In all burlesques of "Faust" the role of Mephisto is the leading comic figure. The actor who a.s.sumes it undertakes to make people laugh.

Mogley made people laugh that night, but it was not his intentional humourous efforts that excited their hilarity. It was the man himself.

They began by jeering him quietly. Then the gallery grew bold.

"Ah there, Edwin Booth!" sarcastically yelled an urchin aloft.

"Oh, what a funny little man he is!" ironically quoted another from a song in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if elongated frame.

"He t'inks dis is a tragedy," suggested a Bowery youth.

But Mogley tried not to heed.

In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such and such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock companies could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties had too long enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama.

But, one by one, he pa.s.sed his opportunities without capturing the house. Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance of making the longed-for impression. The derision of the audience increased. Now the gallery made comments upon his personal appearance.

"He could get between raindrops," yelled one, applying a recent speech of Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian.

And at home Mogley's wife was dying--holding to life by sheer power of will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his discomfiture.

Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had never met before, had a look of sympathy for him.

"It's a tough audience. Don't mind them," she whispered.

Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he antic.i.p.ates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the angels of heaven.

The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically removed his apparel, washed off his "make-up," donned his worn street attire and his haughty demeanour, and started for home.

Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting impatiently his return, the news of his triumph.

"We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley," said the stage manager as he reached the stage door. "Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for to-night. Here's your money now."

Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and hastened homeward. He thought only:

"To tell her the truth will kill her at once."

Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of antic.i.p.ation when Mogley entered the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining eyes.

"Well, how was it?" she asked, quickly.

Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy.

"Success!" he cried. "Tremendous. .h.i.t! The house roared! Called before the curtain four times and had to make a speech!"

Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting.

Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic illusion.

"Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read about it in the papers!"

Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word of ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the landlady's daughter lent her every day.

Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A quarter to twelve.

"My love," he said, "I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only an hour. Can you do without me that long?"

"Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a week."

Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering to the side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober countenance, an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his surroundings, and a coat frayed at the edges.

"I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley," said this apparition.

"Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?" replied the dramatic editor, absently, lighting one himself.

"Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading comedian of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre. I played Mephisto." (He had begun his speech in a dignified manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) "I was a failure--a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew I was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism of the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I should not like--you see--I have never deigned to solicit favours from the press before, sir, and--"

"I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do."

Mogley pa.s.sed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the street, forgetful of the elevator.

The dramatic editor looked at his watch. "Half-past twelve," he said; then, to a man at another desk:

"Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled crabs and a bottle of Ba.s.s for me."

He ran up-stairs to the night editor. "Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices."

"Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?"

"Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour."

"All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs."

"Let's see," mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs.

"Who covered the ---- Theatre to-night? Some one in the city department.

I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, here it is."

And he read on the proof:

"The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful performance of the part of Mephis...o...b.. a doleful gentleman named Thomas Mogley, who showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously guyed by a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place of William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear in the role to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the company."

Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows:

"The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original embodiment of Mephis...o...b.. Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking comedian. His performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was the manifest thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian had been discovered."

All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it later over his bottle of white label at the club.

By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close to her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed through her tears. Her face was all gladness.

"A new--comedian--discovered," she repeated. "Ah, Tom, at last! That is what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a--great--hit--Tom--"