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SHOWMAN
time, the company got together and signed their names to a solemn oath, copied after the round robin customary among mutinous sailors, refusing to go on that night or any other night until we got some of the seven weeks' salary that was owing us. They picked me as spokesman to put the works to the manager. I didn't relish the job, but there was very little to lose and maybe a square meal to gain. So I marched into the box-office and accosted the enemy as pompously as you can with your stomach caving in against your backbone.
Our position could be clearly stated in words of one syllable. No pay, no play. It took him some five minutes to get the idea even so. He said he'd never heard of actors having the effrontery to strike. I said neither had I, but there it was and we meant business. He didn't argue the point further— he just called in a couple of uniformed attendants and instructed them to throw me out before he was tempted to soil his own hands on me. I picked myself up from the lobby-floor and went round to the stage-door to report to my fellow-conspirators that the Rubicon was crossed and it was war to the knife. There was no performance that night, nor for a week to come, and when we showed every determination of holding out for life, the manager knuckled under and ponied up. I don't know yet where he raised the money— all I knew or cared about was that it was perfectly good money and bought the lot of us a swell feed to celebrate with and something to spare. I've had
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