arrive at the fine
fame of printer's ink: headlines, bill-boards, critical notices,
reproductions of his photograph. But this was long ago. He had longed to
be chronicled in his time, preeminent and large; this he had desired
with that hungry passion for display which only an actor can feel. But
this, remember, was once upon a time. His other ideal--no need to
mention it amid Momus and his mimes!--was to sway people with laughter
and tears, to burn them with romance, to chasten them with tragedy, to
carry them with him in his frenzy, to play upon them with his art.

Art! Do you care for a grotesque, serious evening in its humblest
presence? Have you time to listen, over beer glass and cigarette, to a
broken-down old actor out of a job?

[Illustration: HARRY BARNES, OLD ACTOR]

Barnes was incongruously named when he was given the name of Harry. It
is a flippant name. It calls up merriness, youth, bravado, color, song.
Barnes was forty-nine, streaked with grey, heart-sick, pallid,
shuffling, timorous, sorry, and forlorn. Three decades of grease paint
had made his skin flabby; and three decades of what the grease paint
stood for had done likewise by his soul. It was thus that he drifted
from doorway to doorway in Fourteenth Street, down by the Elevated,
where dry little agents told him in dry little voices that there was
nothing for him from day to day. It was thus that he dragged his feet up
the boarding-house stairs to his skylight room, night after night,
carrying the two heartless fardels, Hope and Memory.

It was approaching a certain holiday, a holiday which came on Sunday.

"Harry," said old Tony Sanderson, after he had finished informing the
actor that there was no news for him, "why don't you do a little
press-agent work for yourself? Get your name in the paper. That might
help you get something to do."

The other listened despondently.

"Now here's a chance," went on the agent, in a confidential tone. "No
money in it, of course, but, as I said, there's a chance to get into
print. Some sort of a newsboys' benefit bunch is going to get together
Sunday night and give a little entertainment fer the kids up in Beals'
gymnasium on the Bowery. They're callin' for volunteers among the
actors. You take your monologue stunt down there and get onto the
program. The newspapers always plays up this newsboy dope strong and
you'll get a good mention sure. Clip the notices and _then_ you've got
somethin' to flash. See?"