Part 5 (1/2)

In Memphis business was so bad that the manager of the theater there advised Gustave to send the company through Texas, where, he a.s.sured them, there would be no opposition, and they would have the state to themselves. This advice proved to be only too true, for the company not only had the state to itself, but the state for a time held the company fast--in the unwilling bonds of financial misfortune.

The plan was to play the best towns in Texas and then go back through the Middle West, where John Dillon had a strong following, and where it was hoped the season could close with full pockets. Up to this time the company had received salaries with some degree of regularity. But from this time on they were to have a constantly diminis.h.i.+ng acquaintance with money, for hard luck descended upon them the moment they crossed the frontiers of the Lone Star State.

It was about this time that Charles Callender, at the solicitation of Gustave, purchased an interest in the Stoddart Comedy Company for a hundred-dollar bill. This bill was given to Charles as a ”prop.” In those days the financial integrity of the legitimate theatrical combination was sometimes questioned by hard-hearted hotel-keepers. The less esthetic ”variety” troupes, minstrel shows, and circuses enjoyed a much higher credit. An advance-agent like Charles sometimes found difficulty in persuading the hotel people to accept orders on the company's treasurer.

With characteristic enterprise Charles used the hundred-dollar bill as a symbol of solvency. He flashed it on hotel-keepers and railway agents in the careless way that inspired confidence, and, what was more to the point, credit. He carried this hundred-dollar bill for nearly a month.

Often when asked to pay his board bill he would produce the note and ask for change. Before the startled clerk could draw his breath he would add:

”Perhaps it might be best if I gave you an order on the treasurer.”

This always served to get him out of town without spending cash for hotel bills.

Texas was still a rough country, and Charles's reckless display of the hundred-dollar bill once gave him a narrow escape from possible death.

He had made the usual careless display of wealth at a small hotel in Calvert. The bad man of the town witnessed the performance and immediately began to shadow the young advance-agent. When Charles retired to his room he found, to his dismay, that there was no lock on the door. He had a distinct feeling that a robbery would be attempted, so he quietly left the hotel and spent the night riding back and forth on the train between Calvert and Dallas. This cost him nothing, for he had a pa.s.s.

At Galveston occurred an unexpected meeting. Daniel Frohman, who was ahead of Callender's Minstrels, had arrived in town by boat from New Orleans (there being no railway connection then) to book his show for the next week. On arriving at the Tremont Opera House he was surprised to see Charles writing press notices in the box-office.

”What are you doing here?” he asked. ”I thought you were in Tennessee.”

Charles walked to the window and said, with great pride, ”We play here all next week.”

”Have you got the whole week?” asked Daniel.

”Yes,” was the reply.

”But can't you give me Monday or Tuesday night?” asked Daniel.

”Impossible,” replied Charles, haughtily.

”All right,” said Daniel, in friendly rivalry, ”then I will have to hire Turner Hall and knock you out for two nights with our bra.s.s-band parade.”

Charles then came out into the lobby and confessed that his company was up against it, and that it meant bread and b.u.t.ter and possibly the whole future of the company if he could only play Galveston.

”We are coming here on our trunks,” he said, ”and we've got to get some money.”

Daniel immediately relented. He arranged with the railroad to delay the train and thus make a connection which would carry his company on through to the interior. He booked Galveston for the second week following. This left the week in question free to Charles, who breathed easier.

Charles now went on and billed Sherman, Houston, and Dallas. At Dallas the hard luck that had gripped the company the moment it left Memphis descended more vigorously than before. Dillon not only fell from grace again, but disappeared. Gustave Frohman had vowed that he would discharge him if he went on another spree, and he kept his word. They were in a real predicament, with star gone, business bad, and practically stranded a thousand miles from home.

Charles, who frequently came back to join the company, was the one bright spot of those precarious days, for he never lost his optimism or his smile.

”What we need,” he said at a council of war in Dallas, ”is a new play. I have been reading in the _New York Clipper_ about one called 'Pink Dominoes.' I think it is just the thing for us to do. In fact, I have already sent for a copy of it.”

The play arrived the next day, and when George Stoddart read it to him the young agent bubbled with laughter and said:

”It's bound to be a big success.”

It was decided to put on ”Pink Dominoes” at Houston. Charles remained behind and watched the rehearsals, the first of the kind he had ever seen. Contrary to all expectations, Houston was shocked by the play. The audience literally ”walked out” and the run of one night ended.