Nixon took the money, gave a receipt for it, and had nothing more to say.
“Now, come with me boys,” said Buntline; and away we went to the hotel. Buntline immediately obtained a supply of pens, ink and paper, and then engaged all the hotel clerks as penmen. In less than an hour after he had rented the theater, he was dashing off page after page of his proposed drama—the work being done in his room at the hotel. He then set his clerks at copying for him, and at the end of four hours, he jumped up from the table, and enthusiastically shouted:
“Hurrah for The Scouts of the Plains! That’s the name of the play. The work is done. Hurrah!”
The parts were then all copied off separately by the clerks, and handing us our respective portions Buntline said:
“Now, boys, go to work, and do your level best to have this dead-letter perfect for the rehearsal, which takes place tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, prompt. I want to show Nixon that we’ll be ready on time.”
I looked at my part and then at Jack; and Jack looked at his part and then at me. Then we looked at each other, and then at Buntline. We did not know what to make of the man.
“How long will it take you to commit your part to memory, Bill?” asked Jack.
“About six months, as near as I can calculate. How long will it take you?” answered I.
“It will take me about that length of time to learn the first line,” said Jack. Nevertheless we went to our room and commenced studying. I thought it was the hardest work I had ever done.
“This is dry business,” finally remarked Jack.
“That’s just what it is,” I answered; “jerk the bell, Jack.” The bellboy soon appeared. We ordered refreshments; after partaking thereof we resumed our task. We studied hard for an hour or two, but finally gave it up as a bad job, although we had succeeded in committing a small portion to memory. Buntline now came into the room and said:
“Boys, how are you getting along?”
“I guess we’ll have to go back on this studying business as it isn’t our forte,” said I.
“Don’t weaken now, Bill; you’ll come out on the top of the heap yet. Let me hear you recite your part,” said Buntline. I began “spouting” what I had learned, but was interrupted by Buntline:
“Tut! tut! you’re not saying it right. You must stop at the cue.”
“Cue! What the mischief do you mean by the cue? I never saw any cue except in a billiard room,” said I. Buntline thereupon explained it to me, as well as to Jack, who was ignorant as myself concerning the “cue” business.
“Jack, I think we had better back out and go to hunting again,” said I.
“See here, boys; it won’t do to go back on me at this stage of the game. Stick to it, and it may be the turning point in your lives and lead you on to fortune and to fame.”
“A fortune is what we are after, and we’ll at least give the wheel a turn or two and see what luck we have,” said I. This satisfied Buntline, but we didn’t study any more after he left us. The next morning we appeared at rehearsal and were introduced to the company. The first rehearsal was hardly a success; and the succeeding ones were not much better. The stage manager did his best to teach Jack and myself what to do, but when Monday night came we didn’t know much more about it than when we began.
The clock struck seven, and then we put on our buckskin suits, which were the costumes we were to appear in. The theater was being rapidly filled, and it was evident that we were going to make our debut before a packed house. As the minutes passed by, Jack and I became more and more nervous. We occasionally looked through the holes in the curtain, and saw that the people were continuing to crowd into the theatre; our nervousness increased to an uncomfortable degree.
When, at length the curtain arose, our courage had returned, so that we thought we could face the immense crowd; yet when the time came for us to go on, we were rather slow in making our appearance. As we stepped forth we were received with a storm of applause, which we acknowledged with a bow.
Buntline, who was taking the part of “Cale Durg,” appeared, and gave me the “cue” to speak “my little piece,” but for the life of me I could not remember a single word. Buntline saw I was “stuck,” and a happy thought occurred to him. He said—as if it were in the play:
“Where have you been, Bill? What has kept you so long?”
Just then my eye happened to fall on Mr. Milligan, who was surrounded by his friends, the newspaper reporters, and several military officers, all of whom had heard of his hunt and “Indian fight”—he being a very popular man, and widely known in Chicago. So I said:
“I have been out on a hunt with Milligan.”
This proved to be a big hit. The audience cheered and applauded; which gave me greater confidence in my ability to get through the performance all right. Buntline, who is a very versatile man, saw that it would be a good plan to follow this up, and he said:
“Well, Bill, tell us all about the hunt.”
I thereupon proceeded to relate in detail the particulars of the affair. I succeeded in making it rather funny, and I was frequently interrupted by rounds of applause. Whenever I began to “weaken,” Buntline would give me a fresh start, by asking some question. In this way I took up fifteen minutes, without once speaking a word of my part; nor did I speak a word of it during the whole evening. The prompter, who was standing between
