In the meantime, those stockings must not be
neglected. Silk does wear out so, but--after all, isn't it just the
only goods there is?
The Hotel Thalia looks on Broadway as Marathon looks on the sea. It
stands like a gloomy cliff above the whirlpool where the tides of two
great thoroughfares clash. Here the player-bands gather at the end of
their wanderings, to loosen the buskin and dust the sock. Thick in
the streets around it are booking-offices, theatres, agents, schools,
and the lobster-palaces to which those thorny paths lead.
Wandering through the eccentric halls of the dim and fusty Thalia,
you seem to have found yourself in some great ark or caravan about to
sail, or fly, or roll away on wheels. About the house lingers a sense
of unrest, of expectation, of transientness, even of anxiety and
apprehension. The halls are a labyrinth. Without a guide, you wander
like a lost soul in a Sam Loyd puzzle.
Turning any corner, a dressing-sack or a _cul-de-sac_ may bring you
up short. You meet alarming tragedians stalking in bath-robes in
search of rumored bathrooms. From hundreds of rooms come the buzz
of talk, scraps of new and old songs, and the ready laughter of the
convened players.
Summer has come; their companies have disbanded, and they take their
rest in their favorite caravansary, while they besiege the managers
for engagements for the coming season.
At this hour of the afternoon the day's work of tramping the rounds
of the agents' offices is over.
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