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Hubbard had set a price of twenty dollars a year, for the use of two telephones on a private line; and when exchanges were started, the rate was seldom more than three dollars a month. There were deadheads in abundance, mostly officials and politicians. In St. Louis, one of the few cities that charged a sufficient price, nine-tenths of the merchants refused to become subscribers.
To the truth of part of this we can testify, since we study such deadheads with great curiosity on the occasions, rather rare, when we see them, for sometimes a dramatic critic gets taken to the theatre by a friend. We think ourselves very famous, yet most of us have friends ignorant of the fact that our trade is to criticize plays.
According to my cousin, the first-night deadheads, as a body, are unpunctual and unappreciative. They chatter a good deal and seem more interested in the audience than the play, and might well be replaced by the many people who would be glad to plank down their money for a seat.
Let them go; and I warrant the managers will be none the worse I should, indeed, except the gentlemen of the Fourth Estate. The case of myself and the deadheads of other nights is quite different. The managers will find it difficult to do without us. We are present as much for their benefit as for our pleasure. Constatons les faits, if I may borrow another phrase from the French.
It is a source of great joy to my cousin to see that on these occasion the managers know how to put the critics in their proper places, grouping them, for instance, in rows of stalls bearing the more remote letters of the alphabet, whilst between them and the footlights come the deadheads of the other varieties.
"No, no, doctor," replied the man; "we can't afford that. You send too many 'deadheads' through here as it is." The story traveled, and the two words became associated. They tell a story of a man who came into Omaha one day, and wanted to trade his farm for some city lots.
Let me begin by employing, with trifling modification, a famous phrase by one of the dramatists of the land from which most of our English drama comes: "There are deadheads and deadheads!" They may be put into two main groups the first-night deadheads and the other-nights deadheads and there are subdivisions.
"How about old Murdock's dam? Looks like he might make trouble." "Ain't got to old Murdock yet," said Roaring Dick. "When we do, we'll trim his whiskers to pattern. Don't you worry none about Murdock." "I don't," laughed Welton. "But, Dick, what are all these deadheads I see in the river? Our logs are all marked, aren't they?"
"I suppose your guardian arranged about that. Didn't he tell you?" "I have no guardian." "Well, you'll have to ask Capt. Barnes about that. I know nothing, except that you are a passenger, and that your fare has been paid." "My fare paid to San Francisco?" asked Dodger, more and more at sea, both mentally and physically. "Yes; we don't take any deadheads on the Columbia."
"I guess they got a right to them as long as we ain't marked them." "They can have their deadheads," agreed the riverman, "but their piles have jammed our drive and hung her." "We'll break the jam," said Larsen. Arrived at the scene of difficulty, Bob looked about him with great interest. The jam was apparently locked hard and fast against a clump of piles driven about in the centre of the stream.
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