at even then that he invariably carried a cap in his pocket
and the moment the parade was over the abhorred headpiece was removed.

The first stop of the Mastodons was at Toledo, Ohio. A great crowd
assembled around the theater, and the treasurer, a weak little man,
seemed afraid to raise the window. "They'll run over me," he whined.

"All right," said Charles. "I'll take the window and sell the tickets."

Up to this time his only box-office experience had been as a mere lad at
Hooley's Theater in Brooklyn, but he handled that big crowd with such
skill and speed that even "Big Bill" Foote, who was the manager of the
company, patted him on the back and said a kind word.

Foote, who was Charles's superior officer on this trip, was a type of
the big, loud, blustering theatrical man of the time. He was six feet
tall, and he towered over his youthful assistant, who was his exact
opposite in manner and speech. Yet between these two men of strange
contrast there developed a close kinship. The little, plump,
rosy-cheeked treasurer could handle the big, bluff, noisy manager at
will. Such was Charles Frohman's experience with men always.

The first tour was replete with stirring incident. When the company
reached Bradford, Pennsylvania, they found the town in the throes of oil
excitement. Oil was on everybody's tongue and ankle-deep in some of the
streets. A great multitude collected at the theater. After the first
part of the show the gallery, which was full of people, creaked and
settled a few inches, creating a near panic. While this was being
subdued an oil-warehouse on the outskirts of the town burst into flames.
Most of the volunteer firemen were in the theater watching the
minstrels. When an agitated individual out on the sidewalk yelled
"Fire!" a real panic started inside the theater and there was a mad rush
for the door.

Charles had just finished taking the tickets and stood with the
ticket-box in his hand, trying to calm the crowd, but he was as a straw
in the wind. The maddened people ran over him. When the excitement
cleared away he was found almost buried in mud, mire, and oil outside,
his clothes torn to shreds, but he still grasped the precious box in his
hand.

Now began a comradeship that was unique in the history of theatricals.
The Mastodons, destined for long and continuous association, became a
sort of traveling club. It was really a fine group of men, and the
favorite of the organization was the rosy