Nat said. “How’d you come by it?” Shad seemed a trifle vague about the acquisition of the hat. As best as he could remember he’d stopped at a tavern in Providence on his trip north and there had been a batch of British officers in there raising the old Nick, and when they somehow or other got the impression that Shad was a Loyalist, they filled him up with free ale, and when he left the tavern he went to the table where he’d parked his coonskin cap among all the officers’ hats and—his wits being a mite befuddled—he must have picked up the wrong hat by mistake.
“I often wonder what that major looks like in his dress uniform with my coonskin cap on his head,” Shad mused, brushing at the silver lacework on the cocked hat.
He was, he told Nat, in the Pennsylvania militia, and the Committee of Communications had sent him up to Boston in February with some vital information for the Boston Committee of Safety.
“How is it you’re still here?” Nat wondered. “I thought they sent you fellas back and forth.”
“Why, any fool knows trouble is comin’ atween the British and the Americans. And most of us knows that when it does come it’ll be started by these here Yankees. And, boy, I aim to be right here handy when it happens!”
Old Elijah Simp, the gnarled, bent-nearly-double property man, came hurriedly by them with his peculiar crab-wise shuffle, shaking his head.
“Best look spry, Nat,” he warned. “Old Benny’s throwing a fit backstage on account you’re late and Ralston hasn’t showed up yet.”
That was bad. Nat and Ralston were supposed to present a new act that night: the Robin Hood and Little John jousting scene. It had already been advertised; and now no Ralston. But it was no great surprise to Nat. Ralston Morbes was an avowed Loyalist, a Tory. He was probably embroiled in some mischief or other out in the streets.
“Come on, Shad. I’ll tuck you away in one of the dressing rooms.”
But they never made it. With a mighty “Ah-ha!” Benny Frazer descended upon them, his gravy-spotted velveteen waistcoat flapping about his narrow concave torso, a curl of his wig loose from its pins bobbing up and down by his right ear. He wigwagged his pipestem arms at Nat melodramatically.
“So. So. We’ve decided to make our appearance, have we? We’ve elected out of the goodness of our heart to give our fellow performers the benefit of our estimable presence! So good of us! So generous we are! And where is our boon companion Master Morbes, pray tell?”
Shad blinked at the scarecrow of a man, and turned to Nat.
“Say, just how many of you is he talkin’ about?”
“I don’t know where Ral is, Benny,” Nat said. “There’s trouble in the streets tonight. My friend Mister Holly and I ran into some of it.”
Benny snatched his floppy wig from his bald head and threw it spamp against the back wall. Not satisfied with that, he took a running jump at it and landed on the powdery old moth nest with both feet.
“Gads and all the goldfish of Greeves!” he wailed. “Ruin! Utter, undeserved, unappeasable ruin! And a full house out front for once! And no Robin Hood. They’ll tear the stage down! I know they will. I’ve seen it happen before. I——” His voice slammed to a halt and he studied Shad like a beady-eyed bird of prey.
“The size of him! Mark you the size of him! The perfect Little John!” Benny came hop-hopping over to grab Nat. “Nathaniel—man that I’ve raised from childhood—we will switch parts, sweet lad! You will play Robin, and this monster—that is to say, this gentleman will play Little John!”
Shad’s eyes were beginning to glimmer and glower. “Now hold on here. What is all this Robin and Little Johnny talk, anyhow?”
Benny went after the enormous Shad with fluttery, eager fingers.
“Why, you’ve heard of Robin Hood the famous bandit of Sherwood Forest, surely! Nat here was supposed to play Little John to Ralston’s Robin Hood. Ah-ha! But now we will give him Robin’s part and you will be our Little John!”
Shad’s face clamped down like a public house closing for the night.
“Now look here, toothpick! I don’t usually mind folks referrin’ to my size, but there’s one thing I ain’t, and that’s little!”
“But you don’t understand, dear sir,” Benny hastened to assure him. “Little John is a name meant in jest. Little John was in truth an enormous man. His name was but a joke——”
“And that’s something else I ain’t is a joke,” Shad said dangerously. “Now I don’t mind helpin’ you fellas out, ’cause Nat here helped me tonight. I’ll be this Rob-bandit Hood fella, if you want. But I ain’t about to go around pretending I’m some dwarf called Johnny! And that’s flat!”
Benny snatched at his head for his wig but found only baldness.
“Benny,” Nat said, “if he’s willing to give us a hand, let’s not argue about it. Besides, I’ve already learned Little John’s part.”
“The part! The part!” Benny looked around in a state of wild distraction. “He must learn the part, and not a moment to spare! The curtain rises! The manuscript! Who in the name of all the foul fiends has pilfered the manuscript? Who——”
Old Elijah nudged his elbow and calmly handed him a few dog-eared sheafs of paper. Benny snatched them up and turned back to Shad.
“Now then, good Master Holly. Listen attentively! The lines are few and simple. Should your memory suffer a lapse, a hesitation, a dislocation, simply cry ‘What news?’ ”
“What news?” Shad echoed blankly.
“Yes. Robin was forever crying ‘What news’ to everyone he encountered in the forest. Don’t ask me why. Now then; Nat’s on stage when the curtain ascends and he says: ‘Here I am Little John the brave! I am the mumble-mumble and so on . . . and I shall cross me over this instant.’ ” Benny pointed at Shad. “That’s your cue.”
“My who?”
“Cue! Cue! You enter now.” Benny ducked his nose back into the script, reading: “ ‘What news?’ cried Robin. ‘Whence comes this gangling creature I see towering over me? Speak your name, varlet!’ ”
Benny pointed at Nat, still reading: “ ‘Little John is my name, little man,’ spake Little John. ‘And I desire to cross yon log——’ ”
“Hold on here,” Shad cut in. “Is that spake kin to a spade or a stake? How does a fella go about spakin’ hisself?”
Benny crumpled the script in despair. “It means spoke! SPOKE!”
“Just wanted to know, brother,” Shad said mildly. “That’s all.”
The balky curtain rose slowly before Nat, showing him the glare of the footlights in their tin reflectors. Beyond the blaze of tallow candles the small sea of expectant faces was but an indistinguishable glimmer of dark flesh with here and there the spark of an eye. He wet his lips apprehensively. He was very dubious about the outcome of the scene. And, to make matters worse, the audience had had to wait twenty minutes while
