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SHOWMAN
Mass., that Lawrence Hanley, its Svengali, was in a mess and couldn't go on— what to do? I hopped a train and found that Hanley was definitely out of the running, leaving the company and worried about the $200 he owed me in advance on salary.
"Never mind the money,' ' I said, "I'll settle for your wig and whiskers." Then I humped myself back to New York on a midnight train to get a wardrobe— Hanley was double my size and his version of Svengali's shabby frock coat fitted me like a night shirt. All the way to New York and all the way back to Poughkeepsie, the next stand, I was studying up the part. Without years of training as a hair-trigger utility man in barnstorming companies, I never could have got up in it in time. While waiting for a change of trains at a God-forsaken junction at two in the morning, I was hammering away at it, walking up and down the platform, script in hand, working by the light leaking through the stationagent's office window, tearing my hair, making hypnotic passes at the baggage truck and spouting: "It is the morgue. Be careful, my Trilby, you come not back to sleep on one of those marble slabs. . . ."
Presently the station-agent came popping his head round the corner to see what all the excitement was. When he went away again, apparently in some alarm, I was much too busy to pay any attention. I came to out of the fog of Svengali's sinister personality only when a policeman arrived to arrest me as a dangerous lunatic. But, in spite of the law and lack of time, I
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