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Ahead of the Show
OR
The Adventures of Al Allston, Advance Agent

By FRED THORPE, author of "Blind Luck," "The
Boy in Black," "Chris, the Comedian," "Git Up and
Git," "Walt, the Wonder Worker," etc....

STREET AND SMITH, PUBLISHERS
238 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1897
By Norman L. Munro

Ahead of the Show

CONTENTS

AHEAD OF THE SHOW.

CHAPTER I.
AL MAKES APPLICATION.

"If I had that fellow here I'd make him wish he'd never heard the name of Augustus Wattles. And I'll do it some day, too."

The manager and proprietor of Wattles' New York Comedy Company was very, very "mad." His naturally florid face was redder than usual, and his fists were clinched in a manner that augured no good to the "fellow" referred to, had that individual chanced to appear upon the scene at this precise moment.

He stood at the door of the Boomville Opera House, in company with the local manager, Mr. Cyrus Perley, who seemed in some degree to share his discomfiture and anger.

A group of stragglers listened in silence to their conversation, gazing at them with that peculiar and unaccountable reverence that many people feel for members of the theatrical profession.

"It's pretty tough," said Mr. Perley, "but it isn't my fault."

"I know it isn't. Well, this is the last time that loafer will play that trick on me. He thinks that because I have been easy with him in the past there is no end to my patience. I'll show him that he is making the mistake of his life."

"Of course, you will discharge him?"

"You had better believe I will. A healthy sort of advance agent he is! Think of my bringing my company to a town of the importance of Boomville, to find that absolutely no advance work has been done, that my advance agent, to whom I pay a fancy salary, has not even showed his face in the town."

"I suppose he has succumbed to his old complaint?" said Mr. Perley.

"Of course; he is drunk beyond the shadow of a doubt, and may not show up again for a week. Well, when he does, he'll meet with a warm reception from me. We ought to have had an eight-hundred-dollar house to-night, and now we'll be lucky if we take in half that amount."

"I don't expect we'll do as well as that. It wouldn't have made so much difference under ordinary circumstances, but, as luck will have it, they've got the strongest attraction of the season at the other house—the 'Crack of Doom' Company. You know that's a big puller everywhere."

"Sure. They have a railway collision, a tank of real water, a buzz saw and two real lunatics in the insane asylum scene."

"Yes, and their advance man has worked the show up in great shape here. According to him, the leading lady lost nine thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on her way here, and the soubrette is going to marry Chauncey Depew. And they give souvenirs to-night in honor of the five hundredth performance of the piece."

"They've been giving that five hundredth performance in every town they've played in for the last month; and their souvenirs are not worth over fifty cents a gross."

"All very true, but the public will have 'em. I hoped your advance man would have some taking counter-attraction."

"So he did have, but—— Oh, well, it's no use talking about that. What's done can't be helped, but I won't be left in this way again. Where is the nearest telegraph office?"

"On the next block. What are you going to do?"

"Wire to New York for a new advance agent. I happen to know of an A1 man who is out of an engagement. There are two or three others after him, but I guess I can make it worth his while to go with me. I won't get left in this way again, you can bet your boots!"

"That's all right," growled Mr. Perley, "but it doesn't help out the present engagement any."

"No, but we are joint sufferers in that, and we may as well grin and bear it."

And the irate manager of the New York Comedy Company started for the telegraph office with fire in his eyes and a look of determination on his face.

Neither he nor Mr. Perley had observed the presence in the little group of listeners to their conversation of a rather good-looking, well-dressed boy of about eighteen.

This lad did not lose a word of the excited discussion, and, as the manager started to walk away, he muttered:

"This is the chance I have been looking for; I won't let the opportunity slip. It doesn't seem as if there would be much hope for me, but there's no harm in trying, anyhow."

He followed Mr. Wattles, and just before that gentleman reached the telegraph office he tapped him on the shoulder.

The manager turned quickly. When he saw the boy, he asked, impatiently:

"Well, what is it?"

"Can I speak with you a few minutes, sir?"

"Not now, not now."

Mr. Wattles was about to resume his walk, but the boy laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"I want to see you on business, sir."

"You have business with me?"

"Important business, sir."

"Well, well, I'll see you in a few minutes; I've got to send an important telegram now."

"But I want to see you before you send that telegram."

"Before I send the telegram? Why?"

"Because I think I can prove to you that it is not necessary to wire to New York at all."

"Eh? Why, how did you know that I was going to wire to New York?"

"I overheard what you said to Mr. Perley in front of the opera house just now."

"Humph! I was excited, and spoke a little louder than I ought. Well, why do you think it will not be necessary for me to send the telegram?"

"Because I am sure you can find just the person you want right here in Boomville."

"An advance agent to be picked up offhand in this place? That would be too much luck. What is your man's name?"

"Allen Allston."

"I never heard of him. What company was he with last?"

"He has never been with any company, sir, but——"

Mr. Wattles surveyed the boy with a look of supreme disgust.

"Do you suppose for one moment," he interrupted, "that I am going to take an inexperienced jay from a town like this and send him ahead of an organization like Wattles' New York Comedy Company? Well, hardly. I've got to have an experienced man."

"And you're going to telegraph for one now, sir?"

"This minute."

"But suppose you can't get the man you want—will you talk with me then, sir?"

"Er—yes, in that case you might send your friend to see me, though it seems nonsense. But I shall get my man all right."

"I suppose you are going to request an immediate answer to your telegram, Mr. Wattles?"

"I am; I shall get it within an hour, in all probability."

"Where can I find you after you have received it?"

"At the hotel next door. You are a persistent young rascal; your friend has a good advocate in you."

The boy smiled.

"I am the best friend he has in the world," he said.

"Well, if you are you had better advise him to stick to farming, or whatever he is doing, and keep out of the theatrical business; we have too many farmers in it already."

"He wouldn't take the advice, sir."

Mr. Wattles laughed as he entered the telegraph office.

"If the boy's friend has got as much 'go' as he has," he muttered, "he might do something in the business."

In a few minutes the message had been sent. An hour and a half later a messenger entered the lobby of the hotel with a telegram.

"For me?" questioned the manager, who had been impatiently pacing the floor for the last twenty minutes.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Wattles tore open the envelope.

A muttered exclamation escaped his lips as he hurriedly perused the message.

"Well, sir?" said a voice at his elbow.

Turning, he confronted the lad with whom he had had the brief interview which we have recorded.

"You here? Well, you do mean business."

"Is your offer accepted, sir?" the boy asked.

"Confound it, no! The man I wanted signed yesterday with another manager. Well, send your friend round and I'll talk with him."

"He is here, sir."

"Where?"

"I am Allen Allston."

CHAPTER II.
AL TALKS BUSINESS.

Mr. Wattles stared at the boy a moment in speechless surprise, then burst into a loud laugh.

"You don't mean to say," he almost gasped, "that you made that application for yourself?"

"That's just what I mean to say, sir," replied the lad, quietly.

"Why, you must be crazy!"

"I don't think I am."

"You are only a boy."

"I'll get over that in time, Mr. Wattles; and besides, that fact is no proof that I am crazy."

"Oh, pshaw! I can't stand here bandying words with you."

Al was not in the least taken aback.

"That's just what I was thinking," he said.

"What?"

"That we had been standing up too long. Let's sit down."

"Well," said the manager, "you have cheek enough, anyhow."

"Cheek is necessary for an advance agent, isn't it, sir?" laughed the boy.

"Yes, but—oh, really, this is ridiculous, you know!"

"What is ridiculous?"

"Your applying for this position."

"Why is it ridiculous?"

"Who ever heard of a boy advance agent?"

"That's just the point. Nobody ever did, and it will be a complete novelty, and a big ad. for the show."

Mr. Wattles gazed at the boy almost admiringly.

"Well, you are a corker!" he exclaimed.

"A good advance agent ought to be a corker, oughtn't he, sir?"

"I suppose so—yes."

"Shan't we sit down and talk the matter over?"

"Yes."

And the manager sank into a convenient chair, gazing at his youthful companion with an expression indicative of bewilderment.

"I've got him now sure," murmured the lad, but his companion did not hear him; Al did not intend that he should.

When they were both seated the boy said:

"Now, sir, you want an advance agent, and I want a position. It is lucky we met."

"Yes," interrupted Mr. Wattles, "but what the mischief do you know about the business of an advance agent?"

"A lot," was the calm reply.

"How did you learn it?"

"By reading and observation."

"Nonsense! You might as well talk about learning to swing on a trapeze by reading and observation."

"There's a big difference, sir."

"Not much."

"Well, I've always thought I should like to do work of that sort, and I think I could do it well."

"Stage-struck, eh?"

"Not a bit of it, Mr. Wattles. Now, will you listen to me a few moments, sir?"

"Go ahead."

And the manager assumed an air of resignation.

"I generally keep my eyes open," began the boy, "and I have had a chance to watch the movements of most of the theatrical people who come to this town, particularly the advance agents."

"Why the advance agents in particular?" interrupted Mr. Wattles.

"Because I have been in the editorial office of the Boomville Herald, and have had a chance to see how they work the press. Some of them are very slick, but I think that if I had a little experience I should be as slick as any of them."

"Ah," said the manager, "that's the point. You haven't had experience."

"Well, I've got to begin some time, sir. If all managers had talked like you the race of advance agents would have been extinct long ago."

"There's something in that," laughed Mr. Wattles.

"There's lots in it."

The manager of the New York Comedy Company surveyed his companion for a few moments without speaking.

"My boy, I rather like you," he said, at last.

"Well, that's one point in my favor, sir," said Al.

"I'd like to give you a chance, but I really do not see how I can."

"Why can't you?"

"You must remember that the New York Comedy Company is not a common, fly-by-night organization, but a first-class enterprise. I have put a good many dollars into the thing, and I can't afford to experiment. If so much did not depend upon the result, if I were running a cheap side show, I might give you the trial you ask, but——"

"I wouldn't have anything to do with any such show," interrupted the boy. "I don't intend to be that sort of advance agent. But I can understand how you feel, sir."

"Then you can also understand how impossible it is for me to engage your services."

"Oh, no, I can't understand that at all, Mr. Wattles. Now let me ask you a question."

"What is it?"

"I heard you tell Mr. Perley that you did not expect there would be four hundred dollars in the house to-night."

"That's what I said. I shall be agreeably disappointed if there is as much as that."

"Yet the opera house will hold twelve hundred dollars."

"I see you are posted, my boy."

"I am. Now, Mr. Wattles, it is a little out of the line of an advance agent's work, but, just to show you that I have a little snap and business ability, I will guarantee to fill the opera house to its utmost capacity to-night, if you will agree to give me a chance as advance agent after that."

"Do you know what you are talking about?"

And the manager stared in renewed amazement at the youth.

"I do."

"You will undertake to fill the house to-night, in spite of the disadvantages under which we are laboring?"

"The 'Standing Room Only' sign will be displayed before eight o'clock."

"Well, what is your scheme?"

"You will agree to follow my suggestions?"

"Not until I hear them."

"If you don't like them you will agree not to repeat anything I may say to you?"

"Certainly."

"Then I'll give you my idea. I see you are getting ready to guy me, sir," as a rather cynical smile appeared upon the manager's face.

"Oh, no."

"You don't think I can knock out such a strong opposition as the 'Crack of Doom' Company, do you?"

"I do not."

"Well, I'll show you that I can, and get you not only a full house, but the elite of the place."

"Well, well," interrupted Mr. Wattles, impatiently, "have done with preliminaries and let me know how you propose to accomplish all this."

CHAPTER III.
AL'S SCHEME.

"Mr. Wattles," said Al, in a low tone, "I suppose you have in your time met a few stage-struck amateurs—people who thought they knew it all, and only needed a chance to show the world that they were the equal of anyone who ever trod the boards?"

The manager laughed.

"I should say yes. The woods are full of them."

"Well, we have one here."

"Only one?"

"There are others, but one whom it will be worth your while to know."

"Who is she?—for it is a woman, of course."

"Yes, sir, it is a woman; she is the wife of the mayor."

"The wife of the mayor of Boomville stage-struck?"

"In the worst way, Mr. Wattles; she believes herself the only legitimate successor of Charlotte Cushman."

"They all do. Well, what has all this to do with your scheme?"

"A good deal. Mrs. Anderson—that is her name—is very anxious to appear on the professional stage."

"Of course."

"Why can't you give her a chance?"

"Eh? I? How?"

"Send her word that one of your actresses has been taken suddenly ill, and ask her to take her place. She'll do it, take my word for that, and all Boomville will go to see her."

"Well, you must be crazy, young man," said Mr. Wattles, in a tone of disgust. "So that is your scheme, is it?"

"That is part of it."

"Well, it won't work."

"Why not?"

"For a dozen reasons. If I had two or three weeks to work up the thing it would be different; then it would, perhaps, be a good scheme. But you seem to forget that the performance takes place to-night."

"There's plenty of time to work up business," said Al, calmly. "It is not ten o'clock yet. See Mrs. Anderson, get her consent to play, and I'll prove my executive ability by doing all the rest."

"But, good gracious! how could the woman memorize a part between this and night?"

"Give her a short part—any old part. Two or three lines will do. What she wants is a chance to show herself on the professional stage."

"There is a small part," hesitated Mr. Wattles, "one that she could learn in half an hour. But, no, it won't do. The woman might queer the performance, and I should be the laughingstock of the profession for the next year."

"She's not as bad as all that," said Al. "She has appeared in amateur performances here and made a success. Better see her, Mr. Wattles. I know she'll be tickled to death with the idea. You'll be in plenty of time to get a big ad. in this afternoon's Herald, and you'll have the biggest house of the season."

The manager brought his fist down on the table by his side, and said:

"By jingo, boy, I will do it! Lots of money has been made out of stage-struck society women, and perhaps I may come in for a little of it."

"You'll come in for a lot of it to-night, sir, if you just follow my advice. And now I'll show you the way to the mayor's house."

"Wait a minute. You said this amateur racket was only a part of your scheme; what is the rest of it?"

"Souvenirs. This town is wild on souvenirs. The 'Crack of Doom' Company give hand-painted fans to-night. Why don't you go one better, and announce that every lady attending your performance will receive a heavily plated silver souvenir spoon?"

"But where the mischief could I get the spoons?"

"I'll provide them."

"You?"

"Certainly."

"But where are you going to get them?"

"I've got them. You see, sir, I am a sort of speculator. I attend auction sales and that sort of thing, and if I see a big bargain I take advantage of it. It's better than clerking at five dollars a week. A few days ago I struck a bankrupt sale in New York, and bought a lot of plated spoons at 'way below cost. I meant to sell them to the stores here, but I'll let you have them at just what they cost me—you can afford to give them away if you buy them at that price—and there will be plenty to go round."

Mr. Wattles surveyed his companion in amused wonder.

"Well, you are a queer sort of lad," he said. "You seem to have a pretty old head on those young shoulders of yours!"

"I think I have enough to look out for number one, sir."

"I should say you did. I should like to know more of you."

"You will, sir, when I become your advance agent."

"Well, we'll see all about that. And now I'd better be off for the home of the stage-struck mayoress. Meet me in half an hour."

"I'll be here, sir."

As the manager walked away, he muttered:

"I'm afraid I'm going on a fool's errand. Confound it! I believe that young rascal has hypnotized me. But, after all, I can't afford to neglect the chance. The treasury is pretty low, and if this scheme doesn't work there may be trouble on salary day. I'll do my best to get this woman to play, and I guess I shall succeed; people used to say that Gus Wattles was the champion jollier, and I don't think he has lost his powers yet."

Al was doing a little soliloquizing, too.

"I didn't think I had so much nerve," he mused. "I'm beginning to have a little more confidence in myself. If to-night's performance is a success I shall get the job sure—he can't refuse me. But if it isn't a success, if Mrs. Anderson refuses to have anything to do with the scheme—I won't let myself think of that."

It was nearly an hour before Mr. Wattles returned.

"Well, sir?" questioned the boy, breathlessly.

"It's all right."

"She will play?"

"Not only that, but she is going to pay me for the chance. Oh, there are no flies on Augustus Wattles, my boy! Yes, she is going to play, and she is delighted because the part will give her a chance to exhibit herself in a new costume which she has just imported from Paris. Now, then, my lad, we must get up the ads. How much time have we before they must be in the newspaper office?"

"An hour at least. And you had better get out some posters announcing Mrs. Anderson's appearance. They can be on the walls in two hours. Will you leave that part to me?"

"Yes; but first you can help me with the advertisement. Undoubtedly you can give me some points."

Al was able to do so. The manager was plainly delighted and surprised at the aptitude he displayed.

"I begin to think," he said, "that you were cut out for this business."

"That is what I have thought for a long while, sir," replied the boy, as, copy in hand, he started for the office of the Herald.

Within a few hours everyone in Boomville knew that Mrs. Anderson, the mayor's wife, was to assume a rôle in the drama, "Loved and Lost," at the opera house that evening, and all the lady's friends, all her enemies and almost everybody else who ever attended theatrical performances at all had made up their minds to go and see her.

Besides, the offer of a plated spoon as a souvenir was almost irresistible; people who had more solid silver spoons than they had any use for fell over each other in their frantic haste to secure seats for the evening's performance and make sure of the coveted spoon.

"We haven't had an advance sale like this since the house was built," said the local manager to Mr. Wattles, a short time before the doors were opened. "Why, there isn't a seat left in the house except in the gallery, and they will be all filled as soon as the doors are thrown open. And I understand that there is no sale at all at the other house. I don't believe there'll be a baker's dozen there. It was a great idea of yours to get Mrs. Anderson to appear."

"I claim no credit for it at all," said Mr. Wattles. "It was all the work of that bright young fellow."

"Oh, by the way," interrupted Mr. Perley, taking an envelope from his pocket, "here is something that came for you a few minutes ago; I had nearly forgotten about it."

Mr. Wattles tore open the note and ran his eyes over its contents. As he did so the expression of his face underwent such a remarkable change that his companion said, uneasily:

"There's nothing the matter, is there?"

"I should say there was," was the reply. "We're in a nice fix. Mrs. Anderson won't play!"

CHAPTER IV.
AL TO THE RESCUE.

"Mrs. Anderson won't play?" almost shrieked Mr. Perley.

"That's what I said—Mrs. Anderson won't play," replied the manager of the combination, with the calmness of despair. "Read this."

The note which he handed his companion read as follows:

"Mr. A. Wattles:

"Dear Sir: I deeply regret my inability to appear this evening as I promised. My husband objects so strongly that I have no alternative but to yield to his wishes. Trusting that this will cause you no inconvenience, I am,

"Faithfully yours,

"Blanche Anderson."

"'Trusting that it will cause us no inconvenience,'" groaned Mr. Perley. "Isn't that like a woman? Well, Wattles, we are in a nice little fix now. Of course, we shall have to give three-fourths of the audience their money back."

"Yes; but that isn't the worst of it. Think of the roasting the papers will give us!"

"Don't speak of it. And it's all your fault; you would be fool enough to listen to that kid."

"Don't say any more, Perley. I must have been out of my head."

"It isn't worth while to get excited, gentlemen," said a calm voice.

And looking in the direction from which it proceeded, the two men saw Al Allston standing in the doorway.

"You young rascal——" began Mr. Wattles, but Al silenced him by a gesture:

"There is no time to waste, gentlemen," he said. "I told you that Mrs. Anderson would appear to-night, and she will."

"Do you mean to say," cried Mr. Wattles, "that you can make her do this in defiance of her husband's will?"

"Her husband will agree after he has had a short talk with me," was the boy's reply. "Go right ahead with your preparations for the performance, gentlemen; Mrs. Anderson will be here as per agreement."

And, without waiting for a reply, Al left the room.

"Well," said Mr. Wattles, drawing a long breath, "I never saw the equal of that kid. Do you know, I think he will do what he has promised."

Mr. Perley shook his head.

"It's out of the question now," he said. "Mayor Anderson is one of the stubbornest men in the world; if he has said that his wife shall not appear, she will not. The boy was talking through his hat."

"Well," said the manager of the New York Comedy Company, "all we can do now is to trust to luck. Go ahead and let the people in, and we'll see whether this confounded stage-struck female turns up or not. Somehow, I believe the lad knew what he was talking about."

Meantime Al had reached the mayor's house, a pretentious mansion on the most fashionable thoroughfare in Boomville.

In response to the rather supercilious "What is it?" from the servant who opened the door, he presented his card and asked to see Mrs. Anderson.

"I don't think she'll see you," said the flunky, "but I'll give her your card if you wish."

"I do wish," said the boy. "Give her the card, and tell her that I wish to see her on very important business that will admit of no delay."

The man left with the card. In a few moments he returned, saying with a grin:

"She don't know you, and she won't see you."

And with an impudent leer, he extended the card to the boy.

Al took it and hurriedly wrote a few words on the back. Then he returned it to the servant, saying:

"Give it to Mrs. Anderson again; I think she will see me."

The man hesitated, then said:

"Well, I'll take it to her, but the chances are she'll give me orders to kick you out."

With this cheering assurance he again departed.

"I didn't like to do it," murmured Al, "but there was no help for it."

In a few moments the flunky returned, his manner completely changed.

"Please be kind enough to step into the drawing room, sir," he said, with the utmost politeness; "Mrs. Anderson will be down in one minute."

A few minutes after Al Allston had left the theater a showily dressed, red-faced man of about thirty sauntered into the manager's private office where Mr. Wattles was seated alone.

"So, Wattles, old man," he said, extending his hand, "we meet again."

The manager started to his feet.

"How dare you show your face here?" he cried, angrily.

"Eh! What's all this?" said the newcomer, in real or feigned surprise.

"I don't want to have anything more to do with you. A nice sort of advance agent you are, aren't you?"

"There's none better, so they say," replied the fellow, with a tipsy leer. "What are you on your ear about?"

"I have no time to bandy words with you. You are discharged."

"What's that—I discharged? What ails you, Wattles?"

"That's enough, Dick Farley. I told you after your last drunk that if the same thing occurred again I should have nothing more to do with you, and I meant it. Get out!"

"But, Wattles, I haven't been on a booze. I have been drugged and kidnaped. Listen and I'll tell you all about it; it's the queerest affair you ever heard of."

"I guess it is; I know your talent for inventing yarns. I don't want to hear this one."

"Do you mean to insult me?"

And Farley's face reddened.

"That would be impossible."

"It would, eh? See here, Gus Wattles, do you mean to say that you are going to throw me over and ruin my chances in the business?"

"It is your own fault. I want to have nothing more to do with you."

"Then I'm bounced?"

"That is it, exactly."

"Oh, it is? Well, I'll show you!"