"Mr. Frohman, I can let you have that hundred dollars now. We are beginning to have quite an advance sale."

Frohman had gone down-town and sent in the orders for the seats himself.

He used fict.i.tious names.

Now began a summer of hardships. With the utmost difficulty the company got to Portland, Oregon, where Charles established a sort of headquarters. From this point he sent the company on short tours. But business continued to be bad.

He started a series of "farewell" performances, as he did in Texas, and placarded the city with the bills announcing "positively" closing performances. These bills were typical of the publicity talents of Charles Frohman. He headed them "Good-by Engagements," and added the words, "A Long, Lingering Farewell." Under "Favorites' Farewell" he printed the names of the members of the company with the t.i.tles or parts in which they were known. "Good-by, Louise Dillon, our Esmeralda"; "Good-by, Kate Denin Wilson, Pretty Lady Dolly"; "Good-by, Charles B.

Wells, Faithful Dave Hardy"; "Good-by, Rowland Buckstone, Some Other Man"--were typical ill.u.s.trations of his attempt to make a strong appeal for business.

Actual money in the company was a novelty. Bernstein's five thousand dollars had long since vanished. When a member of the company wanted some cash it had to be extracted from the treasurer in one-dollar instalments.

Despite the hardships, the utmost good humor and feeling prevailed. Most of the members of the company were young; there was no bickering. They knew that Frohman's struggle was with and for them. They called him "The Governor," and he always referred to them as his "nice little company." All looked forward confidently to better days, and in this belief they were supported and inspired by the cheery philosophy of the manager.

Charles's resource was tested daily. He had booked a near-by town for fair week, which always meant good business. At last he had money in sight. The local manager, however, insisted upon a great display of fancy printing. Charles was in a dilemma because he owed his printer a big bill and he had no more lithographs on hand. A friend who was in advance of William Gillette's play, "The Private Secretary," came along with a lot of his own paper. Charles borrowed a quant.i.ty of it and also from the "Whose Baby Are You?" company, covered over these two t.i.tles with slips containing the words "Lady Clare," the piece he was going to present. He billed the town with great success and was able to keep going.

During the Portland sojourn Charles sent the company on to Salem, Oregon. While there, six members had their photographs taken with a disconsolate look on their faces and with Buckstone holding a dollar in his hand. They sent the picture to Frohman with the inscription:

"From your nice little company waiting for its salary."

At Portland, Oregon, A. D. Charlton, who was pa.s.senger agent of the Northern Pacific Railroad, and who had been of great service to Charles in extricating him from various financial difficulties, said to him one day:

"Frohman, I want you to meet a very promising little actress who is out here with her mother."

Frohman said he would be glad, and, accompanying Charlton to his office, was introduced to Annie Adams, a well-known actress from Salt Lake City, and her wistful-eyed little daughter, Maude. They were both members of the John McGuire Company. This was Charles Frohman's first meeting with Maude Adams.

At Portland Frohman added "Two Orphans" and "Esmeralda" to the company's repertoire. But it barely got them out of town at the really and truly "farewell."

Now began a return journey from Portland that was even more precarious than the trip out. Baggage had to be sacrificed; there was scarcely any scenery. One "back drop" showing the interior of a cathedral was used for every kind of scene, from a gambling-house to a ball-room. To the financial hardship of the homeward trip was added real physical trial.

Frohman showed in towns wherever there was the least prospect of any kind of a house. The company therefore played in skating-rinks, school-houses, even barns. In some places the members of the company had to take the oil-lamps that served as footlights back in the makeshift dressing-rooms while they dressed.

At Bozeman, Montana, occurred an incident which showed both the humor and the precariousness of the situation. Frohman a.s.sembled the company in the waiting-room of the station and, stepping up to the ticket-office, laid down one hundred and thirty dollars in cash.

"Where do you want to go?" asked the agent.

Shoving the money at him, Frohman said, "How far will this take us?"

The agent looked out of the window, counted up the company, and said, "To Billings."

Turning to the company, Frohman said, with a smile, "Ladies and gentlemen, we play Billings next."

Just then he received a telegram from Alf Hayman, who was on ahead of the company:

_What town shall I bill?_

Frohman wired back:

_Bill Billings._

Hayman again wired:

_Have no printing and can get no credit. What shall I do?_

Frohman's resource came into stead, for he telegraphed:

_Notify theaters that we are a high-cla.s.s company from Wallack's Theater in New York and use no ordinary printing. We employ only newspapers and dodgers._

At Missoula, Montana, on their way back, a member of the company became dissatisfied and stood with his a.s.sociates at the station where two trains met, one for the east and one for the west. As the train for the east slowed up the actor rushed toward it and, calling to the members of the company, said:

"I am leaving you for good. You'll never get anywhere with Frohman."

The company, however, elected to stay with Frohman. In later years this actor fell into hardship. Frohman singled him out, and from that time on until Frohman's death he had a good engagement every year in a Frohman company.

At Bismarck, North Dakota, the company gave "Moths." In this play the spurned hero, a singer, has a line which reads, "There are many marquises, but very few _tenors_."

Money had been so scarce for months that this remark was the last straw, so the company burst into laughter, and the performance was nearly broken up. Frohman, who stood in the back of the house, enjoyed it as much as the rest.

Through all these hardships Frohman remained serene and smiling. His unfailing optimism tided over the dark days. The end came at Winona, Minnesota. The company had sacrificed everything it could possibly sacrifice. Frohman borrowed a considerable sum from the railroad agent to go to Chicago, where he obtained six hundred dollars from Frank Sanger. With this he paid the friendly agent and brought the company back to New York.

Even the last lap of this disastrous journey was not without its humor.

The men were all a.s.sembled in the smoking-car on the way from Albany to New York. Frohman for once sat silent. When somebody asked him why he looked so glum, he said, "I'm thinking of what I have got to face to-morrow."

Up spoke Wheatleigh, whose marital troubles were well known. He slapped Frohman on the back and said:

"Charley, your troubles are slight. Think of me. I've got to face my wife to-morrow."

It was characteristic of Frohman's high sense of integrity that he gave his personal note to each member of the company for back salary in full, and before five years pa.s.sed had discharged every debt.

On arriving in New York Charles had less than a dollar in his pocket, his clothes were worn, and he looked generally much the worse for wear.

On the street he met Belasco. They pooled their finances and went to "Beefsteak John's," where they had a supper of kidney stew, pie, and tea. They renewed the old experiences at O'Neil's restaurant and talked about what they were going to do.

The next day Frohman was standing speculatively in front of the Coleman House when he met Jack Rickaby, a noted theatrical figure of the time.

Rickaby slapped the young man on the back and said:

"Frohman, I am glad you have had a good season. You're going to be a big man in this profession."

He shook Frohman's hand warmly and walked away.

It was the first cheering word that Frohman had heard. The news of his disastrous trip had not become known. Always proud, he was glad of it.

After Rickaby had shaken his hand he felt something in it, and on looking he saw that the big-hearted manager had placed a hundred-dollar bill there. Rickaby had known all along the story of the Wallack tour hardships, and it was his way of expressing sympathy. Frohman afterward said it was the most touching moment in his life. Speaking of this once, he said:

"That hundred-dollar bill looked bigger than any sum of money I have ever had since."