He felt uplifted, elated, for several reasons. He knew that his sister was rather stunned, though she wouldn’t show it. That was delightful in itself. Then he was about to earn a dollar — many of them. He had figured it all up. The theatrical season would be about thirteen weeks. Averaging four nights a week, that would be one hundred and forty-four dollars. A new suit of clothes, a meerschaum pipe, a dozen ball games — in short, anything and everything. And he would have money to jingle in his pocket!
But what was perhaps best of all, he would go to the best theaters free — many of them — all of them; for Burrie had promised to use him at all his first nights as well as at subsequent performances. Nothing could have pleased Mr. Chidden better. If he could not properly be called a student of the modern drama, it was only because he had lacked opportunity for the collection of material. He had never seen the interior of a Broadway theater. But he spent twenty cents every night during the season at the stock theater around the corner on Eighth Avenue, and he was known to the delicatessen proprietor, tailor, cabmen, and other gentlemen of the neighborhood as a man to whom the deepest subtleties of the actor’s art were an open book.
So he was overjoyed at this opportunity to behold a Broadway star in a Broadway production. That he was actually to be paid for his attendance appeared to him little short of marvelous. He said to himself that there was no other job in all the world that would have pleased him so well as this one; and in order to make sure of giving satisfaction to Mr. Burrie, he spent most of the afternoon in the cellar, practicing the art of handclapping. For more than an hour he sat on an old soap box near the furnace, bringing his palms together, now with sharp, staccato reports, again with a measured, thunderous impact that sounded like the discharge of a small cannon. After an hour of experiment, he decided that the most effective method was a mixture of the two, neither too fast nor too loud, and with the hands hollowed but slightly. Satisfied, he went to the kitchen to polish his shoes.
He arrived at the theater a little after eight, feeling that it would not do to display any eagerness in the matter. He would show them that he was an old hand at this theater business. The lobby was filled with loungers, and Mr. Chidden found some difficulty in making his way to the brass rails that guarded the entrance to the auditorium. There he presented the card Mr. Burrie had given him to a fat, pompous personage who was mostly red face and white shirt front.
Mr. Chidden spoke to him in a low and mysterious tone.
“From Mr. Burrie,” said he. “I’m an official.”
The other merely grunted and passed him in.
From the head usher Mr. Chidden learned that he was not to pursue his activities alone. That person, a tired-looking, wise-looking youth, informed him that his companion was already at the appointed spot, and called an usher to conduct Mr. Chidden thither. It proved to be a seat at the extreme right of the parquet, toward the rear.
“There he is, over the end,” said the usher. “His name is Mintz. He’ll tell you what to do. You should have come early so as not to disturb people.”
Mr. Chidden smothered the retort that rose to his lips, edged his way through to the empty seat, sat down, and looked about him. The parquet was filled with men in evening dress and women with necks, of all ages and appearances. It was what the newspapers call a “typical first-night audience,” but the sight was new to Mr. Chidden, and he spent several minutes studying it. Then he turned his attention to his neighbor and confrère on the right.
What he saw was a wrinkled, uneven countenance, decorated with a sandy mustache, reddish hair, and gray, slumberous eyes. Mr. Chidden had studied the profile for about a minute when he was startled by seeing the gray eyes turned directly upon him in a fixed, contemptuous gaze. The two men looked at each other for some seconds in a silence that was finally broken by Mr. Chidden.
“Is this Mr. Mintz?” he asked abruptly.
“Who are you?” inquired the other, more abruptly still, in a tone that held an indication of hostility.
“Chidden,” replied our hero courteously. “From Mr. Burrie. I was told to take my orders from Mr. Mintz. I’m the new clacker.”
“I’m Mintz,” returned the other, apparently somewhat mollified. “That’s me — Jake Mintz. You follow me. Clap when I do, and stop when I do. That’s all. What do you get?”
“Why, I don’t know — what do you mean?” stammered Mr. Chidden.
“What does Burrie pay you?”
“Oh, I see! You refer to the remunatory element. One dollar.”
Mr. Mintz stared a moment, grunted twice, and turned his head back to its original position, facing the stage. It was evident that he considered the conversation finished. But Mr. Chidden had a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, and had just opened his mouth for the first one when the lights were suddenly lowered and a hush fell over the audience. Glancing toward the stage, he saw the curtain slowly rising.
The first act Mr. Chidden regarded as rather slow. He got the impression of a lot of empty talk, but nothing happened. By the end of the act he had gathered a hazy idea that the man with the beard and the gray spats was trying to induce the wife of the little chap in the dressing gown to run away from her husband; but he was unable to decide whether the wife was the lady in the blue velvet suit with white furs or the one that lay on the divan smoking cigarettes with a cynical smile. Altogether it was disappointing; and, as the curtain fell, Mr. Chidden turned to his colleagues and said so.
“Shut up and clap!” returned Mr. Mintz, without glancing at him.
Mr. Chidden perceived that he was neglecting his duty. Anxious to make up for lost time, he brought the palms of his hands together with a succession of thunderous reports, forgetting, in his excitement, the results of his experiments in the cellar during the afternoon. He was brought up sharply by hearing Mr. Mintz growl in his ear:
“Not so loud, you boob!”
Mr. Chidden eased up a little, and continued with moderation. But when the tumult had died down and the curtain had fallen on the last recall, he leaned over and whispered, in a firm tone:
“I am not a boob, Mr. Mintz.”
Mr. Mintz paid no attention whatever. He did not move his head; he did not utter a word. Mr. Chidden stared at him for a moment, then turned to the program, which occupied his time throughout the intermission.
The second act was better. The man with the beard and the gray spats started something at the very first by spiriting the lady in the blue velvet suit with white furs to a private room in a restaurant. At first the lady tried to escape, then she calmly sat down and fanned herself, evidently resolving to make the best of a disagreeable situation. Enter husband, through a French window. Small as he was, he appeared not at all frightened by the presence of the man with the beard. Instead he calmly asked his wife if she had finished her supper, offered his arm, and escorted her out. Mr. Chidden was rather of the opinion that the man with the beard should have been knocked down with a chair or something, but decided that it was perhaps just as well not. The instant the curtain began to fall, he burst out into loud applause, genuine and sustained.
“You began too soon,” said Mr. Mintz, when the applause had died away.
“The sooner, the better,” returned Mr. Chidden. “Enthusiasm, sir.”
Mr. Mintz glared, while his whisper became a growl.
“I say you began too soon. After this wait for me.”
Mr. Chidden had a mind to argue the question, but felt the futility of it and decided to hold his peace, observing to himself that it was quite evident that Mr. Mintz was totally lacking in the quality of artistic perception. He appeared to regard his position of claquer merely as a job, an ordinary and not too interesting means of making a dollar. Mr. Chidden glanced at him with a sort of pity.