Green Fancy

by George Barr McCutcheon

  CHAPTER II

  THE FIRST WAYFARER LAYS HIS PACK ASIDE AND FALLS IN WITH FRIENDS

  The little hall in which he found himself was the "office" throughwhich all men must pass who come as guests to Hart's Tavern. A steep,angular staircase took up one end of the room. Set in beneath its upperturn was the counter over which the business of the house wastransacted, and behind this a man was engaged in the peacefuloccupation of smoking a corn-cob pipe. He removed the pipe, brushed hislong moustache with the back of a bony hand, and bowed slowly and withgrave ceremony to the arrival.

  An open door to the right of the stairway gave entrance to a room fromwhich came the sound of a deep, sonorous voice, employed in what turnedout to be a conversational solo. To the left another door led to whatwas evidently the dining-room. The glance that the stranger sent inthat direction revealed two or three tables, covered with white cloths.

  "Can you put me up for the night?" he inquired, advancing to thecounter.

  "You look like a feller who'd want a room with bath," drawled the manbehind the counter, surveying the applicant from head to foot. "Whichwe ain't got," he added.

  "I'll be satisfied to have a room with a bed," said the other.

  "Sign here," was the laconic response. He went to the trouble ofactually putting his finger on the line where the guest was expected towrite his name.

  "Can I have supper?"

  "Food for man and beast," said the other patiently. He slapped his palmupon a cracked call-bell, and then looked at the fresh name on thepage. "Thomas K. Barnes, New York," he read aloud. He eyed the newcomeronce more. "And automobile?"

  "No. I'm walking."

  "Didn't I hear you just come up in a car?"

  "A fellow gave me a lift from the cross-roads."

  "I see. My name is Jones, Putnam Jones. I run this place. My father an'grandfather run it before me. Glad to meet you, Mr. Barnes. We used tohave a hostler here named Barnes. What's your idea fer footin' it thistime o' the year?"

  "I do something like this every spring. A month or six weeks of it putsme in fine shape for a vacation later on," supplied Mr. Barneswhimsically.

  Mr. Jones allowed a grin to steal over his seamed face. He re-insertedthe corn-cob pipe and took a couple of pulls at it.

  "I never been to New York, but it must be a heavenly place for avacation, if a feller c'n judge by what some of my present boardershave to say about it. It's a sort of play-actor's paradise, ain't it?"

  "It is paradise to every actor who happens to be on the road, Mr.Jones," said Barnes, slipping his big pack from his shoulders andletting it slide to the floor.

  "Hear that feller in the tap-room talkin'? Well, he is one of theleading actors in New York,--in the world, for that matter. He's beentalkin' about Broadway for nearly a week now, steady."

  "May I enquire what he is doing up here in the wilds?"

  "At present he ain't doing anything except talk. Last week he wastreadin' the boards, as he puts it himself. Busted. Up the flue. Showedlast Saturday night in Hornville, eighteen mile north of here, andimmediately after the performance him and his whole troupe started towalk back to New York, a good four hunderd mile. They started out theback way of the opery house and nobody missed 'em till next mornin'except the sheriff, and he didn't miss 'em till they'd got over thecounty line into our bailiwick. Four of 'em are still stoppin' herejust because I ain't got the heart to turn 'em out ner the spare moneyto buy 'em tickets to New York. Here comes one of 'em now. Mr.Dillingford, will you show this gentleman to room eleven, and carry hisbaggage up fer him? And maybe he'll want a pitcher of warm water towash and shave in." He turned to the new guest and smiledapologetically.

  "We're a little short o' help just now, Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Dillingfordhas kindly consented to--"

  "My God!" gasped Mr. Dillingford, staring at the register. "Some onefrom little old New York? My word, sir, you--Won't you havea--er--little something to drink with me before you--"

  "He wants something to eat," interrupted Mr. Jones sharply. "Tell Mr.Bacon to step up to his room and take the order."

  "All right, old chap,--nothing easier," said Mr. Dillingford genially."Just climb up the elevator, Mr. Barnes. We do this to get up anappetite. When did you leave New York?"

  Taking up a lighted kerosene lamp and the heavy pack, Mr. ClarenceDillingford led the way up the stairs. He was a chubby individual ofindefinite age. At a glance you would have said he was undertwenty-one; a second look would have convinced you that he was nearerforty-one. He was quite shabby, but chin and cheek were as clean asthat of a freshly scrubbed boy. He may not have changed his collar fordays but he lived up to the traditions of his profession by shavingtwice every twenty-four hours.

  Depositing Barnes' pack on a chair in the little bedroom at the end ofthe hall upstairs, he favoured the guest with a perfectly unabashedgrin.

  "I'm not doing this to oblige old man Jones, you know. I won't attemptto deceive you. I'm working out a daily bread-bill. Chuck three times aday and a bed to sleep in, that's what I'm doing it for, so don't getit into your head that I applied for the job. Let me take a look atyou. I want to get a good square peep at a man who has the means to gosomewhere else and yet is boob enough to come to this gosh-awful placeof his own free will and accord. Darn it, you LOOK intelligent. I don'tget you at all. What's the matter? Are you a fugitive from justice?"

  Barnes laughed aloud. There was no withstanding the fellow's sprightlyimpudence.

  "I happen to enjoy walking," said he.

  "If I enjoyed it as much as you do, I'd be limping into Harlem by thistime," said Mr. Dillingford sadly. "But, you see, I'm an actor. I'm tooproud to walk."

  "Up against poor business, I presume?"

  "Up against no business at all," said Mr. Dillingford. "We couldn'teven get 'em to come in on passes. Last Saturday night we had outenough paper to fill the house and, by gosh, only eleven people showedup. You can't beat that, can you? Three of 'em paid to get in. Thatmade a dollar and a half, box office. We nearly had to give it back."

  "Bad weather?" suggested Barnes feelingly. He had removed his wet coat,and stood waiting.

  "Nope. Moving pictures. They'd sooner pay ten cents to see a movie thanto come in and see us free. The old man was so desperate he tried tokill himself the morning we arrived at this joint."

  "You mean the star? Poison, rope or pistol?"

  "Whiskey. He tried to drink himself to death. Before old Jones got ontohim he had put down seven dollars' worth of booze, and now we've got tohelp wipe out the account. But why complain? It's all in a day's--"

  The cracked bell on the office desk interrupted him, somewhatperemptorially. Mr. Dillingford's face assumed an expression ofprofound dignity. He lowered his voice as he gave vent to the following:

  "That man Jones is the meanest human being God ever let--Yes, sir,coming, sir!" He started for the open door with surprising alacrity.

  "Never mind the hot water," said Barnes, sorry for the little man.

  "No use," said Mr. Dillingford dejectedly. "He charges ten cents forhot water. You've got to have it whether you want it or not. Rememberthat you are in the very last stages of New England. The worstaffliction known to the human race. So long. I'll be back in two shakesof a lamb's--" The remainder of his promise was lost in the rush ofexit.

  Barnes surveyed the little bed-chamber. It was just what he hadexpected it would be. The walls were covered with a garish paperselected by one who had an eye but not a taste for colour: bright pinkflowers that looked more or less like chunks of a shattered water melonspilt promiscuously over a background of pearl grey. There was everyindication that it had been hung recently. Indeed there was a distinctaroma of fresh flour paste. The bedstead, bureau and washstand werelikewise offensively modern. Everything was as clean as a pin, however,and the bed looked comfortable. He stepped to the small, many-panedwindow and looked out into the night. The storm was at its height. Inall his life he never had heard such a clatter of rain, nor a wind thatshrieked so app
allingly.

  His thoughts went quite naturally to the woman who was out there in thethick of it. He wondered how she was faring, and lamented that she wasnot in his place now and he in hers. A smile lighted his eyes. She hadsuch a nice voice and such a quaint way of putting things into words.What was she doing up in this God-forsaken country? And how could shebe so certain of that grumpy old man whom she had never laid eyes onbefore? What was the name of the place she was bound for? Green Fancy!What an odd name for a house! And what sort of house--

  His reflections were interrupted by the return of Mr. Dillingford, whocarried a huge pewter pitcher from which steam arose in volume. At hisheels strode a tall, cadaverous person in a checked suit.

  Never had Barnes seen anything quite so overpowering in the way of asuit. Joseph's coat of many colours was no longer a vision ofchildhood. It was a reality. The checks were an inch square, and eachcube had a narrow border of azure blue. The general tone was a dirtygrey, due no doubt to age and a constitution that would not allow it tooutlive its usefulness.

  "Meet Mr. Bacon, Mr. Barnes," introduced Mr. Dillingford, going to theneedless exertion of indicating Mr. Bacon with a generous sweep of hisfree hand. "Our heavy leads. Mr. Montague Bacon, also of New York."

  "Ham and eggs, pork tenderloin, country sausage, rump steak and springchicken," said Mr. Bacon, in a cavernous voice, getting it over withwhile the list was fresh in his memory. "Fried and boiled potatoes,beans, succotash, onions, stewed tomatoes and--er--just a moment,please. Fried and boiled potatoes, beans--"

  "Learn your lines, Ague," said Mr. Dillingford, from the washstand. "Wecall him Ague for short, Mr. Barnes, because he's always shaky with hislines."

  "Ham and eggs, potatoes and a cup or two of coffee," said Barnes,suppressing a desire to laugh.

  "And apple pie," concluded the waiter, triumphantly. "I knew I'd get itif you gave me time. As you may have observed, my dear sir, I am notwhat you would call an experienced waiter. As a matter of fact, I--"

  "I told him you were an actor," interrupted his friend. "Run along nowand give the order to Mother Jones. Mr. Barnes is hungry."

  "I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Barnes," said Mr. Bacon, extending hishand. As he did so, his coat sleeve receded half way to the elbow,revealing the full expanse of a frayed cuff. "So delighted, in fact,that it gives me great pleasure to inform you that you have at lastencountered a waiter who does not expect a tip. God forbid that Ishould ever sink so low as that. I have been a villain of the deepestdye in a score or more of productions--many of them depending to alarge extent upon the character of the work I did in--"

  "Actor stuff," inserted Mr. Dillingford, unfeelingly.

  "--And I have been hissed a thousand times by gallery gods and kitchenangels from one end of this broad land to the other, but never, sir,never in all my career have I been obliged to play such a diabolicalpart as I am playing here, and, dammit, sir, I am denied even thetribute of a healthy hiss. This is--"

  The bell downstairs rang violently. Mr. Bacon departed in great haste.

  While the traveller performed his ablutions, Mr. Dillingford, for themoment disengaged, sat upon the edge of the bed and enjoyed himself. Hetalked.

  "We were nine at the start," said he, pensively. "Gradually we werereduced to seven, not including the manager. I doubled and so did MissHughes,--a very charming actress, by the way, who will soon be heard ofon Broadway unless I miss my guess. The last week I was playing DickCranford, light juvenile, and General Parsons, comedy old man. In thesecond act Dick has to meet the general face to face and ask him forhis daughter's hand. Miss Hughes was Amy Parsons, and, as I say,doubled along toward the end. She played her own mother. The best youcould say for the arrangement was that the family resemblance wasremarkable. I never saw a mother and daughter look so much alike. Yousee, she didn't have time to change her make-up or costume, so all shecould do was to put on a long shawl and a grey wig, and that made amother of her. Well, we had a terrible time getting around that scenebetween Dick and the general. Amy and her mother were in on it too, andMrs. Parsons was supposed to faint. It looked absolutely impossible forMiss Hughes. But we got around it, all right."

  "How, may I ask?" enquired Barnes, over the edge of a towel.

  "Just as I was about to enter to tackle the old man, who was seated inhis library with Mrs. Parsons, the lights went out. I jumped up andaddressed the audience, telling 'em (almost in a confidential whisper,there were so darned few of 'em) that there was nothing to be alarmedabout and the act would go right on. Then Amy and Dick came on in totaldarkness, and the audience never got wise to the game. When the lightswent up, there was Amy and Dick embracing each other in plain view, theold folks nowhere in sight. General Parsons had dragged the old ladyinto the next room. We made our changes right there on the stage,speaking all four parts at the same time."

  "Pretty clever," said Barnes.

  "My idea," announced Mr. Dillingford calmly.

  "What has become of the rest of the company?"

  "Well, as I said before, two of 'em escaped before the smash. The lowcomedian and character old woman. Joe Beckley and his wife. That leftthe old man,--I mean Mr. Rushcroft, the star--Lyndon Rushcroft, youknow,--myself and Bacon, Tommy Gray, Miss Rushcroft, Miss Hughes and awoman named Bradley, seven of us. Miss Hughes happened to know a chapwho was travelling around the country for his health, always meeting upwith us,--accidentally, of course,--and he staked her to a ticket toNew York. The woman named Bradley said her mother was dying in Buffalo,so the rest of us scraped together all the money we had,--nine dollarsand sixty cents,--and did the right thing by her. Actors are alwaysdoing darn-fool things like that, Mr. Barnes. And what do you supposeshe did? She took that money and bought two tickets to Albany, one forherself and another for the manager of the company,--the lowest,meanest, orneriest white man that ever,--But I am crabbing the oldman's part. You ought to hear what HE has to say about Mr. Manager. Hecan use words I never even heard of before. So, that leaves just thefour of us here, working off the two days' board bill of Bradley andthe manager, Rushcroft's ungodly spree, and at the same time keepingour own slate clean. Miss Thackeray will no doubt make up your bed inthe 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 comefrom. Miss Thackeray was our ingenue. A trifle large for that sort ofthing, perhaps, but--very sprightly, just the same. She's had her fullgrowth upwards, but not outwards. Tommy Gray, the other member of thecompany, is driving a taxi in Hornville. He used to own his own car inSpringfield, 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. Orwould you prefer a little appetiser beforehand? The tap-room is righton the way. You mustn't call it the bar. Everybody in that littlegraveyard down the road would turn over completely if you did. Hallowedtradition, 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 rubeslike to sit around and listen to conversation about Broadway and BunkerHill and Old Point Comfort and other places, and then go home and tellthe neighbours that they know quite a number of stage people. Humannature, I guess. I used to think that if I could ever meet an actressI'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 meetone of them. Listen! Hear that? Rushcroft is reciting Gunga Din. Youcan't hear the thunder for the noise he's making."

  They descended the stairs and entered the tap-room, where a dozen menwere seated around the tables, all of them with pewter mugs in front
ofthem. Standing at the top table,--that is to say, the one farthestremoved from the door and commanding the attention of every creature inthe room--was the imposing figure of Lyndon Rushcroft. He was reciting,in a sonorous voice and with tremendous fervour, the famous Kiplingpoem. Barnes had heard it given a score of times at The Players in NewYork, and knew it by heart. He was therefore able to catch Mr.Rushcroft in the very reprehensible act of taking liberties with thedesigns of the author. The "star," after a sharp and rather startledlook at the newcomer, deliberately "cut" four stanzas and rushedsomewhat hastily through the concluding verse, marring a tremendousclimax.

  A genial smile wiped the tragic expression from his face. He advancedupon Barnes and the beaming Mr. Dillingford, his hand extended.

  "My dear fellow," he exclaimed resoundingly, "how are you?" Cordialityboomed in his voice. "I heard you had arrived. Welcome,--thricefoldwelcome!" He neglected to say that Mr. Montague Bacon, in passing a fewminutes 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 thenatives for days that he knew everybody worth knowing in New York.

  Barnes was momentarily taken aback. Then he rose to the spirit of theoccasion.

  "Hello, Rushcroft," he greeted, as if meeting an old time and greatlybeloved friend. "This IS good. 'Pon my soul, you are like a thrivingdate palm in the middle of an endless desert. How are you?"

  They shook hands warmly. Mr. Dillingford slapped the newcomer on theshoulder, affectionately, familiarly, and shouted:

  "Who would have dreamed we'd run across good old Barnesy up here? ByJove, it's marvellous!"

  "Friends, countrymen," boomed Mr. Rushcroft, "this is Mr. Barnes of NewYork. Not the man the book was written about, but one of the bestfellows God ever put into this little world of ours. I do not recallyour names, gentlemen, or I would introduce each of you separately anddivisibly. And when did you leave New York, my dear fellow?"

  "A fortnight ago," replied Barnes. "I have been walking for the pasttwo weeks."

  Mr. Rushcroft's expression changed. His face fell.

  "Walking?" he repeated, a trifle stiffly. Was the fellow a tramp? Washe in no better condition of life than himself and his strandedcompanions, against whom the mockery of the assemblage was slyly butindubitably directed? If so, what was to be gained by claimingfriendship with him? It behooved him to go slow. He drew himself up tohis full height. "Well, well! Really?" he said.

  The others looked on with interest. The majority were farmers, hardy,rawboned men with misty eyes. Two of them looked likemechanics,--blacksmiths, was Barnes' swift estimate,--and as there wasan odor of gasolene in the low, heavy-timbered room, others were nodoubt connected with the tavern garage. For that matter, there was alsoan atmosphere of the stables.

  Lyndon Rushcroft was a tall, saggy man of fifty. Despite his determinederectness, he was inclined to sag from the shoulders down. His head,huge and grey, appeared to be much too ponderous for his yielding body,and yet he carried it manfully, even theatrically. The lines in hisdark, seasoned face were like furrows; his nose was large and somewhatbulbous, his mouth wide and grim. Thick, black eyebrows shaded a pairof eyes in which white was no longer apparent; it had given way to apermanent red. A two days' stubble covered his chin and cheeks.Altogether he was a singular exemplification of one's idea of theold-time actor. He was far better dressed than the two male members ofhis company who had come under Barnes' observation. A fashionably madecutaway coat of black, a fancy waistcoat, and trousers with a delicatestripe (sadly in need of creasing) gave him an air of distinctiontotally missing in his subordinates. (Afterwards Barnes was to learnthat he was making daily use of his last act drawing-room costume,which included a silk hat and a pair of pearl grey gloves.) Evidentlyhe had possessed the foresight to "skip out" in the best that thewardrobe afforded, leaving his ordinary garments for the sheriff to layhands upon.

  "A customary adventure with me," said Barnes. "I take a month's walkingtour every spring, usually timing my pilgrimage so as to miss thehoi-polloi that blunders into the choice spots of the world later onand spoils them completely for me. This is my first jaunt into thispart of New England. Most attractive walking, my dear fellow. Wonderfulscenery, splendid air--" "Deliver me from the hoi-polloi," said Mr.Rushcroft, at his ease once more. "I may also add, deliver me fromwalking. I'm damned if I can see anything in it. What will you have todrink, old chap?"

  He turned toward the broad aperture which served as a passageway in thewall for drinks leaving the hands of a fat bartender beyond to fallinto the clutches of thirsty customers in the tap-room. There was nooutstanding bar. A time-polished shelf, as old as the house itself,provided the afore-said bartender with a place on which to spread hiselbows while not actively engaged in advancing mugs and bottles frommore remote resting-places at his back.

  "Everything comes through 'the hole in the wall,'" explained Rushcroft,wrinkling his face into a smile.

  He unceremoniously turned his back on the audience of a moment before,and pounded smartly on the shelf, notwithstanding the fact that thebartender was less than a yard away and facing him expectantly. "Whatho! Give ear, professor. Ye gods, what a night! Devil-brewedpandemonium--I beg pardon?"

  "I was just about to ask what you will have," said Barnes, lining upbeside him with Mr. Dillingford.

  Mr. Rushcroft drew himself up once more. "My dear fellow, I asked youto have a--"

  "But I had already invited Dillingford. You must allow me to extend theinvitation--"

  "Say no more, sir. I understand perfectly. A flagon of ale, Bob, forme." He leaned closer to Barnes and said, in what was supposed to be aconfidential aside: "Don't tackle the whiskey. It would kill arattlesnake."

  A few minutes later he laid one hand fondly upon Barnes' shoulder and,with a graceful sweep of the other in the direction of the hall,addressed himself to Dillingford.

  "Lead the way to the banquet-hall, good fellow. We follow." To thepatrons he was abandoning:

  "We return anon." Passing through the office, his arm linked in one ofBarnes', Mr. Rushcroft hesitated long enough to impress upon LandlordJones the importance of providing his "distinguished friend, Robert W.Barnes," with the very best that the establishment afforded. PutnamJones blinked slightly and his eyes sought the register as if to accuseor justify his memory. Then he spat copiously into the corner, anecessary preliminary to a grin. He hadn't much use for the greatLyndon Rushcroft. His grin was sardonic. Something told him that Mr.Rushcroft was about to be liberally fed.