A RIVAL COMPANY.
From Cambron, Neka and his friends went to Washingtonville. Longfellow Wadsworth had wired ahead and secured a small but cozy theatre, and they billed the town for a three-nights’ stand.
“Our first venture at remaining more than one night,” remarked Neka; “I wonder how it will pan out.”
“Tell better after the third night,” laughed Bindley. “If business is good the whole three nights, it ought to give you quite a lift.”
“We must expect some set-backs,” put in the elocutionist. “We cannot expect the sun to shine all the time.”
“The trouble is, we are not strong enough yet to stand much of a set-back,” responded Neka, thoughtfully. “Our expenses here are over a hundred and twenty dollars. No business would about wipe out our capital.”
“Never mind, don’t worry,” said Bindley.
He was always cheerful and his perpetual good humor was contagious.
Neka wondered what had become of Daniel Bambo, but heard nothing concerning the proprietor of the Greatest Aggregation on the Globe.
On the evening of the first night in Washingtonville a cold rain set in about six o’clock, and by seven it was pouring steadily. The lamp in front of the little theatre flickered dismally in the downpour, and the pavement was all but deserted.
“No audience to-night,” said Longfellow Wadsworth, as he walked up and down inside the entrance anxiously. “You couldn’t hire country folks to come out in the wet. They are more afraid of it than city people.”
“Here is an audience of two, anyway,” said Neka, as a pair of young men came in.
They shook the water from their umbrellas, strode up to the door and presented--free passes!
With downcast face, Longfellow Wadsworth let them in. The pair, all alone in the body of the theatre, looked uncomfortable and did not dare to crack the peanuts they had brought along.
Five minutes passed, and a man drifted in. He paid a quarter and joined the lonely pair within, and the three began a whispered conversation concerning the probabilities of the show being postponed.
“This is awful!” groaned the elocutionist.
“Twenty minutes to eight,” replied Neka. “Let us keep up our courage.”
Ten minutes passed, and not another soul came in. Longfellow Wadsworth heaved a deep sigh and retired to the ticket office to seek consolation out of his pocket flask.
But then matters began to brighten just a wee bit. Three big boys came in, followed by a couple of young men with their best girls. They had hardly procured tickets when a loud fish-horn sounded outside, and a big covered stage drove up.
“This here crowd is from Goose Run,” explained one tall, lanky youth, who appeared to be in charge. “We wuz bound ter come, rain or no rain, ain’t that so, Sally?”
“Thet’s so, Joel,” was the reply from a comely young woman within the stage.
There were eighteen people in the stage, and this made twenty-eight folks all told to see the show.
As the stage stood at the door Neka was struck by a sudden idea. He ran in to talk it over with Longfellow Wadsworth.
“I’ve a good mind to take that stage and drum up an audience,” he said. “I think we can get folks to come if we bring them here free.”
“But the stage will cost money, my son, and as it is now----”
“I’ll give the driver five cents for every person he brings to the theatre.”
“Well, go ahead and do as you please.”
This settled, Neka called on Bindley to come along. Then the driver of the big turnout was appealed to.
“Five cents fer every person I fetch in, eh?” he mused. “All right, I’ll go ye!”
A big fish-horn remained in the stage, and this the two appropriated, and off they started with a flourish.
They drove up and down half a dozen of the principal streets of the town, and while Neka blew on the horn, Bindley stood by the rear step, shouting out that they were going to the theatre, and the stage was free to any one that wanted to go along.
The idea caught the fancy of the town folks, especially those who had thought to witness the entertainment. In ten minutes the stage was packed and on its way to the theatre.
Two more trips were made. In the meantime others came in on foot, and by twenty minutes past eight the audience numbered close to a hundred people.
“Not an extra large crowd,” said Neka, as he counted them. “But it’s a good deal better than only thirty or forty.”
The pianist was pounding out lively airs, but those in the theatre were growing impatient, so, without further delay, Longfellow Wadsworth went on the stage and gave one of his best humorous recitations. This put the people in good humor, and the remainder of the entertainment passed off with great success.
Although the audience was limited, Neka and the others gave the best exhibition in their power. During the course of the show Bindley came out in a quaint monologue, in which he mentioned the fact that, should it rain the next evening, free stages would run all over the town to bring folks to the theatre, and he trusted the audience would mention this to all of their friends.
This speech was well received, and it was a good thing that it was made, for the next night it rained as hard as ever. True to the promise, three stages were procured, each with a banner outside, and these brought to the theater over a hundred and fifty people between seven and eight o’clock.
Yet even the free stages did not give them a paying audience, and when the receipts for the first and second nights in Washingtonville were counted up, they were still some twenty dollars behind.
“Thought we would catch it some time,” muttered the elocutionist, dismally.
“Twenty dollars is not such a loss,” replied Neka. “Remember, we have another night to count on.”
“But it looks as if it would rain for a week still, my son.”
“Oh, no, it will clear to-night, mark my word.”
Neka was right. By midnight the storm shifted, and on the following morning the sun arose as bright as ever.
On the day previous Bindley had brought word in that a rival specialty company was in the vicinity and intended to come to Washingtonville either that night or the next. At breakfast Neka heard that the rivals were already located at a hall on the next block.
Curious to learn something about them, the boy strolled off in the direction.
He soon reached the hall, and in front, on the billboard, saw a flaring poster that took him completely by surprise.
HENRY MAUL’S SPECIALTY CO.
The Finest in the World!
No Fake Show can compare to it!
See Henry Maul, King of Jugglers!
See the Wonderful Trick Pony, Stump!
See the Windoms, Joe and Jennie!
The Finest Child Mimics on the Stage!
Lowest Price! Best Show! Go to No Other!
“Henry Maul!” read Neka. “It must be Hank Maul who drove for Bambo! It is, for there he mentions Stump, the trick pony. Bambo’s circus must have been sold out, and Maul took the pony for back salary. I wonder who Joe and Jennie Windom can be? I never heard of them. If that last line isn’t cheeky, to say the least!”
Neka was about to pass on when a shrill cry of pain attracted his attention.
“Stop! stop! Don’t whip me any more! Please don’t!”
It was a girlish voice which uttered the cry. It came from the interior of the hall.
“Shut up, you whelp!” was the reply, in the well-known rough voice of Hank Maul, the ex-circus driver. “You’ll do as I want you to, or I’ll break every bone in your skinny body!”