, in the phraseology of his
associates, "the whole show." His word was law with the company, and the
men adored him.

He met Gustave at the Palace Hotel and said to him, "I suppose the time
has come for me to quit Haverly."

"All right," said Gustave, still the good angel. "I'll put you out ahead
of our Number Two 'Hazel Kirke' Company at a salary of seventy-five
dollars a week. You can start out right away. What do you say?"

Charles thought a moment, and then said: "Well, Gus, it's pretty tough
to go ahead of a Number Two company even at seventy-five dollars a week
when you have been manager of Haverly's Mastodons. The money doesn't
mean anything to me. I like the minstrel boys and they like me."

He still hesitated and walked up and down the room two or three times,
as was his habit. Finally he came over to his brother and said,
decisively:

"I'll take it."

During this memorable visit to San Francisco occurred another event that
had large influence on the whole future life of the young man. One night
in a famous ratheskeller on Kearney Street he saw an artistic-looking
youth with curly hair and dreamy eyes sitting in the midst of a group of
actors. This youth was David Belasco, who had passed from actor to
author-stage-manager and whose melodrama, "American Born," was running
at the Baldwin Theater. Frohman had seen this play and was much
impressed with it. Thrillers had interested him from the start.

Gustave, who was with Belasco, said to him: "There's my brother Charley.
You ought to know him."

Simultaneously Belasco was pointed out to Charles. They glanced up at
the same time, nodded smilingly across the space between, and later on
when they were introduced Charles expressed his great admiration for
"American Born." Belasco had just received the offer from Daniel Frohman
to come to the Madison Square Theater in New York as stage-manager.

Out of this contact came the association between Charles Frohman and
David Belasco that added much to their achievements.

Charles gave Haverly notice, and at Indianapolis he left the Mastodons.
He slipped away without farewells, and when his absence became known a
gloom settled down on the company. Unconsciously the rosy-cheeked boy
had become its inspiration. For weeks the performances lacked their
customary zip and enthusiasm.

His minstrel days over, save for two brief intervals, Charles was now
about to begin his connection with the Madison Square Theater. It