The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1893-11-03

of an inspiration. A beautiful woman's
sidelong glance gave warmth to his i'm
agination. He was really beginning to
live. He was free.
When at length he came to an abrupt
pause, he stood before stage door. 1t
was half hidden down small alley, and
half filled with the scenery wagon was
unloading on the curb. He picked his
way through the debris, stopped his
broad shoulders to enter the small door
and found himself the center of quar-
tet of grimy eyed workmen.
The close buttoned individual who
guarded the entrance was seated i'll the
farther shadow against daub represent
ing cottage interior. He screwed up
one dusty eye before answering Toms
question, and his voice was suggestive
of cobwebs:
"The manager? Is it Mr.. Plrfnket? l
dino. Guess he amt in"
'He wrote me to come today at 81
"Did!"
For moment he sat il puzzled rumi-
nation, his ferretlike glance upon the
stage entrance completely blocked. He
shook his head helplessly and then jerked
dirty thumb over his shoulder, indicat-
ing narrow iron stairway at the left.
Exhausted by the demand upon his en-
durance, he disappeared an inch or two
in his coat collar.
Tom was in no mood to cavil. He fol-
lowed the direction of the dirty thumb,
cleared the steps in two bounds and
found himself in the back of the audito-
rum.
For the first time he stood in an empty
theater in the daylight. How ghostly,
solemn, crude, it was! To nature like
his, so sensitive to impressions, there was
something appalling about it. He felt
his enthusiasm ooze slowly, the hope that
had so buoyantly sustained him fall sud-
denly, as if magic cord had been
snapped.
The curtain was raised on disordered
scene pillar of papier mache lay prone
across the stage beside piano swathed
in muslin; far up in the gallery the fig
ure of charwoman was dim and uncan-
ny, her grooming sweeping across. the
emptiness; bar of sunlight fell aslant
dust. 1t was beautiful body from
which the soul had fled.
How could he hope that some day each
Of these folded seats would contain liv-
ing, thinking being who would listen
with interest, perhaps delight, to words
of his spoken on the stage, but coined in
a quiet room far away from the crowd?
For this was Toms dream-to be a
writer of plays that the world he loved
would applaud, to be factor in the life
of the theaters around which for so long
he had secretly circled like a restless
moth.
He tried to throw off the sickening
doubt, walked down the aisle, and open
ing door at the back Of proscenium
box found himself behind the scenes.
Gaslight and hurry were here. Scene
shutters moved about dragging bulky
pieces of scenery, swearing at each other
in hoarse whispers. At a desk under
fiaring gas jet screened by wire large
man sat toying with his watch chain
while he leisurely dictated a letter to
stenographer. A few men, whose blue
shaven lips proclaimed their calling, OBJ
sequiously awaited his pleasure. Tom
Joined this group. A little crease grew
between his brows as he fixed his eyes
imploringly on the potentate who held
his happiness in his hand.
But he had little misgiving as to the
final answer. Surely his play was &C
copied else it would have been returned
with an abrupt line of refusal or chill
ing silence, as many others had been.
And yet-and yet--he must not hope, or
the blow, if it came, would fall too heav-
lily. Alterations might be requested or
its appearance postponed for a year, or
this man might be overcrowded and had
sent for him merely to tell him of bet
ter market for it. A pronounced and
positive success was too sweet dream.
These confused and burning surmises
all melted into a breathless anxiety as
he found himself facing the manager,
who lounged with fat, good humored
Importance. waiting for him to speak.
II sent you play few weeks ago.
You wrote me to come in today"
eyes, to be sure" brightly. you're
Mr.. Dupont. Take chair"
"No, my names Murray, and the play
was "A Family Falling"
Mr.. Plunket permitted one of his red
eyebrows to move slowly toward his
chair.
II wrote you to Gomez Then he
paused, pursed up his lips, Topped his
watch chain. you're mistaken, amt
your
A chill crept over Tom and moved
under the roots Of his hair. Had he been
mistaken? Had there been mistake?
II didn't bring the letter with me.
But you asked me to call today at rel
alive to my play"
Without changing his position Mr..
Plunket held out one fat white hand
where huge cats eye winked and
glinted.
Hand me that paper, Romney. "A
Family FailingY Now, let's see, and the
point of his brightly polished nail glanced
down list "Ah, yes, of course. It's
been declined. Didn't you get it back?"
"No," was all Tom could say.
"Romuey, look in that upper drawer.
u. - n