Two Heroes

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

IN a densely populated district of one of our large cities, a dramatic club has been formed in connection with the work of a college settlement. The cast of one of the first plays presented comprised four boys of American or Irish parentage, and one small negro boy, familiarly known as “ Honey.” Despite his color, it was soon found that Honey’s qualities had won him a place as the leader of them all.

The rehearsals had been faithfully attended, and the night of the performance came. The boys were gathered in the improvised dressing-room, talking of the play with suppressed excitement. Snatches of conversation drifted through the swaying curtains from the crowded room in front, and there was all the delicious expectancy of a professional first night.

I had chosen a simple play dealing with a war incident, as this seemed to appeal strongly to the martial spirit of the cast. While this selection was entirely satisfactory to the players, I had found it was not easy to secure the necessary uniforms to be worn by my miniature soldiery. These difficulties had been overcome, however, and all was in readiness.

A few minutes before the hour fixed for the rising of the curtain Honey appeared, his eyes dancing and his ebony face wreathed in smiles. It did not take long to discover the cause of his glee, for over his ragged clothes he wore a military coat of extraordinary grandeur. The sleeves entirely hid his little black fists, and the gorgeous tails swept the floor as he walked proudly about.

The coat, we found, had been borrowed for the occasion from “ the feller who leads the band,” and it quite eclipsed any which my ingenuity had contrived for the remainder of the cast. I scented trouble at once. Even to civilian eyes this wonderful coat seemed a bit elaborate for a character which, even by the mysterious evolution of the modern drama, rose only from a village ne’erdo-well to the ranks of a sergeant in the service. I decided, however, to have Honey wear it rather than disappoint him, and I set to work to reduce its ample proportions as much as possible.

This done, I was about to go on with the play, when trouble came from another quarter. The boy who was to play the part of the hero, and whose chief duty it was to appear as the proud victor in the last act, flatly refused to go on. Here was a predicament. The jealous streak in his Celtic nature showed itself, and he would play only on his own terms, — that he should wear the coat. Argument made him ugly, and the only answer to my entreaties was a dogged “ I can very well stop your show. I won’t go on.” Unfortunately I was in the boy’s power, and he knew it. I appealed to his pride and to his sense of honor ; I threatened and cajoled in vain. Meanwhile the audience waited, impatient at the delay.

Finally I was compelled to recognize defeat. I laid the case before Honey, and asked his help. The suggestion staggered him. Upon hearing it, his eyes filled with tears and his voice shook. He had been strutting about in all his borrowed glory, the picture of pride and happiness. I told him our dilemma, and left him, a grotesque little figure of woe. The gaudy coat covered a true heart, and in it a fierce combat was being waged. He was battling with a boy’s natural selfishness strengthened by his intense negro love of finery.

The battle was soon over. He came to me denuded of his gold lace, and with tearstained face surrendered the coat. Whatever the performance may have seemed from the stage, it was a tragedy behind the scenes.

The sulky hero eagerly accepted the sacrifice, and appeared in all the splendor with which Honey had hoped to dazzle his friends. The play progressed, and I watched Honey closely. There was not a trace of resentment in his manner, and he played his part in a way which won him a second triumph. My interest in the stage hero flagged. The high-sounding sentiments which he uttered did not seem quite his own after the little scene in the dressing-room.

Though the applause was Long and loud when the play was over, I could not help feeling that the real hero was the little negro who stood unnoticed at the back of the stage, and smiled at his friend’s success.