The play over, and Simmons having duly reported to the manager--who was delighted with the activity of the feet, but who advised that next time the sticks be left at home--the happy party sailed up Broadway, this time by threes and twos, swinging their canes as before, and threading their way in and out of the throngs that filled the street.
The first stop was made at the corner of Thirteenth Street by McFudd, who turned his troop abruptly to the right and marched them down a flight of steps into a cellar, where they immediately attacked a huge wash-tub filled with steamed clams, and covered with a white cloth to keep them hot. This was the bar's free lunch. The clams devoured--six each--and the necessary beers paid for, the whole party started to retrace their steps, when Simmons stopped to welcome a new-corner who had entered the cellar unperceived by the barkeeper, and who was bending over the wash-tub of clams, engaged in picking out the smallest of the bivalves with the end of all iron fork. He had such a benevolent, kindly face, and was so courtly in his bearing, and spoke with so soft and gentle a voice, that Oliver, who stood next to Simmons, lingered to listen.
"Oh, my dear Simmons," cried the old gentleman, "we missed you to-night. When are you coming back to us? The orchestra is really getting to be deplorable. Miss Gannon quite broke down in her song. We must protest, my boy; we must protest.
I saw you in front, but you should be wielding the baton. And is this young gentleman one of your friends?"
"Yes--Mr. Horn. Ollie, let me introduce you to Mr. Gilbert, the actor"--and he laid his hand on Oliver's shoulder--"dear John Gilbert, as we always call him."
Oliver looked up into the kindly, sweet face of the man, and a curious sensation passed over him. Could this courtly, perfectly well-bred old gentleman, with his silver-white hair, beaming smile and gentle voice, the equal of any of his father's guests, be an actor?
Could he possibly belong to the profession which, of all others, Oliver had been taught to despise? The astonishment of our young hero was so great that for a moment he could not speak.
Simmons thought he read Oliver's mind, and came to his rescue.
"My friend, Mr. Horn, did not like the play to-night, Mr. Gilbert," he said. "He thinks the death-scene was horrible"--and Simmons glanced smiling at the others who stood at a little distance watching the interview with great interest.
"Dear me, dear me, you don't say so. What was it you objected to, may I ask?" There was a trace of anxiety in his voice.
"Why, the murder-scene, sir. It seemed to me too dreadful to kill a woman in that way. I haven't forgotten it yet," and a distressed look passed over Oliver's face. "But then I have seen but very few plays," he added--"none like that."
The old actor looked at him with a relieved expression.
"Ah, yes, I see. Yes, you're indeed right. As you say, it is quite a dreadful scene."
"Oh, then you've seen it yourself, sir," said Oliver, in a relieved tone.
The old actor's eyes twinkled. He, too, had read the young man's mind--not a difficult task when one looked down into Oliver's eyes.
"Oh, many, many times," he answered with a smile. "I have known it for years. In the old days, when they would smash the poor lady's head, they used to have a pan of gravel which they would crunch with a stick to imitate the breaking of the. bones. It was quite realistic from the front, but that was given up long ago. How did YOU like the business to-night, Mr. Simmons?" and he turned to the musician.
"Oh, admirable, sir. We all thought it had never been better played or better put on," and he glanced again toward his companions, who stood apart, listening breathlessly to every word that fell from the actor's lips.
"Ah, I am glad of it. Brougham will be so pleased --and yet it shocked you, Mr. Horn--and you really think the poor lady minded it? Dear me! How pleased she will be when I tell her the impression it all made upon you. She's worked so hard over the part and has been so nervous about it. I left her only a moment ago--she and her husband wanted me to take supper with them at Riley's--the new restaurant on University Place, you know, famous for its devilled crabs. But I always like to come here for my clams. Allow me a moment--" and he bent over the steaming tub, and skewering the contents of a pair of shells with his iron fork held it out toward Oliver.
"Let me beg of you, Mr. Horn, to taste this clam.
I am quite sure it is a particularly savory one. After this my dear young friend, I hope you'll have a better opinion of me." And his eye twinkled. "I am really better than I look--indeed I am--and so, my dear boy, is this clam. Come, come, it is getting cold."
"What do you mean by 'a better opinion' of you, Mr. Gilbert?" stammered Oliver. He had been completely captivated by the charm of the actor's manner.
"Why shouldn't I think well of you?--I don't understand."
"Why--because I strangled the poor lady to-night. You know, of course--that it was I who played the villain."
"You!" exclaimed Oliver. "No, I did not, sir.
Why, Mr. Gilbert, I can't realize--oh, I hope you'll forgive me for what I've said. I've only been in New York a short time, and--"
The old gentleman cut short Oliver's explanation with a wave of his fork, and looking down into the boy's face, said in a serious tone:
"My son, you're quite right. Quite right--and I like you all the better for it. All such plays are dreadful I feel just as you do about them, but what can we actors do? The public will have it that way."
Another little prejudice toppled from its pedestal, another household tradition of Oliver's smashed into a thousand pieces at his feet! This rubbing and grinding process of man against man; this seeing with one's own eyes and not another's was fast rounding out and perfecting the impressionable clay of our young gentleman's mind. It was a lesson, too, the scribe is delighted to say, which our hero never forgot; nor did he ever forget the man who taught it.
