The Strollers. Isham Frederic Stewart
at last!” As the host approached, respectfully inquiring:
“Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“More?” exclaimed this latest guest, ironically. “Well, better late than never! See that my servant has help with the trunks.”
“Very well, sir; I’ll have Sandy look after them. You are going to stay then?” Shifting several bottles on the bar with apparent industry.
“How can I tell?” returned the newcomer lightly. “Fate is a Sphynx, and I am not Œdipus to answer her questions!”
The landlord looked startled, paused in his feigned employment, but slowly recovering himself, began to dust a jar of peppermint candy.
“How far is it to Meadtown?” continued the guest.
“Forty odd miles! Perhaps you are seeking the old patroon manor there? They say the heir is expected any day”–gazing fixedly at the young man–“at least, the anti-renters have received information he is coming and are preparing–”
The sprightly guest threw up his hands.
“The trunks! the trunks!” he exclaimed in accents of despair. “Look at the disorder of my attire! The pride of these ruffles leveled by the dew; my wristbands in disarray; the odor of the road pervading my person! The trunks, I pray you!”
“Yes, sir; at once, sir! But first let me introduce you to Mr. Saint-Prosper, of Paris, France. Make yourselves at home, gentlemen!”
With which the speaker hurriedly vanished and soon the bumping and thumping in the hall gave cheering assurance of instructions fulfilled.
“That porter is a prince among his kind,” observed the guest satirically, wincing as an unusual bang overhead shook the ceiling. “But I’ll warrant my man won’t have to open my luggage after he gets through.”
Then as quiet followed the racket above–“So you’re from Paris, France?” he asked half-quizzically. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet somebody from somewhere. As I, too, have lived–not in vain!–in Paris, France, we may have mutual friends?”
“It is unlikely,” said the soldier, who meanwhile had drawn off his riding gloves, placed them on the mantel, and stood facing the fire, with his back to the other guest. As he spoke he turned deliberately and bent his penetrating glance on his questioner.
“Really? Allow me to be skeptical, as I have considerable acquaintance there. In the army there’s that fire-eating conqueror of the ladies, Gen–”
“My rank was not so important,” interrupted the other, “that I numbered commanders among my personal friends.”
“As you please,” said the last guest carelessly. “I had thought to exchange a little gossip with you, but–n’importe! In my own veins flows some of the blood of your country.”
For the time his light manner forsook him.
“Her tumults have, in a measure, been mine,” he continued. “Now she is without a king, I am well-nigh without a mother-land. True; I was not born there–but it is the nurse the child turns to. Paris was my bonne– a merry abigail! Alas, her vicious brood have turned on her and cast her ribbons in the mire! Untroubled by her own brats, she could extend her estates to the Eldorado of the southwestern seas.” He had arisen and, with hands behind his back, was striding to and fro. Coming suddenly to a pause, he asked abruptly:
“Do you know the Abbé Moneau?”
At the mention of that one-time subtle confidant of the deposed king, now the patron of republicanism, Saint-Prosper once more regarded his companion attentively.
“By reputation, certainly,” he answered, slowly.
“He was my tutor and is now my frequent correspondent. Not a bad sort of mentor, either!” The new arrival paused and smiled reflectively. “Only recently I received a letter from him, with private details of the flight of the king and vague intimations of a scandal in the army, lately come to light.”
His listener half-started from his seat and had the speaker not been more absorbed in his own easy flow of conversation than in the attitude of the other, he would have noticed that quick change of manner. Not perceiving it, however, he resumed irrelevantly:
“You see I am a sociable animal. After being cramped in that miserable coach for hours, it is a relief to loosen one’s tongue as well as one’s legs. Even this smoky hovel suggests good-fellowship and jollity beyond a dish of tea. Will you not join me in a bottle of wine? I carry some choice brands to obviate the necessity of drinking the home-brewed concoctions of the inn-keepers of this district.”
“Thank you,” said the soldier, at the same time rising from his chair. “I have no inclination so early in the day.”
“Early?” queried the newcomer. “A half-pint of Chateau Cheval Blanc or Cru du Chevalier, high and vinous, paves a possible way for Brother Jonathan’s déjeuner– fried pork, potatoes and chicory!” And turning to his servant who had meanwhile entered, he addressed a few words to him, and, as the door closed on the soldier, exclaimed with a shrug of the shoulders:
“An unsociable fellow! I wonder what he is doing here.”
CHAPTER III
AN INCOMPREHENSIBLE VENTURE
Pancakes, grits, home-made sausage, and, before each guest, an egg that had been proudly heralded by the clucking hen but a few hours before–truly a bountiful breakfast, discrediting the latest guest’s anticipations! The manager, in high spirits, mercurial as the weather, came down from his room, a bundle of posters under his arm, boisterously greeting Saint-Prosper, whom he encountered in the hall:
“Read the bill! ‘That incomparable comedy, The Honeymoon, by a peerless company.’ How does that sound?”
“Attractive, certainly,” said the other.
“Do you think it strong enough? How would ‘unparagoned’ do?”
“It would be too provincial, my dear; too provincial!” interrupted the querulous voice of the old lady.
“Very well, Madam!” the manager replied quickly. “You shall be ‘peerless’ if you wish. Every fence shall proclaim it; every post become loquacious with it.”
“I was going to the village myself,” said the soldier, “and will join you, if you don’t mind?” he added suddenly.
“Mind? Not a bit. Come along, and you shall learn of the duties of manager, bill-poster, press-agent and license-procurer.”
An hour or so later found the two walking down the road at a brisk pace, soon leaving the tavern behind them and beginning to descend a hill that commanded a view to eastward.
“How do you advertise your performances?” asked the younger man, opening the conversation.
“By posters, written announcements in the taverns, or a notice in the country paper, if we happen along just before it goes to press,” answered Barnes. “In the old times we had the boy and the bell.”
“The boy and the bell?”
“Yes,” assented Barnes, a retrospective smile overspreading his good-natured face; “when I was a lad in Devonshire the manager announced the performance in the town market-place. I rang a cow-bell to attract attention and he talked to the people: Ding-a-ling!–‘Good people, to-night will be given “Love in a Wood”;’ ding-a-long!–‘to-morrow night, “The Beaux’ Strategem‘”;’ ding!–‘Wednesday, “The Provoked Wife”;’ ling!–‘Thursday, ”The Way of the World.”’ So I made my début in a noisy part and have since played no rôle more effectively than that of the small boy with the big bell. Incidentally, I had to clean the lamps and fetch small beer to the leading lady, which duties were perfunctorily performed. My art, however, I threw into the bell,” concluded the manager with a laugh.
“Do you find many theaters hereabouts?” asked the other, thoughtfully.
Barnes