Part 12

"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."