Green Fancy | Page 9

ought to hear what HE has to say
about Mr. Manager. He can use words I never even heard of before. So,
that leaves just the four of us here, working off the two days' board bill
of Bradley and the manager, Rushcroft's ungodly spree, and at the same
time keeping our own slate clean. Miss Thackeray will no doubt make
up your bed in the morning. She is temporarily a chambermaid.
Cracking fine girl, too, if I do say--"
"Miss Thackeray? I don't recall your mentioning--"
"Mercedes Thackeray on the programme, but in real life, as they say,
Emma Smith. She is Rushcroft's daughter."
"Somewhat involved, isn't it?"
"Not in the least. Rushcroft's real name is Otterbein Smith. Horrible,
isn't it? He sprung from some place in Indiana, where the authors come
from. Miss Thackeray was our ingenue. A trifle large for that sort of
thing, perhaps, but--very sprightly, just the same. She's had her full
growth upwards, but not outwards. Tommy Gray, the other member of
the company, is driving a taxi in Hornville. He used to own his own car
in Springfield, Mass., by the way. Comes of a very good family. At
least, so he says. Are you all ready? I'll lead you to the dining-room. Or
would you prefer a little appetiser beforehand? The tap-room is right on
the way. You mustn't call it the bar. Everybody in that little graveyard
down the road would turn over completely if you did. Hallowed
tradition, you know."
"I don't mind having a cocktail. Will you join me?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm expected to," confessed Mr. Dillingford.
"We've been drawing quite a bit of custom to the tap-room. The rubes
like to sit around and listen to conversation about Broadway and
Bunker Hill and Old Point Comfort and other places, and then go home

and tell the neighbours that they know quite a number of stage people.
Human nature, I guess. I used to think that if I could ever meet an
actress I'd be the happiest thing in the world. Well, I've met a lot of 'em,
and God knows I'm not as happy as I was when I was WISHING I
could meet one of them. Listen! Hear that? Rushcroft is reciting Gunga
Din. You can't hear the thunder for the noise he's making."
They descended the stairs and entered the tap-room, where a dozen
men were seated around the tables, all of them with pewter mugs in
front of them. Standing at the top table,--that is to say, the one farthest
removed from the door and commanding the attention of every creature
in the room--was the imposing figure of Lyndon Rushcroft. He was
reciting, in a sonorous voice and with tremendous fervour, the famous
Kipling poem. Barnes had heard it given a score of times at The Players
in New York, and knew it by heart. He was therefore able to catch Mr.
Rushcroft in the very reprehensible act of taking liberties with the
designs of the author. The "star," after a sharp and rather startled look
at the newcomer, deliberately "cut" four stanzas and rushed somewhat
hastily through the concluding verse, marring a tremendous climax.
A genial smile wiped the tragic expression from his face. He advanced
upon Barnes and the beaming Mr. Dillingford, his hand extended.
"My dear fellow," he exclaimed resoundingly, "how are you?"
Cordiality boomed in his voice. "I heard you had arrived.
Welcome,--thricefold welcome!" He neglected to say that Mr.
Montague Bacon, in passing a few minutes before, had leaned over and
whispered behind his hand:
"Fellow upstairs from New York, Mr. Rushcroft,--fellow named Barnes.
Quite a swell, believe me."
It was a well-placed tip, for Mr. Rushcroft had been telling the natives
for days that he knew everybody worth knowing in New York.
Barnes was momentarily taken aback. Then he rose to the spirit of the
occasion.

"Hello, Rushcroft," he greeted, as if meeting an old time and greatly
beloved friend. "This IS good. 'Pon my soul, you are like a thriving
date palm in the middle of an endless desert. How are you?"
They shook hands warmly. Mr. Dillingford slapped the newcomer on
the shoulder, affectionately, familiarly, and shouted:
"Who would have dreamed we'd run across good old Barnesy up here?
By Jove, it's marvellous!"
"Friends, countrymen," boomed Mr. Rushcroft, "this is Mr. Barnes of
New York. Not the man the book was written about, but one of the best
fellows God ever put into this little world of ours. I do not recall your
names, gentlemen, or I would introduce each of you separately and
divisibly. And when did you leave New York, my dear fellow?"
"A fortnight ago," replied Barnes. "I have been walking for the past two
weeks."
Mr. Rushcroft's expression changed. His face fell.