"Oh, what a funny little man he is!" ironically quoted another from a song
in one of Mr. Hoyt's farces, alluding to Mogley's spare if elongated frame.
"He t'inks dis is a tragedy," suggested a Bowery youth.
But Mogley tried not to heed.
In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured
zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such and
such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock companies
could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties had too long
enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama.
But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the house.
Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance of making the
longed-for impression. The derision of the audience increased. Now the
gallery made comments upon his personal appearance.
"He could get between raindrops," yelled one, applying a recent speech of
Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian.
And at home Mogley's wife was dying--holding to life by sheer power of
will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded
his eyes.
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