Читать книгу Charles Frohman: Manager and Man - Isaac Frederick Marcosson - Страница 5
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ОглавлениеEARLY HARDSHIPS ON THE ROAD
T he Christmas of 1876 was not a particularly merry one for Charles Frohman. The ardent boy, whose brief experience in Hooley's box-office had fastened the germ of the theater in his system, chafed at the restraint that kept him at a routine task. But his deliverance was at hand.
Shortly before the close of the old year Gustave quit the Callender Minstrels. With a capital of fifty-seven dollars he remained in Chicago, waiting for something to turn up. One day as he sat in the lobby of the old Sherman House he was accosted by J. H. Wallick, an actor-manager who had just landed in town with a theatrical combination headed by John Dillon, a well-known Western comedian of the time. They were stranded and looking for a backer.
"Will you take charge of the company?" asked Wallick.
"I've only got fifty-seven dollars," said Gustave, "but I'll take a chance."
Between them they raised a little capital and started on a tour of the Middle West that was destined to play a significant part in shaping the career of Charles. In the company besides John Dillon were his wife, Louise Dillon (afterward the ingénue of Daniel Frohman's Lyceum Company); George W. Stoddart, brother of J. H. Stoddart of A. M. Palmer's Company, his wife and his daughter, Polly Stoddart, who married Neil Burgess; John F. Germon; Mrs. E. M. Post, and Wesley Sisson. Their repertory consisted of two well-worn but always amusing plays, "Our Boys" and "Married Life."
Gustave was to remain with the company until they reached Clinton, Iowa. After that he was to go ahead while Wallick was to remain with the company. When Gustave was about to leave, the company protested. He had won their confidence, and they threatened to strike. What to do with Wallick was the problem.
"Why not make him stage-manager?" suggested Dillon.
"All right," said Gustave, "but who is to go ahead of the show?"
The company was gathered on the stage of the Davis Opera House. Gustave scratched his head. Then he turned quickly on the group of stage folk and said:
"I've got some one for you. I'll wire my brother Charles to come on and be advance-agent."
Thus it came about that from a little Iowa town there flashed back to New York on a memorable morning in January, 1877, the following telegram from Gustave to Charles Frohman:
Your time has come at last. Am wiring money for ticket to St. Paul, where you begin as agent for John Dillon. Will meet you 2 A.m. at Winona, where you change cars and where I will instruct.
Charles happened to be at home when this telegram came. It was the first he had ever received. With trembling hands he tore it open, his rosy face broke into a seraphic smile, and the tears came into his eyes. He rushed to his mother, threw his arms around her, and gasped:
"At last I'm in the business!"
He lost no time in starting. With a single grip-sack, which contained his modest wardrobe, the eager boy started on his first railroad journey of any length into the great West. It was the initial step of what, from this time on, was to be a continuous march of ever-widening importance.
Begrimed but radiant, the boy stepped from a day-coach at two o'clock in the morning at Winona. No scene could have been more desolate. Save for the station-master and a solitary brakeman there was only one other person on hand, and that individual was the faithful Gustave, who advanced swiftly through the gloom and greeted his brother enthusiastically.
Charles was all excitement. He had not slept a wink. It was perhaps the longest and most irksome journey he ever took. He was bubbling with the desire to get to work.
The two brothers went to a hotel where Gustave had a room, and there they sat for four hours. It is a picture well worth keeping in mind: the pleased older boy, eager to get his brother started right; the younger lad all ears, and his eyes big with wonder and anticipation. There was no thought of food or rest. Gustave was enthusiastic about the company. He said to his brother:
"Why, Charley, we've got real New York actors, and our leading lady, Louise Dillon, has a genuine sealskin coat. That coat will get us out of any town. You've got no 'Ghost Show' amateurs to handle now, but real actors and actresses."
Then came an announcement that startled the boy, for Gustave continued:
"Your salary is to be twenty-five dollars a week and hotel bills, but you must not spend more than one dollar and a half a day for meals and room."
In this dingy room of an obscure hotel in a country town Charles Frohman got his first instructions in practical theatrical work. Perhaps the most important of this related to bill-posting. In those days it was a tradition in theatrical advertising that whoever did the most effective bill-posting in a town got the audience. Most of the publicity was done with posters. An advance-agent had to be a practical bill-poster himself. To get the most conspicuous sites for bills and to keep those bills up until the attraction played became the chief task of the advance-agent. The provincial bill-posters were fickle and easily swayed. The agent with the most persuasive personality, sometimes with the greatest drinking capacity, won the day.
All this advice, and much more, was poured by Gustave into the willing ears of the youthful Charles. No injunction laid on that keen-eyed boy in the gray dawn of that historic morning back in the 'seventies was more significant than these words from his elder brother:
"Your success in handling the bill-poster does not lie through a barroom door. Give him all the passes he wants, but never buy him a drink."
That those words sank deeply into Charles Frohman is shown by the fact that he seldom drank liquor. His chief tipple through all the coming crowded years was never stronger than sarsaparilla, soda-water, or lemonade.
The task ahead of Charles would have staggered any but the most dauntless enthusiasm. Among other things, as Gustave discovered, there was no route for the company after St. Paul, which was to be played the following week.
"You must discover new towns and bill them," he said. "Get what printing you want. The printers have been instructed to fill orders from you."
The hours sped on. Charles asked a thousand questions, and Gustave filled him with facts as dawn broke and day came. It was nearly seven o'clock, time for his train for St. Paul to leave. Charles would not hear of having breakfast. He was too full of desire to get to work.
Among other things, Charles carried a letter from Gustave to Wallick, who was temporarily ahead of the show, which said:
This is my brother Charles, who will take the advance in your place.
The first word that came from the young advance-agent announced action, for he wired:
All right with Wallick. Have discovered River Falls.
River Falls, it happened, had been "discovered" before and abandoned, but Charles thought he was making route history.
Charles immediately set to work with the extraordinary energy that always characterized him. The chief bill-poster in St. Paul was named Haines. Charles captured him with his engaging smile, and he became a willing slave. It was Haines who taught him how to post bills. Later on when Gustave arrived with the show, he spoke of the boy with intense pride. He said:
"I have taught your brother Charley how to post bills. He took to it like a duck to water. He didn't mind how much paste he spattered over himself. His one desire was to know how to do the job thoroughly. I am going to make him the greatest theatrical agent in the world."
Curiously enough, Haines lived to be a very old man, and in the later years of his life he was able to stick up the twenty-eight-sheet stands that bore in large type the name of the little chubby protégé he had introduced to the art of bill-posting back in the long ago.
At St. Paul Charles had opposition—a big musical event at Ingersoll Hall—and this immediately tested his resource. He got his printing posted in the best places, went around to the newspaper offices and got such good notices that John Dillon was inspired to remark that he had never had such efficient advance work. It is interesting to remember that at this time Charles Frohman was not yet eighteen years old.
Now came the first evidence of that initiative which was such a conspicuous trait in the young man. He had come back to see the performances of his company, and had watched them with swelling pride. Several times he said, and with pardonable importance:
"What we need is a new play. We must have something fresh to advertise."
The net result of this suggestion was that his brother obtained the manuscript of "Lemons," a comedy that, under the title of "Wedlock for Seven," had been first produced at Augustin Daly's New Fifth Avenue Theater in New York. A copy of the play was sent on to Charles to enable him to prepare the presswork for it, and it was the first play manuscript he ever read. "Lemons" vindicated Charles's suggestion, because it added to the strength of the repertory and brought considerable new business.
Charles took an infinite pride in his work. He was eager for suggestions, he worked early and late, and when the season closed at the end of June he was a full-fledged and experienced advance-agent. With his brother he reached Chicago July 4th. In the lobby of Hooley's Theater he was introduced to R. M. Hooley, who, after various hardships, again controlled the theater which bore his name, now Powers' Theater. Out of that chance meeting came a long friendship and a connection that helped in later years to give Charles Frohman his first spectacular success, for it was Mr. Hooley who helped to back "Shenandoah."
On July 5th, six months after he had left the East for his first start, Charles appeared at his mother's home in New York, none the worse for his first experience on the road.
Charles was soon eager for the next season. Gustave had signed a contract with John Dillon to take him out again, this time as part owner of the company. He and George Stoddart agreed to put up two hundred and fifty dollars each to launch the tour of the Stoddart Comedy Company with John Dillon as star. Charles was to continue as advance-agent.
It was a long summer for the boy. When August arrived and the time came to start west there was a financial council of war. Gustave counted on getting his capital from members of the family, but no money was forthcoming. Daniel had received no salary from Callender, and the great road project seemed on the verge of failure. Charles was disconsolate. But the mother of the boys, ever mindful of their interest, said, in her serene way:
"I can get enough money to send you to Chicago and I will put up some lunches for you."
Charles was eagerly impatient to start. He nagged at his brother:
"Gus, when do we start for Chicago? Do we walk?"
He was sent down-town to find out the cheapest route, and he returned in great excitement, saying:
"The cheapest way is over the Baltimore & Ohio, second class, but it is the longest ride. We can ride in the day-coach, and even if we have no place to wash we will get to Chicago, and that is the main thing."
When they reached Chicago the first of the long chain of disasters that was to attend them on this enterprise developed.
Stoddart was penniless. The two hundred and fifty dollars that he expected to contribute to the capital of the new combination was swept away in the failure of the Fidelity Bank. He had looked forward to Gustave for help, and all the while Gustave, on that long, toilsome journey west, was hoping that his partner would provide the first railroad fares. So they sat down and pooled their woes, wondering how they could start their tour, with Charles as an interested listener.
Every now and then he would chirp up with the question:
"How do I get out of town?"
Finally Gustave, always resourceful, said:
"You don't need any money, Charley. I've got railroad passes for you, and you can give the hotels orders on me for your board and lodging."
It was a custom in those days for advance-agents to give orders for their obligations—hotel, rent of hall, bill-posting, and baggage—upon the company that followed. Hotels in particular were willing to accept orders on the treasurer of a theatrical company about to play a date, because, in the event of complete failure, there was always baggage to seize and hold.
So, armed with passes and with the optimism of youth and anticipation, Charles set forth on what became in many respects the most memorable road experience in his life. The first town he billed was Streator, Illinois. Then he hurried on to Ottawa and Peoria, where they were to play during fair week, which was the big week of the year. Misfortune descended at Streator, for despite the lavish display of posters and the ample advance notice that Charles lured the local editors into publishing, the total receipts on the first night were seventy-seven dollars. This, and more, had already been pledged before the curtain went up, and Gustave was not even able to pay John Dillon his seven dollars and seventy cents, which represented his ten per cent, of the gross receipts.
By "traveling on their baggage," which was one of the expedients of the time and a custom which has not entirely passed out of use, the company got to Ottawa, where Charles joined them. Here, in a comic circumstance, he first developed the amazing influence that he was able to exert on people.
Although an admirable actor with a large following and the most delightful and companionable of men, John Dillon had one unfortunate failing. He was addicted to drink, and, regardless of consequences, he would periodically succumb to this weakness. At Ottawa, the town crowded with visitors for the annual fair, Dillon fell from grace. The bill for the evening was "Lemons," and there was every indication that the house would be sold out. The receipts were badly needed, too.
Late in the afternoon came the terrifying news that Dillon lay stupefied from liquor in his room. Everybody save Charles was in despair. Dillon had conceived a great fancy for Charles, and he was deputized to take the actor in hand, get him to the theater, and coerce him through the play.
Charles responded nobly. He aroused the star, took him to the theater in a carriage, and stood in the wings throughout the whole performance, coaching and inspiring his intoxicated star. By an amusing circumstance, Dillon was required to play a drunken scene in "Lemons." He performed this part with so much realism that the audience gave him a great ovation. The real savior of that performance was the chubby lad who stood in the wings with beating heart, fearful every moment that Dillon would succumb.
New and heavier responsibilities now faced Charles Frohman. The company was booked to play a week in Memphis, Tennessee, the longest and most important stand of the tour. In those days the printers who supplied the traveling companies with advertising matter were powers to be reckoned with. When the supply of printing was cut off the company was helpless.
Charles H. McConnell, of the National Printing Company, who supplied the Stoddart Company with paper, was none too confident of the success of that organization. When he heard of the Memphis engagement he insisted that Gustave, who was older and more experienced, be sent ahead to pave the way. Charles was sent back to manage the company, and now came his first attempt at handling actors. He rose to the emergency with all his characteristic ingenuity.
He began at Champaign, Illinois. The first test of his resource came at a one-night stand—Waupaca, Iowa—where "Lemons" was billed as a feature. The prospects for a big house were good. Board and railroad fare seemed assured, when just before supper-time John F. Germon, one of the company, approached Charles in great perturbation.
"We can't play to-night. Mrs. Post is sick."
Mrs. Post played the part of the old woman in the play, and it was a very important rôle.
Charles Frohman only smiled, as he always did in an emergency. Then he said to Germon:
"You're a member of the well-known Germon family, aren't you? Then live up to its reputation and play the part yourself."
"But how about my mustache?" asked Germon.
"I will pay for having it shaved off," replied Frohman.
The net result was that Germon sacrificed his mustache, played the part acceptably without any one in the audience discovering that he was a man masquerading as an old woman. Charles put Wallick, who was acting as stage-manager, in Germon's part. Thus the house was saved and the company was able to proceed.
With his attractive ways and eternal thoughtfulness Charles captivated the company. He supplied the women with candy and bought peanuts for the men. On that trip he developed his fondness for peanuts that never forsook him. He almost invariably carried a bag in his pocket. When he could not get peanuts he took to candy.
A great friendship struck up between Frohman and Stoddart, who, in a way, was a character. He played the violin, and when business was bad and the company got in the dumps Stoddart added to their misfortunes by playing doleful tunes on his fiddle. But that fiddle had a virtue not to be despised, because it was Stoddart's bank. In its hollow box he secreted his modest savings, and in more than one emergency they were drawn on for company bed and board. When the organization reached Memphis Charles had so completely won the affections of the company that they urged him to stay on with them. But business was business, and he had to go on in advance.
Charles now went ahead to "bill" Texas. The reason for the expedition was this:
In Memphis business was so bad that the manager of the theater there advised Gustave to send the company through Texas, where, he assured 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 diminishing 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 pass.
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 brass-band parade."
Charles then came out into the lobby and confessed that his company was up against it, and that it meant bread and butter 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.
Misfortunes now crowded thick and fast. Salaries had ceased entirely, and it was with the utmost difficulty that the company proceeded on its way. As a crowning hardship, Callender repented of his bargain and withdrew the much-used and treasured hundred-dollar bill.
When Charles met Gustave in Seguin he said: "We're up against a hard proposition. The people want John Dillon. It's hard to book an attraction without a star."
In this statement Charles Frohman expressed a truth that he afterward made one of his theatrical axioms, for he became the leading exponent of the star system, and developed, in fact, into the king of the star-makers.
Charles rose supreme over the hardships that filled his colleagues with gloom. Many a night, in order to save hotel bills, he slept on a train as it shunted back and forth between small towns. He always turned up in the morning smiling and serene, with cheer for his now discouraged and almost disgruntled colleagues.
Louise Dillon's sealskin sack rendered heroic service during these precarious days. It was almost literally worn out as collateral. As Gustave had predicted, it got the company out of town on more than one occasion. A little incident will indicate some of the ordeals of that stage of the tour. At Hempstead a "norther" struck the town and the temperature dropped. Wesley Sisson caught a hard cold and concluded to get what he called "a good sweat." He had scarcely made his preparations and settled himself in bed when he heard a rap at the door and a voice said, "Open up."
"Who's that?" asked Sisson.
"Charley," was the reply. "Let me in. There isn't a spare bed in this house and I am freezing to death."
"All right," said Sisson, "but you don't want to come in here, because I am trying to sweat to death."
"Great Scott!" yelled Frohman, "that's what I want to do."
Sisson let him in and he remained all night.
Everywhere Charles Frohman drew people to him. The first time he booked Houston he made friends with Colonel McPherson, who owned the Perkins Opera House and the inevitable saloon alongside. The old manager—a rather rough customer who had killed his man—was a great casino-player, and Charles beguiled several hours with him one night at a game while waiting for a train.
In one of the company's darkest hours he said to Stoddart:
"I've got an idea. Let's play Houston."
"But we've just been there," said Stoddart.
"Never mind," said Charles. "I'll fix it."
The next day he turned up at Houston and went to Colonel McPherson.
"What, you here again?" he asked.
"We've come back," replied Charles with ready resource, "to play a special benefit for your School Teachers' Association."
The old man chuckled. "Well, if you can get 'em in the house you are all right."
Charles was already planning a series of benefits for volunteer firemen and widows and orphans in future towns. It was a case of "anything to get a crowd." He hesitated a moment, then faced the old man with his winning smile and said:
"Colonel, I wish you would let me have fifty dollars to send back to the company."
"All right, my boy; there's the safe. Help yourself. Hurry up. Let us have a game of casino."
Charles wired the much-needed money to his brother, then came back and dutifully played the game. But neither trumped-up benefits for the most worthy of causes nor the unfailing good-humor of the boyish advance-agent could stem the tide of adversity. Things went from bad to worse. Louise Dillon, all hope of salary gone, gave her little remaining capital to Gustave, saving only enough for her railway fare, and went back to her home in Cincinnati. Stoddart now played more dolefully than ever on his violin, ransacked its recesses, and turned over his last cent for the common good.
"We've got to get back North," said Gustave.
With the utmost effort, and by pawning jewelry and clothes, the company gladly saw the last trace of Texas disappear over the horizon.
It was a hard journey back. At Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Charles had to wait for the company because he did not have enough cash to go on ahead. Here the whole company was stranded until several of the members succeeded in getting enough money from home by wire to send them on.
Memphis proved to be a life-saver. Here the company took a steamboat down the Arkansas. It is notable because thus early Charles showed that eagerness to take a chance which eventually caused his death, for, on this trip, as on the Lusitania, he had been warned not to sail.
The river was low and the pilot was reckless. Whenever the boat groaned over a bar Charles would say, "That's great," although the other members of the company shivered with apprehension.
By using every device and resource known to the traveling company of those days, the Stoddart Comedy Company finally reached Richmond, Kentucky. It had left a trail of baggage behind; there was not a watch in the whole aggregation. Charles went on ahead to Cincinnati to book and bill the adjacent towns.
At Richmond Gustave had an inspiration. Then, as always, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was the great life-saver of the harassed and needy theatrical organization. The play was always accessible and it almost invariably drew an audience.
"Why not have a real negro play Uncle Tom?" said Gustave.
So he wired Charles as follows:
Get me an Eva and send her down with Sam Lucas. Be sure to tell Sam to bring his diamonds.
Sam Lucas was a famous negro minstrel who had been with the Callender company. He sported a collection of diamonds that made him the envy and admiration of his colleagues. Gustave knew that these jewels, like Louise Dillon's sealskin sack, meant a meal ticket for the company and transportation in an emergency.
Charles engaged Sallie Cohen (now Mrs. John C. Rice), and sent her down with Lucas, who, by the way, provided the money for the trip. Charles then proceeded to cover his "Lemons" posters with "Uncle Tom's Cabin" printing which he hastily acquired, and awaited results.
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" was played to a packed house at Richmond, and the company was able to get out of Kentucky. Gustave now had visions of big business in Ohio, and especially at Wilmington, which was Sam Lucas's home town. But the result was the usual experience with home patronage of home talent, and only a handful of people came to see the play. Sallie Cohen, despairing of getting her salary, had quit the company, and on this night Polly Stoddart, who was a tall, well-developed woman, had to play Little Eva. When she sat on the lap of Wesley Sisson, who played her father, she not only hid him from sight, but almost crushed him to earth.
Wilmington proved to be the last despairing gasp of the Stoddart Comedy Company, for the trouble-studded tour now ended. Some of Lucas's diamonds were pawned to get the company back to Cincinnati.
The sad news was telegraphed to Charles, who was billing Newport, Kentucky, which is just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati. He received the message while standing on a step-ladder with a paste-brush in his hand. Now came an early evidence of his humor and equanimity. He calmly went on posting the bill for the show that he knew would never appear. Afterward in reciting the incident he made this explanation:
"I didn't want to tell the bill-poster that the company was closed, because he had just made a fresh bucket of paste and I didn't want him to waste it. Besides, he had become enthusiastic at the prospect of seeing a real negro Uncle Tom, and I had just given him some passes for the show. I didn't want all his disappointments to come at one time."
After all the hardships of the previous months, and with salaries unpaid, the company now found itself stranded in the spring of 1878 at the Walnut Street Hotel in Cincinnati. Gustave's problem was to get his people home. Fortunately, most of them lived in the Middle West. By pawning some of his clothes and making other sacrifices he was able to get them off. Only Frank Hartwell and Charles were left behind.
Gustave got a pass to Baltimore, where he borrowed enough money from Callender, then in his decline, to take care of Hartwell. Charles was left behind as security for the whole Frohman bill at the Walnut Street Hotel. Although Charles was amiable and smiling, the hotel thought that his cheerful demeanor was an unsatisfactory return for board and lodging, so he was asked to vacate his room after a few days. He now spent his time walking about the streets and eating one meal a day. At night he sat in the summer-gardens "across the Rhine," listening to the music, and then seeking out a place where he could get a bed for a quarter.
By giving an I O U to the same Pennsylvania ticket-agent who had staked Gustave, and with five dollars telegraphed by the indefatigable brother back in New York, he got as far as Philadelphia. He landed there without a cent in his pocket.
"I must get home," he said.
He got on a day-coach of a New York train without the vestige of a ticket and still penniless. In those days the cars were heated by stoves, and near each stove was a large coal-box.
When Charles heard the conductor's cry, "Tickets, please!" he hid himself in the coal-box and remained there until the awful personage passed by. Being small, he could pull the lid of the box down and be completely hidden from sight. After the conductor passed, he scrambled out and resumed his seat. He had to repeat this performance several times on the trip. Afterward in speaking of it he said:
"I wasn't a bit frightened for myself. I knew I would suffer no harm. My chief concern was for a kind-hearted old man who sat in the seat next to the coal-box. He was much more agitated than I was."
On a bright May afternoon Charles turned up, sooty but smiling, at 250 East Seventy-eighth Street, where the Frohman family then lived. He had walked all the way up-town from the ferry. His first greeting to Gustave was:
"Well, when do we start again?"
