DEPARTED GLORY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16987, 10 March 1923, Page 9 (Supplement)

DEPARTED GLORY.

A TATTERED TALE. (Written for the “Star.”) He was a loose-jawed man, with a scrubbly growth of whiskers. He requested the loan of a match, and volunteered the information that it was a warm day for this time oi the year. “I m just having a breather,” he announced. Tile statement was rather vague. “ Yes, a breather—and a glass of beer,” lie added. The counter lunch attracted him for a moment. He seized a sandwich and was back again. He said lie would have another beer. Ihe troth spread itself over the bar floor, and the amber fluid gurgled as it found a home. “Yes,” he murmured sadly, as he wiped his lips. “ You mightn’t think it, sir, but 1 was once as smartly dressed as yourself. But the slings and arrows, sir.” He shrugged his shoulders reignedly. “And to think that ” His voice trailed off into a whisper and moisture gleamed in his eyes. “ Down and out! And I ask you the reason? Ha! Of course you do not know. In a nutshell, this is th© answer: I owe my position to-day to the ingratitude of the amuse-ment-loving public of New Zealand.” His straggling lip whiskers trembled violently as he continued.

“ Know you, sir, that I was once the sole proprietor of the ‘ Bellbird Mammoth Galaxy of Dramatic Stars.’ a company of iady and gentleman players whose sole aim was the production of high-class entertainment for the soil-till-ing people of this Dominion. Our repertoire was immense, and we presented nightly such English successes as ‘ The Mystery of the Alurdered Jockey,’ ‘ The Pinched Pyjamas,’ ‘ Blood on the Sands’ and ‘Two Faces at the Window.’ ” He paused and requested a match. “ Business was rotten from the outset,” he went on, “ for Art has few j devotees in the rural areas. Poetry, Drama, ihe Aluse mean nothing. Our metropolitan company was sick of the business sir, sick of it. The Fates seemed to conspire to destroy us. Audiences were poor and publicans cold and heartless. As time went on the pubs knew us not—and we slier! our wardrobe by degrees. The ‘ ghost ’ absoluely refused to so much an totter. “We were on Poverty Point when our aggregation struck AVaipuku, a peaceful village where dwell the milkers for the factory. AVe decided to stage ‘ Two Faces at the Window,* cutting out the third act and substituting a bit of ragtime. A terrible sacrifice, sir, a terrible sacrifice. But it all proved useless. By seven-thirty the local Temple of Thespis was as bare as a new-born babe. Outside a Maori seemed to hesitate, and stood for a moment gazing into the empty hall

space. Then he drifted down the road and another hope vanished. “ AVe were just going to shut up shop when th© fire-hell suddenly pealed. Ever an opportunist, I was seized with great inspiration, and, grabbing a hanging lamp, rushed out into the roadway. The two surviving members or the Bellbird Mammoth Galaxy of Dramatic Stars came and stood round and roared like a catastrophe. Attracted by the noise and the glare from the lamp, the peaceful inhabitants of AVaipuku abandoned the idea of going to bed and trickled towards the supposed conflagration. There they found that the greVfc English dramatic success, ‘ Two Faces a* the Window,’ was the cause of nil the hubbub. To all inquiries as to the whereabouts of the fire we answered as one man, ‘ Inside the hall to-night, tonight ! The great fire scene ! Positively the last appearance of the Bellbird Mammoth Galaxy of Dramatic Stars!” Jt was. AVe played to thirty hob. Imagine it. sir—thirty shillings at the Shrine of Art. “ Next morning we boarded the train for the city. It was a sad ending to a great career. Just as the carriages were about to move off, a youngster looked in at the window and inquired, ‘ls Horatio Spark 3 (that’s me) »u there?’ “ ‘ What do you want him for, laddie?’ someone asked. ‘Are you th 3 “ ‘ Newsboy nothin’,’ j)uffed the kid. ‘ Horatio said he’d gimme ’arf a crown larsnitc if I’d ring the fire-hell and tell the people the fire was up at the *al*. I’m wantin’ me pay.’ “ ‘Yes, sir; that was the end. 1 shook off the fetters of Art, and for twelve months I’ve been peeling spuds for th© cook at the boarding-house ovur the way.’’ He ran his fingers through his lank hair—and had another. “Of course vaudeville is the thing nowadays, vaudeville and the movies. They’ve done many an old actor out of a job. The managers like these silent, shadowy players in the pictures. They never growl, or get right, or turn up let© for the show. Ah, niel” His sigh was a tragic thing. “Yes, sir,” lie mused, “the amuse-ment-loving public is a fickle jade. But for lack of appreciation of the spoken* Drama, Horatio Sparks might have been driving his car to-day. As it is He shrugged his sliouMers resignedly, j “ Could you oblige me with a cigarette?” —TE PANA.