Rock Island Argus. (Rock Island, Ill.) 1893-1920, 1904-07-14
DAILY SHORT STORY
Disseminated.
[Original.I

preston Of his face, his noble brow,
his massive head, were all we'll fitted
to the part. He was not only star in
name, but in reality. The whole play
hung upon him.
1 sighed when l left the theater.
Cyril st. Cyr and George Marsh-there
was as much difference IN the men as
in the names. George was good fell
low. had been graduated with honors
at college and was n gentleman, but he
was not Cyril St Cyr.
Within two weeks had seen st. Cyr
play three times. While Georges pho
tograph, prettily framed, decorated my
dressing case ST. Cyr's was i'll my
handkerchief case, where no eye but
mine ever saw it and from which
took it many times during the day and
every night before going to bed to gaze
on it rapturously. Week after week
Cyril st. Cyr grew more splendid; week
after week George Marsh more com
monplace. 1t was plain to me that had
made n mistake. 1 was of an artistic
temperament, and George was a bust
ness man. With me the world was art,
not business: with George 1t was bust
that the two were incompatible l men
toned st. Cyr and the money he coined
every night.
One evening my dream received
shock. At dinner several people were
discussing the great actor.
Everything about him." said a lady,
us artistic, even to his name"
His nameP' said one of the men.
"St. Cyr isn't his name. He's Thomas
Branagan Murphy
1 gave 4 gasp and looked for some
one 10 refute the statement as n base
allegation, but no one seemed TO think
there was anything improbable or I'M
usual in it. When l looked at my
treasure that night put it back into
my handkerchief case disappointed.
There were the same noble expression,
lofty brow and massive head, but
somehow they did not fit Thomas Bran
agan Murphy.
One evening George came in hurried
ly and asked me to get ready at once
to go to the theater. He had made the
acquaintance OF st. Cyr. and we were
to go behind the scenes. l flew up
stairs and down again, my.heart throb-
bling like n kettledrum.
We were at the theater half an hour
or more before the play began and
were admitted on Georges sending in
card and asked to come TO Mr.. st.
Cyr's dressing room. At tine door we
were given chairs while some one was
inside with the actor. The door was
open, and we could hear what was
said.
81 have considered your proposition
TO write me up said the sonOrOus
voice of st. Cyr, "iEnd accept it pro-
vlded you permit me to do the writing
myself Here is what 1 have written:
Cyril st. Cyr. the greatest living
actor. owes his success to his natural
adaptation for his work. There is moth
ing artificial about him. In private life
be is the character of the modest,
brainy engineer he persOIates' -
heard no more of this. which was
already sufficient to destroy my dream
of that sublime modesty lid seen in
my adored one | fancied George was
watching me and took out my hand
kerchief to conceal n blaze IN my
cheeks. muttering something about
''stuffy" atmosphere. Presently man
came out. folding up Il paper, and hur-
ried away. Another came to the door
and said in st. Cyr's voice:
Come in, 3Ir. Marsh. 1 have five
minutes before I begin to dress
This wasn't st Cyr. 1t couldn't be
St Cyr. St Cyr was Il god. This man
was rs ordinary q creature as l ever
saw. The noble brow was bald
dome; the massive head was the shape
of football; the ears stuck out like
those of an ape. His body was thick;
his legs were thin. He was Murphy.
1 will never call him st. Cyr again. He
put out a big red hand to me, then
handed me Il seat and said to George:
You won't mind If l make up my
head and face. will youT
George assured him that we would
not, and, sitting on stool before a
mirror. he put on a whole head, hair
and all, slipped springs over his ears.
then covered his pug nose with Ro-
man. This done, he took up paint
brushes and began to blend the arti-
fetal with the natural. AS he worked
he talked.
Zine line of business we're doing,
Nr. Marsh. The secret of my success
is knowing how to do it. Most young
people who go on the stage waste lot
OF time laundering about art 1t isn't
art; it's business. The only art in it is
to fool the public, especially the silly
young. There's the'letters got today"
pointing, from young ladies who adj
mire this stuffed head. Don't open
any more. But 1 like TO get 'em. 1
never knew n great run without EN-"
When he came to n pause 1 told
George I couIdn't,stand the air in there
and asked him to'take me out. At the
stage door told him l didn't want to
stay for the play. We got into the car
riage, and George told the coachman
to drive home. As soon as we were
seated saw that George was laugh
ing.
Don't fancy. sweetheart" he said,