolly lucky to get varied experience under such stage management as he would find in the Human Flower's company. This particular piece, a melodrama called "The Dead Hand," had been chosen for the closing night of the engagement at Modunk because the part for the juvenile lead wasn't too long or difficult to "get up in" with one rehearsal, which they would have after noon; and indeed the Dead Hand was to be that of Mr. Gordon himself. He would appear as a ghost near the end of the last act, and wave the said hand behind a gauze, with strong lime-light turned upon it; which was the scene which made the part so "fat." Also, incidentally, at a ball, he would be asked to "walk on" as a young gentleman of fashion. Could he waltz? Good! Then he should have Mrs. Jacobus for his partner, as she liked a decent dancer in that scene, where she had experienced considerable trouble with awkward brutes who stepped on her "party dress." Mrs. Jacobus – known professionally as Miss Thora Moon, was – her husband went on to state – Miss de Lisle's leading lady, who played adventuresses, villainesses, and important parts of that ilk, to the Human Flower's soubrettes and ingenues.
"My wife had some money – when I married her," he mentioned, with an introspective look, accompanied by a faint sigh. Thus Loveland was enabled to guess how it was that Mr. Jacobus might have been induced to forget his early penchant for Miss de Lisle, Bill's "little gal."
A bitter wind was blowing, but exercise kept Loveland warm, and he did not envy Jacobus the overcoat, which the actor was obliged to hold together with one cold, red hand (as several buttons were missing) while he frantically seized the brim of his silk hat with the other, each time they turned a corner. At last they came into the town of Modunk, which consisted of one long business thoroughfare, named, of course, Main Street, and various other avenues sacred to the home, branching off from it at right angles and regular intervals.
Main Street was paved with red brick, and most of the residence streets were content with a coating of tar, or else they wallowed in their native mud. The shops, or "stores," as Jacobus called them, appeared depressingly unattractive to Loveland, though they were not inferior to those in villages of the same size in England or Scotland. Millinery, "dry goods," and groceries were sold in the same establishments, and seemed to the uninitiated eye to be hopelessly mixed in some of the show windows. Most of the private houses were built of wood, painted white, brown, grey or pale green. They had outside shutters to the windows, such as Loveland associated with Southern France, and stood surrounded with neat little "yards" fenced off from each other and publicity by painted or whitewashed palings. There were, however, a few more pretentious houses, rising from among less important neighbours, with the air of being mansions. They were of brick, or stone, but Loveland liked the little frame houses best, and was hoping he might be lodged in one of them, when Jacobus stopped in Main Street, in front of an ugly, new building constructed of wood and brick. There was a kind of veranda, above which appeared a large signboard with the words "Smith's Hotel" in green and gold letters.
"Here we are," said Jacobus, sighing as he looked at his mud-encrusted patent leathers. "The whole crowd's here. I'll show you to your room, and by the time you've had a wash, if you want it, dinner'll be ready. I guess you'll be ready for it, too!"
"What – dinner at half-past twelve?" asked Loveland.
"You bet. They'd like to give it to us with our breakfast if they could, so as to get the work out of the way. You'll find the crowd in the dining-room, and I'll introduce you. After dinner you can have a look through your part in "The Dead Hand" if you get through in time; everybody who's on in your scenes has a call at the theatre for rehearsal. That's for half-past one, sharp."
Loveland made no comment on these announcements. He walked into the hotel behind Jacobus, who, being manager of the company, heavy lead, and stage-manager combined, naturally marched in front of the insignificant "juvenile," who carried his wardrobe in his hand.
There was a narrow, uncarpeted passage, with an uncarpeted and still narrower stairway leading steeply up to regions above. Also there was a strong, nay, over-developed smell of dinner, which could be all too easily divided into its component parts: corned beef and cabbage, with perhaps a bodyguard of onions. As they went upstairs the smell followed, but on the next story began to mingle with a suggestion of hot iron, coal-smoke, and unopened windows.
"One more flight for you," explained Jacobus. "They ain't got too much accommodation here; and Miss de Lisle, me and my wife, and the other ladies are on this floor; gentlemen above."
They continued to ascend, and the actor-manager stopped before the first door at the head of the second stairway which led to the top story of the hotel.
"Here you are," he said, and with a light knock which was a notification, not a request, he flung the door open.
On a narrow bed visible from the threshold a young man, hardly more than a boy, was stretched, reading something that looked like MSS. He glanced round, but did not move, on seeing Mr. Jacobus and a stranger.
"I thought you said this was my room?" exclaimed Loveland, startled.
"So it is, and there's your room-mate. Didn't know whether you'd be in, Ed. I can introduce you to each other, right now. Mr. Ed Binney, our property man, prompter, and second villain. Mr. Perceval Gordon, of England, our new juvenile. Now you know each other; and I guess, Eddy, you can put Mr. Gordon up to all he needs to know."
This was worse than the Bat Hotel, where each man who earned twenty-five cents could have his own cubicle. But, now, Loveland was not paying his own way. The "management" was to do that; and feed him, too. As he had but a quarter in the world, thrust upon him as a loan or gift by generous Bill, Loveland was not in a position to be critical. Here he was, and here he would have to stay, till he heard from home, or something "turned up."
As for hearing from home, he had begun almost to despair, for his two cables had remained unanswered now these many dreary days. Still, after an interval of more waiting for a telegram from his mother, he had written to her and to Betty Harborough, ashamed to take outsiders into the deepest secrets of his humiliating adventures. But at best, it would be a fortnight before Bill Willing could forward to some address yet to be given, a letter from across the sea; and meanwhile Loveland was a slave of necessity – if not of Jack Jacobus.
That gentleman, having acquitted himself of his duty to the juvenile lead, disappeared, banging the door, leaving the old occupant and the new occupant of the mean, bare room to make each other's acquaintance.
Mr. Binney did not think it worth while to get up, as the juvenile lead was no guest of his, but he raised himself on one elbow, and observed Loveland with an interest that might or might not develop into friendliness. He was thin, pale, and delicate-looking, but he had bright eyes – almost too bright for health – and a firm chin.
For a moment Val resented the youth's existence so keenly that he did not trust himself to speak; but brief reflection reminded him that after all, he was the intruder. A short time ago he would have been intolerant of circumstances even less disagreeable, such as finding himself forced to share a cabin on shipboard, or a wagon-lit compartment, after expecting to travel alone. But much water had gone under the mill of his pride since then; and besides he had learned, greatly to his own surprise, that kindly, agreeable human beings can be found in the lowest classes and queerest circumstances.
Ed Binney looked as though he might have pleasant qualities, if approached in the right way, so with amazing self-restraint Loveland refrained even from the mild insult of a disgusted glance. He said, in his nice voice, that he hoped Mr. Binney wouldn't mind his coming, as he really couldn't help himself. Whereupon Mr. Binney grinned, showing teeth white as a girl's, and replied that if it weren't Mr. Gordon it would be someone else, who might be worse, as it struck Mr. Binney that Mr. Gordon would at least be fond of washing himself.
To this Mr. Gordon responded that there were few things he liked better, but it seemed as if there wouldn't be much opportunity at Smith's Hotel. You had to do it in sections, with a washbowl, said Mr. Binney, but never mind, you got there just the same, if you were in earnest. Then they both laughed, and Binney exclaimed with evident relief, that he was jolly glad Gordon wasn't the sort of boy who put on airs. He'd been afraid at first sight that was the kind he was, but now he guessed it was all the high collar. The feeling was for low, in Miss de Lisle's company, yet he didn't know but those stove pipe ones had a sort of style about 'em.
Then he bounced off his tremulous cot (which had a patchwork quilt somewhat the worse for contact with his boots and was the twin of another little iron-framed bed in a far corner). He showed his room-mate "the ropes"; in other words, which "bureau drawers" were at the newcomer's disposition; where he had better keep his toothbrush, and so on. He confided to Loveland the fact that he himself had not been long in the company, but had come from a better one, which he would now regret if the "one night" stands had not been too much for his strength. "If your lungs are always playing you tricks, you have to put up with barn-stormers, for at least they give you week stands, and most of the hotels throw in fires free," he explained. "I can see that you've stepped down in the world a bit, too, so we ought to have a fellow feelin' for each other."
While Loveland made himself presentable for the early dinner, Ed Binney went on to sketch the members of the "crowd," though in a manner very different from the manager's sarcastic descriptive efforts. He said that Jacobus was a tyrant and a bully, but that he could act; that everyone except Miss Moon was afraid of "J. J.," and she wouldn't be afraid of an Indian chief on the war path: that Miss de Lisle didn't dare say her soul was her own, or that black was black, if old Jack remarked that it wasn't; that Jacobus had done a very good thing for himself in getting hold of Lillie as a star, although she had no money – for she was a peach, a live wire, just the sort of little gal to be a "go" at towns like this. "Folks are wild about her, she's as pretty and as dainty as they make 'em, a whole haystack above what they generally see in these barns," went on Ed. "But she needs managin' – and gee, Jack and his wife do manage her. But the old girl's jealous. I don't know how long the show will last, for if she says stop, Jack stops, you bet. He's as scared of her as everybody else is of him. She runs the shebang, and there's two of her sons by her first husband in it. They can't act, and they can't look, but by gum, they're good to their mother!"
Into the midst of his discourse crashed a ferocious dinner-bell, and in sheer self-defense they rushed downstairs, in the hope of stopping the clamour by their presence.
The dining-room opened off the long passage on the ground floor, and already other members of the company had assembled for the midday meal, which must be eaten in haste before the rehearsal.
Mr. Jacobus was there, in the act of sitting down between two ladies at the head of a long table; but seeing Loveland he condescended to summon him with a gesture.