Argosy, Vol. 122, No. 1 — page 76: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

66 have endured; but for the fellow to lay hands on him—violent hands, too! And he’d have shown the upstart what was what —the canaille—if that confounded spring- lock door hadn’t been slammed in his face. Ah, the right thought! He would go around in front. Yes, that was best—to see the performance first, and then he’d be prepared to criticize it intelligently and to tell Barbee just where he was bad in it. Sir Sidney had always liked honest com- ment, and abhored flattery, when he had been a plain mister. Malcom’s card? reaching for nothing again. overcome old ways. Entering the lobby, he halted in mute adoration before a full-length portrait of the star. Barbee—the only Sidney Barbee. Sir Sidney Barbee as Bill Sykes. On the box-office card of information he saw large printed figures: ‘‘ $1.00,” as the highest price. H-m! He’d never known Barbee to play for such a cheap top price. Should have been five dollars, the way other things had gone up. What’d you say—the house sold out? Good! Only seats in the gallery left, eh? Yes, he could make that do, but this would mean spending the last quarter. Pooh! What of it! In an hour or two or three he would be above the need of what measly two-bit pieces could buy. ‘What was money, after all? And who had more right to a small self-given gift, he’d like to know. The old atmosphere in him and around him had enriched him. For the moment John Malcolm lived only in the past. Yes, he would purchase a gallery seat, and he would go up into heaven—as he chuckingly remembered they used to call it. And when the last curtain should fall, he would again go to the stage door and wait outside. Perhaps he’d ensconce himself in Barbee’s carriage, sure to be there by that time, or maybe an automobile in these noisy new-fangled days. And when the star climbed in he would greet him with a familiar clip on the back, he would ignore the “Sir” he had never learned, and call him “ Sidney.” The great man didn’t mind being called by his first name after a sold- out house. There was that infernal So hard to THE ARGOSY. The great Barbee! The box-maker’s old and tired heart fairly hungered for the sight of his idol. | . He plodded very slowly up the gallery stairs—never’d been up here before, of course, though he’d been back of the cur- tain several times. He had played this same theater in—yes, and with Barbee him- self—in, let’s see—yes, it was in 1900; that was the season, his last with Sidney— season of 1899 and 1900. It had been called the Opera House then; only theater in town. ; But why did these gallery stairs tire him so? No doubt because they circled so irritatingly, eh? The stairs at home had never fretted him so much, even with Collie- boy in his arms, or carrying the scuttle half- full of coal up to their attic room. Up in that attic room an old, old dog had struggled to his feet. He stood for a mo- ment, wavering. Collieboy was sorely puzzled. Those strange afternoon doings had started his worry. It couldn’t be Sunday, for yester- day had been Sunday, the day he didn’t need to watch the door. And now for his pal to go away—at night! But of course his pal would be back. He said he’d soon be with him again, and he had never broken his word. So there was nothing to do but wait. Must try not to be too lonesome. “ Hullo, there!” the old fellow must have thought. “ That cap! On the floor yonder, that cap belongs to my best friend. Must get over to it—get to it and guard it.” The dog staggered to the corduroy-cap, sinking down beside it, a guilty feeling in him because for an instant he’d been obliged to take his eyes from the door. It had seemed rather hard to walk. Again he watched and waited, and knew he waited long, even though animals are said to have no ken of the passage of hours. But Collieboy had waited so many times, you see—and here was an absence he could not understand. He began to be afraid, too; all alone in the dark; loneliness in the dark was so new to his old age. And his gentle heart, worn down and thin-walled from years of fealty, broke with the strain of it. cComiclbooks.com