p at the northwest corner of Thirty-fifth Street and Broadway was an
old barnlike structure that had been successively aquarium, menagerie,
and skating-rink. It had a roof and four walls and at one end there was
a rude stage.

One night at midnight Charles, accompanied by Belasco, went up to look
at the sorry spectacle. As a theater it was about the most unpromising
structure in New York.

"This is all I can get, David," said Charles, "and it must do."

"But, Charley, it is not a theater," said Belasco.

"Never mind," said Frohman. "I will have it made into one."

The old building was under the control of Hyde & Behman, who were
planning to convert it into a vaudeville house. Frohman went to see them
and persuaded them to turn it into a legitimate theater. Just about this
time the Booth Theater at Twenty-third Street and Sixth Avenue was about
to be torn down. Under Charles's prompting Hyde & Behman bought the
inside of that historic structure, proscenium arch, stage, boxes, and
all, and transported them to the Thirty-fifth Street barn. What had been
a bare hall became the New Park Theater, destined to go down in history
as the playhouse that witnessed many important productions, as well as
the first that Charles Frohman made on any stage. Years afterward this
theater was renamed the Herald Square.

Charles Frohman now had a play, a theater, and a cast. With
characteristic lavishness he said to Belasco:

"We must have the finest scenic production ever made in New York."

He had no capital, but he had no trouble in getting credit. Every one
seemed willing to help him. He got out handsome printing and advertised
extensively. He spared nothing in scenic effects, which were elaborate.
He devoted every spare moment to attending rehearsals.

Among the supernumeraries was a fat boy with a comical face. At one of
the rehearsals he sat in a boat and reached out for something. In doing
this he fell overboard. He fell so comically that Belasco made his fall
a part of the regular business. His ability got him a few lines, which
were taken from another actor. This fat-faced, comical boy was John
Bunny, who became the best-known moving-picture star in the United
States, and who to the end of his days never forgot that he appeared in
Charles Frohman's first production. He often spoke of it with pride.

The autumn of 1883 was a strenuous one, for Charles had staked a good
deal on "The Stranglers of Paris." Yet when the curtai