He was a quiet, unassuming little
man, this Robson, seemingly without vanity and without ambition. He had
a wife and family to maintain, and drew his twenty-five or thirty
shillings weekly with perfect patience and resignation.
A weary period, however, elapsed between his appearance at the Olympic
and his realization of financial success. The critics and the
connoisseurs talked about him a long time before the public could be
persuaded to go and see him, or the manager to raise his salary. That
doomed house with the wooden portico was in the way. At last the
wretched remnant of the French seventy-four caught fire and was burned
to the ground. Its ill-luck was consistent to the last. A poor actor,
named Bender, had engaged the Olympic for a benefit. He was to pay
twenty pounds for the use of the house. He had just sold nineteen
pounds' worth of tickets, and trusted to the casual receipts at the door
for his profits. At a few minutes before six o'clock, having to play in
the first piece, he proceeded to the theatre, and entered his
dressing-room. By half-past six the whole house was in a blaze. Bender,
half undressed, had only time to save himself; and his coat, with the
nineteen pounds in the pocket, fell a prey to the flames. After this,
will you tell me that there is not such a thing as ill-luck?
The Olympic arose "like a phoenix from its ashes.
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