Gwan
now; don't stand there. You ain't no decent 'bo. You're another of
those Unfortunate Workmen that's spoiling the profesh." The veteran
stared at Carl reprovingly, yet with a little sadness, too, at the
thought of how bitterly he had been deceived in this young comrade,
and his uncombed head slowly vanished amid the lumber.

Carl grinned and started up-town. He walked into four restaurants. At
noon, in white jacket, he was bustling about as waiter in the
dining-room of the Waskahominie Hotel, which had "white service" as a
feature.

Within two days he was boon companion of a guest of the
Waskahominie--Parker Heye, an actor famous from Cape Charles to
Shockeysville, now playing heavies at Roanoke in the Great Riley Tent
Show, Presenting a Popular Repertoire of Famous Melodramas under
Canvas, Rain or Shine, Admittance Twenty-five Cents, Section Reserved
for Colored People, the Best Show under Canvas, This Week Only.

When Parker Heye returned from the theater Carl sat with him in a room
which had calico-like wall-paper, a sunken bed with a comforter out of
which oozed a bit of its soiled cotton entrails, a cracked
water-pitcher on a staggering wash-stand, and a beautiful new cuspidor
of white china hand-painted with pink moss-roses tied with narrow blue
ribbon.

Carl listened credulously to Heye's confidences as to how jealous was
Riley, the actor-manager, of Heye's art, how Heye had "knocked them
all down" in a stock company at Newport News, and what E. H. Sothern
had said to him when they met in Richmond as guests of the Seven Pines
Club.

"Say," rasped Heye, "you're a smart young fellow, good-looking,
ejucated. Why don't you try to get an engagement? I'll knock you down
to Riley. The second juvenile 's going to leave on Saturday, and there
ain't hardly time to get anybody from Norfolk."

"Golly! that 'd be great!" cried Carl, who, like every human being
since Eden, with the possible exceptions of Calvin and Richard
Mansfield, had a secret belief that he could be a powerful actor.

"Well, I'll see what I can do for you," said Heye, at parting,
alternately snapping his suspenders and scratching his head. Though he
was in his stocking-feet and coat-less, though the back of his neck
was a scraggle of hair, Parker Heye was preferable to the three Swiss
waiters snoring in the hot room under the eaves, with its door half
open, opposite the half-open door of the room where negro chambermaids
tumbled and snorted i