A Pirate of Parts. Richard Neville
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 might take another shy at 'Uncle Tom,' and do business?"
The subject was thrown out for general discussion. The Little 'Un was the first to respond. He had been an Uncle Tommer for years, and his views consequently on the matter were regarded with consideration.
"Gentlemen," he commenced, "the 'Uncle Tom' times are dead and gone. The play has had its day. To be sure, if it was resurrected and put on with what might be called an elaborate presentation, with a phenomenal cast, it might catch on for a brief spell. Of course, the cast would be an easy enough matter to get, as casts go. Stars nowadays, such as they are—Heaven save the mark!—are more plentiful than stock. But let them rest at that. I have known the time when there were as many as fifty Uncle Tommers on the road—all doing well, if not better. There were no theatrical syndicates in those times to limit the enterprise and energy of the aspiring though poor and ambitious manager. 'Uncle Tom' audiences were different from those who attended other theatrical snaps. There was so much of the religious faking mixed in with the old piece that it caught the Sunday-go-to-meeting crowd and drew them as a molasses barrel will draw flies. That class of people reasoned that 'Uncle Tom' wasn't a real theatre show—it was a moral show. What fools we mortals be? Didn't some poor play actor say that, or did I think it out myself? Well, no matter now. But don't the newspapers tell us that there was a big bunch of people in New York City at one time who used to flock to Barnum's Museum, which stood opposite St. Paul's Church, on Broadway, and how they'd scoop in the show there simply because old Barnum called his theatre a lecture-room. It was the lecture-room racket that caught them. The old showman was a cute one—slick as they made 'em. When the museum burned down, didn't he go to work and sell the hole in the ground the fire made to James Gordon Bennett, the elder, founder of The Herald, and got the best of the famous editor in the sale into the bargain. Ah, those were the good old times!"
"The palmy days of the drama, I suppose," interjected Handy.
"Palmy fiddlesticks!" laughingly chimed in one of the group.
"Oh, joke as you may, boys, but I am giving you the straight goods," continued the Little 'Un, handing out a little bit of reminiscent news of days gone by that will never be duplicated.
"He's dead right. Speakin' of those days," added Smith, "I remember well the times gone by in the old Bowery Theatre on certain gay and festive occasions to have seen as many as seventeen glasses of good old Monongahela whisky set up in the green-room and not a man took water when called upon to do his duty. They have no green-rooms any more. But let me tell you that's where the managers of the present day take their cues from, for those after-performance first-night stage suppers that are frequently given for the entertainment of the principal players, a few select friends, and a big bunch of newspaper scribes. On the stage, mind you, not in the green-room, for the green-room is now a thing of the past."
"Were you in the old Bowery shop then?" inquired Handy.