Strictly Business | Page 8

wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.
But, listen.
At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous.
When she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel,
the bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get it
there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic
manner.
The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a
tragedy in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded
with great enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such
occasions, rang the curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters
respectively and more or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from
the stage. The next turn went on, and all went as merry as an alimony
bell.
The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.
"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as far
as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is, you
just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any one
of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."
After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and
maple sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played.
Vincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was
their peripatetic friend.

"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
little lady is wild about you."
"Who?" asked Hart.
"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt;
and we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold
her."
"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She wasn't
feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no hard
feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the job again
in three days. Don't let her worry."
"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
her hands and keeping her from coming to you."
"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
What's the matter with her?"
"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."
"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which
he lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."
"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.
"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's impossible, I
tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."
"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's
wild for love of you. How have you been so blind?"
"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's too late. It's too
late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be wrong. It's
impossible. There's some mistake.
"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise the
curtain. Wake up, man."
"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you it's
too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married two
years!_"

II
THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
you, and then