"EXIT, LAUGHING"
Every time I see one of them big, fat, dignified guys that looks like
they have laid somebody eight to five they can go through life without
smilin' once, I wonder just how much they'd give in American money to
be able to put on a suit of pink pajamas and walk down Fifth Avenue
some crowded afternoon, leadin' a green elephant by a string!
I'll bet they's many a bank president, brigadier-general and what not,
that would part with their right eye if they could only force
themselves to let down for five minutes, can this dignity thing and
give a imitation of what a movie comedian thinks is humor. The best
proof of this is that the first chance any of them birds gets--_that's
just what they do_!
Y'know, you've seen in the papers lots of times where Archibald Van
Hesterfeld has been among the starters in the bazaar for the relief of
the heat prostration victims in Iceland, or words to that effect. Or,
if it wasn't Archibald it might have been General Galumpus or Commodore
Fedink--or all of them. Away down at the bottom of the page, if it's a
copy of the Succotash Crossing _Bugle_, or right up in the headlines,
if it's a big town sheet, after readin' what dignity and so forth the
"distinguished guests lent to the affair," you'll see that at midnight
they was large doin's on the dance floor. It is even bein' whispered
around that the general, commodore or governor fox-trotted with the
girls from the Follies and one-stepped with such of the fair sex as
cared practically nothin' for the neighbors. Along about the time the
milkman was sayin', "Well, here's another day!", the well known
distinguished guests was actin' like a guy who knows a Harvard man
does, after they have beat Yale or vice versa.
One of them birds acts so dignified at the office all day that not even
the most darin' of his clerks would _think_ of a joke in the same room
with him. He'll breeze home on baby's birthday with a trick lion or a
jumpin' jack for the kid, and spend three or four hours on the
dinin'-room floor makin' it go, while friend infant wishes to Heaven
father would call it a day and commence readin' the papers, so's _he_
could toy with it for a while.
The rest of the family stands around and tells each other that the old
man must have a good heart at that, because look how he goes out of his
way to amuse the baby. Father growls up at 'em and prays that they'll
all go to bed, includin' the one that's just learnin' to walk, so's he
can be let alone to really enjoy the thing himself!
We're all babies at heart, and the reason most of us don't admit it and
give in to our childish desires is because we're afraid the people in
the next flat will think we're nutty or have found a way to beat
prohibition. Now and then some extry brave guy sneers at the neighbors
and lets himself loose, and shortly afterward a committee is appointed
to look after his money. Finally, he is shipped f.o.b. to some
sanitarium where a passin' nod from the head doctor is listed at
twenty-five bucks and where the victim is fed strange foods and tucked
in bed at the devilish hour of nine.
This is naturally very discouragin' to the rest of us which was about
to tear loose ourselves, so we sigh, growl at the universe--and lay off!
I feel sorry for the guys that have to have their comedy served up to
them in disguise, like lobster a la Newburg, for instance. These birds
claim they like stuff you got to study for five minutes before you get
it, and then at a given signal you pull a nice lady-like laugh, the
while remarkin', "How subtle!" You don't want to cackle too loud or
the people across the hall will get the idea that you're a tribe of
lowbrows, and it'll get said around that your great-grandfather was
known to go in hysterics over the funny sheet of the Sunday papers!
They think the vaudeville or movie cut-up that does the funny falls is
a vulgar lunatic who ought to be in jail, and their idea of the height
of humor is the way a iceman pronounces decollete, or somethin' like
that.
I like my own comedy straight! I want it to wallop me right on the
laugher, so's I can get it the first time and giggle myself sick. I'm
extry strong for the loud and common guffaw, and I claim that because I
go into hysterics over the fat-man-on-the-banana-peel stuff, it don't
prove that I'm a heavy drinker, beat my wife and will probably wind up
in jail. On general principles I'm infatuated with the bird that can
make me laugh, and I don't care how he does it as long as he makes
good. I care not whether he laughs with me or for me, as long as
they's a snicker in there somewheres. I can even stand him laughin' at
me, because, if his stuff is funny enough--I'll laugh too!
No guy who can look around him, no matter how things is breakin' for
him and see somethin' to laugh at as the mob goes by, is beat. That
bird is just gettin' ready to pull a new punch from somewheres and he's
the baby you want to watch! The guy that can't see nothin' funny in
life, whether he's eight or eighty, is through!
Me and Kid Scanlan saved one of them guys. His name was Jason Van Ness.
I was sittin' in Genaro's office one afternoon about seven or eight
months after me and the Kid had decided to give the movies a boost,
when the door opens and in comes a guy which at first glance I figured
must at least be the governor of the state. He's there with a cane, a
high hat and the general makeup of a Wall Street broker in a play where
he won't forgive his son for marryin' the ingenue. Also, he's built
all over like a heavyweight champ, except his face, the same runnin' to
the dignified lines of the bloodhounds, them big, flabby, over-lappin'
jaws--get me?
"I say, old chap--are you Mister Genaro?" he pipes.
"Nope!" I says. "I'm Johnny Green, manager of Kid Scanlan,
welterweight champion of the world."
"Really!" he remarks.
"Well," I says, "d'ye wanna see the contract or will we go over to a
notary so's I can swear to it?"
At that he frowns and waves a finger at me.
"Come, my man," he says, "no chaffing now! You may tell Mister Genaro
I have arrived! Of course you know who I am?"
That "my man!" thing was a trifle more than I could take! I throws my
feet up on Genaro's desk and give this guy a long, careless once over,
puttin' everything I had on the stare.
"I ain't got no more idea who you are," I tells him finally, "than a
oyster has of roller-skatin'. Who are you? I never seen _your_ face
on no postage stamps!"
"Oh, I say!" he busts out, registerin' wild indignation. "Don't you
ever read the newspapers?"
"Sure!" I says. "But then, escapin' convicts don't get much space in
'em any more! At that, I think I know you now, though."
"I should think you jolly well would!" he comes back, calmin' down
some. "Why--"
"Yes!" I goes on. "I got you. I've met so many from your lodge it's
funny I didn't recognize the high signs right away. You're a big,
tinhorn four-flusher!"
Sweet Cookie!
His face did a Georgie Cohan, gettin' red, white and blue by turns, and
he pawed the air, gaspin' for breath like a fat piano mover. Before he
can get set for a comeback, they's a loud crash outside the door,
followed by the well known dull thud. In another minute Kid Scanlan
walks in, draggin' somethin' after him by the back of the neck.
"Look what _I_ found!" chirps the Kid, droppin' the thing on the floor.
"By Jove!" squeals the big guy. "He's killed my dresser!"
I got up from the chair and took a flash. Sure enough, the thing the
Kid had dragged in was a human bein'. He was a long, lean guy, lookin'
like he'd been over here about long enough to tell the judge that
George Washington discovered America, was president now and stopped the
Civil War, and can he please have his first papers, so's he can vote
against suffrage.
His one good eye opens and examines the room. Then he hops off the
floor, shoots a hand inside his pocket and yanks it out with a thing
that looked like a undeveloped spear.
"_Sapristi_!" he remarks loudly--and makes a dive at the Kid.
The chair I throwed at him was wasted, because Scanlan stepped aside
and flattened the assassin with a left hook to the jaw. The big guy
gives one yell and rushes out of the office.
"Who's your friend?" I asks the Kid, pointin' to the sleepin' beauty on
the floor.
The Kid glares down at the body and prods it with his foot.
"The big stiff!" he says. "I should have murdered him!"
"Well," I tells him soothin'ly, "it ain't too late yet! What started
the melee?"
He sits on the side of the desk and lights a cigarette.
"This hick is standin' outside here," he begins, "when I come along as
peaceful as the Swiss navy. I see right away he's a Eyetalian, and I'm
anxious to show him I can talk his chatter so--"
"Wait a minute!" I butts in. "Since when have _you_ been able to speak
Eyetalian?"
"What?" he snorts. "Another one, eh? Ain't Miss Vincent been teachin'
me English, French, Eyetalian and what to do with the oyster fork?"
"Is she?" I comes back. "That's all new to me. The last flash I got
you was just takin' up how to enter a room!"
"Well, I'm past that," he explains, "and next week I begin on manners.
Anyhow, I see this boob standin' there, and I says to myself, here's a
chance to pull a little Eyetalian. So with that I stands in front of
him and says, '_Bomb Germo, Senorita--a vostrican salute_!'"
The Kid stops and bangs his fist down on the table.
"What d'ye think the big hick said?" he asks me.
I passed.
"He grins at me, waggles his shoulders and pipes, '_No spika da
Engleesh_!"
"'What d'ye mean _English_!' I says. 'That ain't English, that's
Eyetalian, Stupid! _Bomb Germo Senorita_!'
"'No spika da Engleesh,' he pipes again.
"I grabs him by the shoulder and swing him around.
"'What part of Italy was you born in?' I inquires. 'Hoboken?'
"'No spika da Engleesh!' he grins.
"By this time my goat was runnin' around wild. I grabbed his other
shoulder and looked him in the eye.
"'I'll give you one more chance,' I says; 'cut the comedy now and come
through or you're gonna have some bad luck. _Bomb Germo Senorita_!'
"'No spika da Engleesh!' he says.
"With that, havin' took all a human bein' could stand, I let him fall!"
"Just a minute!" I says, as Scanlan starts for the door. "I want to
ask you a question about the Eyetalian language, as long as you know so
much about it. Just what does _Bomb Germo_ mean?"
The Kid stops and scratches his chin.
"To tell you the truth," he admits, "I don't know!"
At that the door opens and in blows Genaro with the big dignified guy
and "Bomb Germo" arises from the floor again, rubbin' the back of his
head.
"What's a mat?" asks Genaro, lookin' very excited from me to the Kid.
"Why you knock him down Meester Van Ness bureau?"
"Dresser!" corrects Van Ness, puttin' a round piece of glass over one
eye and glarin' at us.
"'Scuse a me!" pipes Genaro, makin' a bow. "Why you knock him down
Meester Van Ness dresser?"
The Kid growls at "Bomb Germo" who hisses back at him like a snake and
backs out of range of that left.
"I asked him '_Bomb Germo_,'" explains Scanlan, "and he started to kid
me!"
"_Bomb Germo_? _Bomb Germo_?" repeats Genaro. "What is she that _Bomb
Germo_?"
Scanlan grunts at him in disgust.
"You're a fine Eyetalian, you are!" he snorts. "I'll bet you and that
other guy don't know whether spaghetti is a outfielder or a race horse!"
Van Ness removes the one-cylinder eyeglass for a minute and cleans it
with his "for display only" handkerchief.
"Maybe," he remarks. "Maybe the fellow means to say '_Buona Juerno_!'"
"Oh!" grins Genaro. "_Si_! He'sa mean 'Good morning!' No?"
"Yes!" says the Kid. "Correct! Step to the head of the class. I told
that to Stupid there and he says, 'No spika da Engleesh!'"
"Well," chirps Genaro, pattin' the Kid on the back, "let's all be the
friend now, no? What's the use hava the fight?" He turns to Van Ness
and takes his hand, "Meester Van Ness," he goes on, "thisa Meester Kid
Scanlan. He'sa tougha nut--but nica fel'. He'sa fighting champion of
the world. He'sa taka his fista _so_," he stops and waves his arms
around, "everybody she'sa falla down!" He swings around on the Kid.
"Meester Kid Scanlan," he pants, "thisa Meester Van Ness. He'sa greata
bigga actor. Oh, of the A numbera seven!"
"Yeh?" says the Kid, registerin' "I-should-worry!" and gazin' over at
"Bomb Germo." "Well, that ain't my fault, is it? Who's the other guy?"
"Guy?" says Genaro. "Whata guy?"
"The phoney wop!" pipes the Kid, pointin' to the long, thin bird.
"Oh, heem!" snorts Genaro, snappin' his fingers. "He'sa nobody. Justa
what you call the dresser for the granda Meester Van Ness."
"He's got a name, ain't he?" asks the Kid.
"Joosta Tony," answers Genaro.
"Good enough!" comes back Scanlan, walking across the room. "Hey,
Tony!" he says. "They tell me you claim to be a Eyetalian."
"That'sa right!" pipes Tony, forgettin' himself and scowlin'.
"Well," goes on the Kid. "_Bomb Germo_!"
"No spika da Engleesh!" frowns Tony, waggling his shoulders.
"You big stiff!" roars the Kid, gettin' red in the face. "You won't
speak nothin' when I get done toyin' with that odd face of yours!"
He makes a dive for Tony, but Genaro grabs him.
"Joosta one minoote!" pants Genaro. "It'sa maka me laugh! Ho, ho, I
teenk I getta one, two hysterics! Fighting champion of the world,
he'sa getta mad at the dresser!"
"By Jove!" pants Van Ness, givin' the Kid the up and down through the
trick eyeglass. "By Jove! I told Tony to converse with no one while
we were here. What does this--this person mean by buffeting him about?
I thought this company was composed of ladies and gentlemen, not
stevedores and longshoremen!"
"Don't get gay, Fatty!" yells the Kid, strugglin' with Genaro. "I put
bigger actors than _you_ to sleep. I gotta left hand that's got
morphine lookin' like a alarm clock!"
"Waita, waita!" shrieks Genaro. "We musta all be the friend. Joosta
waita when you and Meester Van Ness get better acquainta you'll be
joosta like--"
"Germany and England!" butts in the Kid, tearin' himself away. "Come
on!" he tells me. "Let's get away from here," he glares at Van Ness
and Tony, "before certain parties makes any more cracks! If they
do--I'll make 'em look like models for The Dyin' Gladiator!"
"Don'ta minda heem!" whispers Genaro to Van Ness, as we get over to the
door. "He'sa fina fel'. He'sa no hurta the _bambino_--what you call
ba-bee. Gotta taka bag of the salts with everything he'sa say. Gotta
lots temperament!"
"A ruffian, _I_ should say!" remarks Van Ness loudly.
"Bigga bunka!" hisses Tony.
"What?" roars the Kid, swingin' around on them.
"Good day, sir!" pipes Van Ness, steppin' back of the desk.
"No spika da Engleesh!" says Tony, steppin' in back of his boss.
I yanked the Kid outside before violence was had by all.
Jason Van Ness stayed at Film City for about two months. Durin' that
time he made as many friends as the ex-Kaiser would pick up in Paris.
They was two reasons for this, the first bein' that he was the most
dignified and solemn guy I ever seen in my life. Stories that would
put a victim of lockjaw in hysterics couldn't coax a snicker from that
undertaker's face of his which would have made a supreme court justice
look like a clown. In fact, if he'd been a judge and I ever come up
before him, I would have took one flash at that face and asked him to
gimme life and let it go at that! His favorite smokin'-room story was
what causes spots on the sun or somethin' equally excitin', and pretty
soon they was a standin' offer of a hundred bucks to the first guy that
could make Van Ness laugh!
Some of the greatest comedians the movies ever seen laid awake nights
and become famous on stunts they pulled off for the sole benefit of Van
Ness--and all he did was to inquire if they was crazy or soused!
The second reason that Van Ness was as unpopular as snow durin' the
world's series was because he was the greatest actor that ever moaned
for the star's dressin'-room.
He was brought on to play the lead in one of them early Roman frolics
where the extry people is called "martyrs" and hurled to the practical
lions in the last reel, whilst the emperor raises his hand for the
slaughter to begin, murmurin' "This is the end of a perfect day!" When
Jason Van Ness walked to the middle of the arena, throwed one end of
his cloak over his shoulder, faced the camera and give himself up to
actin'--well, you forgot all his bad habits and thanked Heaven for
lettin' you live to see him!
That baby was there!
He was stuck up, he had no friends, he wouldn't laugh, and he had a
trick name and carried a dresser, but, Sweet Papa!--he was _some_ actor!
The Kid and me stood watchin' him the first time he worked, with our
eyes and mouths as open as a mobile crap tourney.
"Ain't he a bear?" asks Eddie Duke, comin' up. "That's all two-dollar
stuff he's pullin' there, bo! Y' don't see actin' like that every day,
eh?"
"Oh, I don't know!" says the Kid, takin' a fresh slant at Van Ness. "I
bet I could give him a battle in Shakespeare, at that! I was a riot in
'Richard the Third,' wasn't I?"
"Cease!" sneers Duke. "This bird has got them classics layin' down and
rollin' over when he snaps his fingers. Did you ever see him in 'Quo
Vadis'?"
"No!" says the Kid. "But I seen him in tights when they was--"
Just then Miss Vincent comes along. She's in the picture with Van
Ness, playin' the beautiful Christian martyr which is tied to the
lion's back in the fourth reel, because she won't quit chantin' "Now I
lay me--" or somethin' like that. After that they throw her to the
panthers with Abe Mendelowitz, another Christian martyr and the guy
that built the scene. She told me that was the story of the thing, and
asked me what I thought of it. Personally, I think them martyrs was a
lot of boobs. If I'd have been there, I would have bent the knee
before them heathen idols and then done my private prayin' elsewhere.
The head martyr might have called me yellah, but no lion would have
broke his fast on me!
While I'm thinkin' about this, Miss Vincent reminds me that she's
waitin' for my verdict on the thing. The last I heard her say was
about bein' tied to that lion.
"Well," I says, "I'll tell you. I think it's pretty soft for the lions
myself and--"
"How are you and Stupid gettin' along?" butts in the Kid, pointin' to
Van Ness and touchin' Miss Vincent's arm.
She frowns.
"You mustn't call him Stupid!" she says. "Mister Van Ness is an artist
and a gentleman--and--and right now I want to tell you that I think all
you men are wicked for the way you have been treating him! Here he is
away out here, a stranger in a strange land, and simply because he is
above the vulgar horseplay so popular around here, you ostracize him.
Because his grammar and dress is perfect he is a pariah! Don't you
think he feels that? Isn't he human the same as the rest of you?
Why--why, if he were a woman, all the girls would have helped and
encouraged him and made him welcome in any gathering while he was here.
Don't you think it hurt when you broke up that poker party last night
when he came in? Or when he was deliberately excluded from that
hunting trip by that wretched Eddie Duke? Or any of the--the mean,
petty, little things you have done to him--all of you--since he's been
here? Oh, you men are horrid!" She gathers up her skirts and flashes
Scanlan a look, "I thought _you_, at least, were different!" she
whispers--and trips into the picture!
For about three minutes the Kid stands lookin' after her without sayin'
a word. He acts like he has stopped one with his chin!
"The big English stiff!" he busts out finally. "What does he mean by
comin' over here and gettin' me in a jam with my girl? I'll _get_ that
bird, though, believe me!"
"What are you gonna do?" I says.
"I'm gonna take that solemn-faced simp back of the African Desert and
give him a chance at the welterweight title!" he snorts. "I'll wallop
that bird till he'll wish he had stayed over in dear old England and--"
"Stoppa!" comes a voice from the back of us, and we look around into
the muzzles of two automatics. On the other end of them was Tony!
"I hear everyt'ing!" he snarls, wavin' the guns and glarin' at us. "I
hear everyt'ing!"
The Kid looks at the guns and coughs, kinda nervous. I was glancin' at
friend Tony, myself.
"Ain't that nice!" I remarks, feelin' my way carefully.
"What you mean?" snarls the ex-"No spika da Engleesh."
"Bein' able to hear everything," I explains, thinkin' to humour him.
"I'll bet right now you're listenin' to a little spicy scandal at some
King's palace, eh?"
"Don't got funny!" he warns me.
"Ha! ha!" snickers the Kid. "Where d'ye get that got funny stuff?"
"What'sa that?" yells Tony, whirlin' on him and shovin' the guns under
his nose.
The Kid gets pale and shuffles back a few steps.
"No spika da Engleesh!" he pipes, holdin' up his hand.
"Pah!" grunts Tony, registerin' disgust. "Me--I laugh at you! All the
tima you talk 'bout Meester Van Ness, I standa righta here with the ear
wide open. You no feexa nobody--maybe Tony he'sa feexa you! I hear
you say you no lika Meester Van Ness because he'sa no laugha. Sure,
he'sa laugha--but not all the tima on the streeta like crazee fel'.
When Meester Van Ness--ah, he'sa granda man--when he'sa wanna laugha,
he'sa go home, to he'sa rooma, shutta the door and standa in the
corner. Then he'sa a laugha ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!--lika that!
That'sa lasta heem all day!"
"Oh, Lady!" says the Kid, holdin' his side. "Can you tie that?" He
looks over and sees Van Ness in a clinch with Miss Vincent--and son,
you could see the muscles rollin' under his coat sleeves. "Look at the
big, ignorant boob now!" he howls.
"Ignoranta!" hisses Tony. "Whata you mean, ignoranta? Seven
difference language thisa granda Meester Van Ness he'sa speak! He'sa
teacha everybody--joosta lika wan college!"
"Why don't you get him to teach you Eyetalian then, Stupid?" sneers the
Kid. "You're a fine thing to luck your way past Ellis Island when you
can't even tell me what _Bomb Germo_ means!"
"Don't got funny!" warns Tony. "What gooda now for you be fighting
champion for the world, eh? Leetle Tony he'sa standa here calla you
names and what can you do, eh? Nothing--joosta nothing! Champion, eh?
Ha, ha, ha! Don't maka me laugha, Meester Fightaire!" He shoves the
gun in the Kid's face and snarls, "Now!" he says. "Tella Tony you
feela sorry for soaka heem in jaw!"
The Kid bites his lip and edges in a bit. Right away I got sorry for
Tony!
"I'm sorry!" sneers Scanlan slowly. "Awful sorry--just thinkin' of it
has got me all broke up. I meant to let you have it on the beak, but
I'll make up for it now!"
He looks over Tony's shoulder suddenly and yells. "Hey, don't throw
that!"
If they had rehearsed the act, Tony couldn't have fallen for the plant
any harder. He twists his neck around to look back like the Kid
figured and Scanlan started one from his left ankle. It caught Tony
right on the button--which in English is the point of the chin--and
Tony gives a imitation of a seal. He took a dive!
While we're takin' him away from his artillery, I look up and there's
Van Ness lookin' down at us and frownin'. He reaches inside that Roman
toga thing he's wearin' and comes out with a round piece of glass which
he balances on one eye.
"Ah--I say!" he pipes, glarin' at the Kid. "This is getting jolly
annoying, my man. It appears that every time we meet, you have just
committed a murderous assault upon my dresser! Since you are
the--ah--champion fighter of the universe, why do you not joust with
more of its inhabitants and not center your activities upon one who
knows nothing of the art of self-defense?"
The Kid grunts, takin' away Tony's guns and removin' a couple of them
long banana knives from his clothes. Meanwhile, the daredevil dresser
is showin' no more signs of life than a sleepin' alligator, so I
figured it was about time to pull a little first aid stuff. I turned
him over on his back and took off his coat, grabbin' it by the bottom
and holdin' it up. They was a sudden crash and--Sweet Cookie! A lot
of things fell on the ground, among 'em bein' one set of brass
knuckles, one blackjack, two more guns, a thing that looked like a
bayonet, five boxes of cartridges, a small bottle of nitro-glycerine
and three sticks of dynamite! The last two fell in the folds of the
coat, or we'd all have gone away from there. Tony's master looks at
the layout with his eyes stickin' so far out of his head you could have
knocked 'em off with a cane.
Scanlan eyes him and laughs.
"This is the bird which don't know nothin' about self-defense, eh?" he
grins, pointin' to Tony. "Well, if he'd been in Belgium a few years
ago, I bet the Germans would never have got through!"
"Oh, I say!" gasps Van Ness. "This is a bit of a shock! Why the
fellow is a walking arsenal!"
"He's more like a sleepin' fort, now!" I says, pointin' to Tony on the
turf.
"Look at the chances you been takin' havin' a guy like that fasten your
garters and so forth," pipes Scanlan. "You ought to thank us for
exposin' him!"
Then Tony comes to life and havin' helped him down, the Kid helps him
up.
"_Sapristi_!" remarks Tony, glarin' at him. "You bigga stiffa!
Sometime Tony he'sa feexa you for dis! Whata you hitta me with?"
"I think it was a left hook," the Kid tells him, rubbin' his chin, like
he ain't sure.
"Aha!" snarls Tony. "I know you never hit with your feest sooch a
punch! Don't got funny with me any more! I wanna tella you, you keepa
up knock it down Tony every fiva, tena, fifteen minootes and some time
Tony he'sa got mad! When Tony he'sa got mad--" He stops and makes a
terrible face at me and the Kid, "--when Tony he'sa got mad, something
she'sa gotta fall!--dat'sa all!"
"Well, you been doin' all the fallin' so far," I says, "and--"
"Ah--I say!" butts in Van Ness--and Tony sees him for the first time, I
guess, because he shivered and got pale. "I say," he goes on, takin' a
slant at Tony through the trick eyeglass, "just what does this mean,
Antonio? Why are you walking about with this extraordinary collection
of weapons on your person?" He points his finger at the munitions on
the ground, and Tony's eyes follows his. At the same time he makes a
little clickin' noise in his throat and jumps for the pile.
"Where is she the gooda carbolic acid?" he snarls. "And whosa taka my
eleven incha stiletto?"
"How dare you ignore my question!" thunders Van Ness. "What are you
doing with all those weapons? Answer me!"
"'Scuse a me!" says Tony, makin' a bow and takin' off his hat. "I
getta them for my brudda!"
"Where's your brother?" asks the Kid. "In Russia?"
"'Sno use _you_ talka to me!" growls Tony, "I no talka back. Sometime
Tony he'sa getta mad and then--"
"Come, come!" interrupts Van Ness, kinda sharp. "The weapons--what of
them?"
"'Scuse a me!" bows Tony with another smile. "My brudda he'sa live in
Santa Francisco. He'sa fina fel'--my brudda. He'sa name Joe. He'sa
come this countree five years ago, no fren's, no spika da Engleesh, no
nothing! They putta heem in the basement of the sheepa wit' coupla
thousand other fel' from seventy-six other countree. One fel' say my
Joe he'sa no be able to leava the sheepa at--at--what you call? I
don't know--I teenk maybe Chicago, Pennsylvania, Coney Island--I don't
know joosta now! Anyhow thisa fel' say Joe he'sa no be able to leava
the sheepa wherever he'sa wanna go--eef he'sa got no money, you 'stanna
me? Joe he'sa tank dis kinda fel', say coupla nica prayer for heem and
then everybody she'sa a maka sleepa. Joe he'sa get up and taka four
hundred dollar from thisa nica fel'--whosa sleepa lika he'sa dead--so
Joe he'sa be able to leeva the sheepa! He'sa a smarta fel', eh?
That'sa Joe. He'sa my brudda!"
"Oh, Lady!" says the Kid. "What was you takin' him the ammunition for?"
"Don't spika to me!" snorts Tony. "I no answera you! I tella Meester
Van Ness. He'sa my boss. He'sa fina fel', too--joosta lika my brudda!"
"How dare you!" splutters Van Ness, his face as red as a ale-hound's
nose. "What do you mean by that?"
"'Scuse a me!" says Tony. "Don't get mad for Tony. No spika da
Engleesh very gooda--maybe I maka meestake! Joe he'sa writa me come
over Santa Francisco queek, because he'sa gotta the trouble wif he'sa
landlord. Disa fel' he'sa a wanta da rent maybe, I don't know, but Joe
he'sa wanta me bring something so he'sa can feex disa fel' nex' time he
come around, you 'stanna me? He say he'sa a bigga fel'--tougha nut!
Yesterday I go out and getta wan gun for Joe. Then I teenk maybe that
ain't enough for poor leetle Joe against thisa bigga stiffa landlord,
so I stoppa drugga store, hardaware, meata store, five, six, sevena
place and get somet'ing for Joe he'sa feex landlord. Then I hear thisa
fel' say he'sa gonna feexa _you_!" Tony swings around and points at
the Kid. "Tony he'sa don't care if thisa bigga stiffa he's a champion
for the world. Tony he's a gotta knifa, gun, dynamite, carbolic acida,
everything for fighta. I talka to heem sweeta and he'sa knocka me down
wit' a hook! While I sleepa on the dirt, somebody she'sa taka my gooda
carbolic acida and stiletto I getta for Joe!"
"Oh, Lady!" yells the Kid, slappin' me on the back. "This guy is a
riot!"
"You may go to the hotel, Antonio," says Van Ness, "and await me there.
I am surprised and grieved at your beastly conduct!"
Tony hands Van Ness a gun and the bottle of nitro-glycerine.
"Alla right!" he says. "Tony he'sa go. But watcha this two fel' they
wanna feexa you. The little fel' you can shoota--but the bigga stiffa
whosa knocka me down, he'sa needa more than that! Taka thisa bottle
and throw it at heem harda. That'sa blow heem away so far, it taka
four thousand dollar for heem to come back on sheepa, thirda class!"
Van Ness puts the gun and the nitro in Tony's pocket.
"Begone, sir!" he says. "I'll jolly well attend to you later!"
Tony gathers up his junk and throwin' a last glare at me and the Kid,
beats it.
Van Ness turns to the Kid, stickin' the eyeglass back in the toga.
"Ah--and now, Scanlan," he says, "will you be good enough to explain
the cause of the--ah--bitter animosity you have for me?"
The Kid frowns and scratches his head.
"Somebody has been kiddin' you," he tells him. "I ain't got _nothin'_
for you! Where d'ye get that animosity thing?"
Van Ness sighs so hard it like to blowed our hats off.
"It is beastly plain to me," he says, "that I am about as popular in
Film City as a cloudburst at a picnic! I am snubbed, ridiculed,
vulgarly and subtly insulted! Also I am white and human and--ah--I
must confess it has penetrated my skin. _You_ are particularly bitter
against me--why?"
The Kid studies him for a minute.
"Listen!" he answers finally. "Are you on the level with this? D'ye
really wanna know, or are you simply askin' me so's you can pull one of
them witty remarks on the way I answer you--_and get walloped on the
beak_?"
Van Ness did somethin' then I never seen him do before and only once
afterward. _He grinned_! The Roman toga fell off his shoulders, and
he leans over with his hands on his hips. On the level, his whole face
seemed to change! And then--
Oh, boy!
"Listen, guy!" pipes this big, dignified whatnot. "I'm on the level,
all right and I want the lowdown on this thing, d'ye make me?" (Me and
the Kid nearly went dead on our feet listenin'.) "As for wallopin' me
on the beak, well--you may be welterweight champion out here, but if
you start anything with _me_, I'll remove you from the title, d'ye get
that?"
Woof!
The Kid and me falls back against a rock, fightin' for air!
"Oh, Lady!" whispers the Kid, fannin' himself with his hat. "Did you
hear what I did?"
"Call me at seven!" I gasps.
"Well--?" drawls Van Ness, lookin' us over.
"They's just one thing I'd like to know," murmurs the Kid, wipin' his
forehead with my handkerchief in the excitement. "What part of dear
old England was _you_ born in?"
Van Ness grins some more.
"Brooklyn!" he says, jerkin' out the eye glass again and stickin' it on
his eye. "Surely, my man," he goes on, with that old silly stare of
his; "surely you have heard of jolly old Brooklyn--what?"
"I know it well!" says the Kid. "It's on the wrong end of the bridge!
But where d'ye get the 'my man' thing? And what have you been goin'
around like a Swiss duke or somethin', when it turns out you're only a
roughneck from Brooklyn? You wanna know why you don't belong, and
don't fit in here, eh? Well, you big hick, where d'ye get that Sedate
Sam stuff?" He slaps Van Ness on the arm. "Why in the Hail Columbia
don't you bust out and giggle now and then, hey?"
"Why don't I?" snarls Van Ness, "Don't you think I'd _like_ to? Don't
you think I would if I could, you boob?"
"Would if you _could_?" repeats the Kid. "What's the matter--have you
got lockjaw?"
"No!" roars Van Ness, so sudden that we both sidestepped. "No! Not
lockjaw, worse! _Dignity_!"
"Have you give the mud baths at Hot Springs a play?" I asks.
"Stop it!" he sneers. "Cease that small time comedy! I'm the most
dignified person in the world--the undisputed champion! I'm Frowning
Frank and Imposing Ike rolled into one. It hurts me more than it does
you, but I can't help it! I fail to remember the last time I enjoyed a
hearty laugh and I know it will be a darned long space before I'll
snicker again. My laugher has gone unused for so long that it's
atrophied and won't work. I've tried warming it up by going home at
night and guffawing before the mirror, but the result is only a
mirthless giggle--a ghostly chortle! Of course, I wouldn't dare
attempt to laugh in public!"
"Do what?" asks the Kid.
"Laugh!" answers Van Ness bitterly. "I can't even let myself think of
doing it--why, it would ruin me! My dignity is all I have. It's my
stock in trade and without it I would lose my income! Were I to unbend
and shatter the air with harmless cachinnation, it would be thought at
once that I had been drinking!" He stopped and sighed some more. "It
began ten years ago," he goes on. "I was playing small parts in a
stock company and one week I was cast for a Roman senator. Being
anxious to make good, I made that noble so dignified that the local
critics dismissed the play with a few paragraphs and gave half a column
to my stately bearing! That started it, and from that time I've played
nothing but Romans, kings, governors, cardinals and similar roles,
calling for my infernal talent in the one direction. Mechanically I
grew to playing them _on and off_, yet all the time within me burns the
desire to do rough and tumble, yes, by Heaven, slapstick comedy! But
alas, I lack the moral courage to throw off the yoke!"
"Well, Mister Van Ness--" I begins, when the silence begun to hurt,
"I--"
"Not Van Ness!" he interrupts. "The name is as false as my manner! My
name is Fink, Eddie Fink, and please don't add the Mister. When a lad
I had a nickname, but, alas, I--"
"What was it?" butts in the Kid.
He hesitates.
"Well, it was rather frivolous," he says. "As indeed I was myself--a
happy, carefree youth! The boys called me Foolish--Foolish Fink!" He
throws out his chest like he just realized how he had been honored at
the time.
Me and the Kid both had a coughin' fit.
"Let's go over to Montana Bill's," I says, when I thought it was safe
to look up, "and we'll talk it over."
"Yeh!" chimes in the Kid. "Over a tray of private stock!" He laughs
and slaps alias Van Ness on the shoulder. "Cheer up! Foolish Fink,
will you have a little drink? Woof, woof! I'm a poet!"
"Thanks!" says Van Ness. "But I'm on the wagon. I stopped drinking
five years ago, because under the influence of alcohol I've been known
to act the fool!"
"You ain't the only one!" says the Kid. "Anyhow I never touch it
myself and Johnny here only uses it on his hair! But come on over--you
can have your pants pressed or take a shine, I'm gonna buy, and you
might as well get in on it. Bill's got a laughin' hyena in a cage
outside, and maybe you could get him to rehearse you!"
About a week after that, the society bunch in Frisco comes over to Film
City to act in a picture for the benefit of the electric fan fund for
Greenland, or somethin' like that. About fifty of the future
corespondents, known to the trade as the younger set, blows over in
charge of a dame who had passed her thirty-sixth birth and bust day
when Napoleon was a big leaguer. She had did well by herself though
and when dressed for the street, they was harder things to look at than
her. Also, when her last husband died, he left her a bankroll that
when marked in figures on paper looked like it was the number of
Southerners below Washington. A little bit of a guy, which turned
around when you yelled "G. Herbert Gale" at him, breezed over with her
and at first I had him figured as a detective seekin' divorce evidence,
because he stuck to that dame like a cheap vaudeville act does to the
American flag. He trailed a few paces behind her everywhere she went,
callin' her "Mrs. Roberts-Miller" in public and "Helen Dear" when he
figured nobody was listenin'. It was easy to see that he had crashed
madly in love with this charmer, but as far as she was concerned they
was nothin' stirrin'.
Except that G. Herbert was inclined to be a simp, he wasn't a bad guy
at that. He mixed well and bought freely, although he was riveted to
the water wagon himself. He bragged to me in fact that the nearest he
ever come to alcohol in his life was once when he used it to clean his
diamonds.
But G. Herbert was the guy that invented the ancient and honorable
order of village cut-ups. I never asked him what the G stood for in
his name, I guessed it the first day he was in our midst. It meant
"Giggle!" This here Herbert person was a laughin' fool! The first
time I talked with him I thought I was cheatin' myself by only bein'
Scanlan's manager. I figured I ought to be in vaudeville knockin' 'em
dead for five hundred a week, because G. Herbert roared at everything I
said. He screamed with mirth at all the old ones and had hysterics
over three or four witty remarks I remembered from a show I seen the
night of the Johnstown flood. I thought, of course, it was the way I
put the stuff over, and I was just gonna give the Kid my fare-you-well,
when I seen G. Herbert standin' by a practical undertakers shop that
was fixed up for a fillum. The little simp was standin' over a coffin
laughin' his head off!
That cured me, but him and the Kid become great little pals. I found
out later it was on account of G. Herbert snickerin' at the Kid's
comedy. Scanlan hadn't discovered it was a habit with this guy, and he
claimed here was a feller that knowed humor when he seen it.
One afternoon I see Scanlan and Miss Vincent whisperin' together like
yeggmen outside a postoffice. They called me over, and the Kid tells
me that the society bunch was gonna leave us flat on the midnight
train, and before they blowed, Potts was gonna give 'em a dinner and
dance. All the movie crowd was to mix with Frisco's four hundred, so's
that both could enjoy the experience and say they took a chance once in
their lives.
But the thing that was botherin' Miss Vincent--(Some dame, that! She
was the world's champion woman, believe me!) The thing that worried
her was G. Herbert and Helen Dear, alias Mrs. Roberts-Miller. Likin'
'em both, Miss Vincent wanted to hurl 'em together for good and all
before the train pulled out.
It seems the only objection the dame had to G. Herbert was the fact
that he couldn't keep from laughin'. She had him figured as a
eighteen-carat simp and frequently told him so, addin' that she could
never marry a man who was shy on dignity. Then she gets a flash at our
old pal Jason Van Ness or Eddie Fink, as he claimed, and she fell so
hard for him she liked to broke her neck! Here was the only original
Sedate Sam! Here was the guy she was willin' and anxious to lead to
the altar and then to the old safe deposit vault! He was so handsome!
So dignified! Such a splendid actor! That's the stuff she was always
handin' poor little G. Herbert and askin' him why _he_ wasn't like
that? G. Herbert would shake his head, giggle, and say he didn't know
why, but he'd ask his parents.
Van Ness couldn't see Helen Dear with opera glasses. He told me he
hated 'em stout, and, if possible, had figured on weddin' somebody
within ten years of his age--either way. I then felt it my duty to
inform him that her bankroll was stouter than she was. He goes into
high speed on the dignity thing and sets sail for Helen Dear like a
bloodhound after a nigger. He didn't want to look like a vulgar
fortune hunter, he claimed, but he figured if he could get his fingers
on a piece of Helen's dough, he could bribe G. Herbert to teach him the
art of laughin'.
The Kid tells Miss Vincent to forget about the thing, and he would
guarantee that G. Herbert and Helen Dear went away threatenin' to marry
each other. She said she'd leave the matter in our hands and held hers
out. I shook it and Scanlan kissed it--a trick he stole from Van Ness.
The dinner and dance that night was a knockout! Film City is lit up
like a plumber used to be on Saturday night, and the inhabitants is
dressed like the people that poses for the ads of any cigarette over
fifteen cents a pack. As usual, Miss Vincent had the rest of the dames
lookin' like sellin' platers in stake race and, believe me, some of
them society girls would have worried Venus. The Kid was so swelled up
because she kept within easy call all night that he forgot his promise
to fix up G. Herbert with Helen Dear. The latter, as we remark at the
laundry, was closer to Van Ness all night than the ocean is to the
beach, and it looked like the Kid was gonna have a tough time breakin'
'em up.
Along around eleven, Miss Vincent calls Scanlan aside and reminds him
that he had better start workin' for G. Herbert, because they would all
be beatin' it for the train in a hour. She also give out that, if he
didn't make good, she was off him for life. Scanlan bows--another
trick he copped from Van Ness--and takes me away down at the end of the
lawn to dope somethin' out.
I tripped over what I thought at first was a dead body and me and the
Kid props it up in the light.
"Ha, ha!" it says. "Tony he'sa laugha at you! Tony he'sa laugha at
everybody! _Bomb Germo_! thisa fel' tella me--ha, ha, ha!"
The Kid grunts in disgust, lets go and Tony bounces back on the lawn.
"Stewed to the scalp!" says Scanlan. "Frisk him!"
I run my hands over Tony and bring forth a bottle of gin and another
one of bourbon. The Kid looks 'em over, finally stickin' 'em both in
his coat pocket.
"Come on!" he tells me. "They's no use hangin' around here. If I
don't get back there, some of them Wealthy Willies that have been
wishin' all night will be one-steppin' with Miss Vincent!"
"But how about G. Herbert?" I says.
"He's got my best wishes!" growls the Kid. "He's a nice little feller,
but that's the best I can do. What d'ye think I am--Cupid?"
"Well, gimme the alcohol then!" I says. "You ain't gonna fall off the
wagon are you, when--"
"Shut up, Stupid!" he butts in. "I wouldn't take a drink of this stuff
for what Rockefeller gets for overtime! I want to get it away from
that wop, so's he'll have somethin' to moan about when he wakes up."
We went back to the party, and a couple of dames standin' at the punch
bowl calls to the Kid. He always was a riot with the women! Helen
Dear is there with Van Ness, and he's got to where he's pattin' her
hand, while G. Herbert stands in back of 'em lookin' like he wished he
had some nails to bite.
I come to a table and there's Miss Vincent sittin' alone and she
motions me to sit down with her--so's my back would hide her from the
rest of the bunch. She says a little bit of society went a long ways
with her, and where was the Kid? Before I can answer her along comes
Helen Dear and she plumps down at the table and starts to tell us what
a magnificent man Mister Van Ness was. She claims she never seen such
a perfect gentleman in her life. I liked to snickered out loud at the
disappointed way she pulled that one and then the Kid, G. Herbert and
Van Ness suddenly comes around a tree and joins the party.
Scanlan winks at Miss Vincent, and she looks at him inquiringly, but he
just shakes his head. I noticed that G. Herbert looked kinda sad, and
he must have put his giggler away because he just sat lookin' down at
the ground. Van Ness is full of life--I never seen him so cheerful--so
I figured that while them and the Kid was alone, Van Ness must have
told 'em that Helen Dear had proposed or accepted him.
Finally, Helen Dear looks at her wrist watch and says she'll have to
tear herself away, because the train leaves in fifteen minutes. She
wastes five of that throwin' soulful looks at Van Ness and he give back
as good as he got. G. Herbert offers to get her wraps, comin' to life
long enough to make the request, but Helen Dear gives him a sneerin'
look and says there was servants there for that purpose. It was a
terrible throwdown, and Van Ness nearly grinned, but G. Herbert gamely
tried a giggle that sounded like the squeak of a stepped-on rat.
While Helen Dear is gettin' into a coat that couldn't have cost a
nickel under five thousand bucks, the Kid gets up and calls Van Ness
and G. Herbert aside. They was gone about five minutes. When they
came back, Helen Dear is just puttin' on her hat and suddenly the thing
slips out of her hands and slides down over one eye.
Then--excuse me a minute, I'm in convulsions! I'll never forget it if
I live to see Bryan vote against prohibition! There's Helen Dear
gettin' red in the face and strugglin' with that hat and--
"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" shrieks Van Ness--_the guy that had lost his
laugher_!--"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" he yells, holdin' the chair so's he can
stand up and pointin' at Helen's hat. "You ought to go in vaudeville!"
he hollers. "You'd be a riot with that act! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Miss Vincent gasps, the Kid grins, and I all but fainted. Here's this
guy laughin' his head off for the first time in ten years and--look at
the time he picked to do it! Sweet Cookie!
Helen Dear turns eighteen shades of red and fights for her breath like
a fish when you drag it over the side of the boat. Then up steps
little G. Herbert. His eyes is kinda glassy, but his face is set and
hard. His spine is as straight as a flag pole and he sticks a piece of
glass over one eye, just like Van Ness used to do! Dignity? Why he
could have took Van Ness when that guy was right--_and give him
lessons_!
"What does this mean, sir!" he says, walkin' up to Van Ness who is
holdin' his sides and fallin' off the chair. Laugh? That bird was in
hysterics!
"Ha, ha, ha!" bellers Van Ness. "Get a couple of good camera men
quick! Ha, ha, ha, ha! It looks like she got hit with a pie!"
"You infernal idiot!" roars G. Herbert. "How dare you laugh at this
lady?"
"Oh, boy!" answers Van Ness, finally rollin' off his chair. "Ha, ha,
ha, ha!"
"Come, Herbert!" pipes Helen. "We will go back together and my answer
is Yes! Thank Heaven that man stands exposed in his true character!"
"Thas' right!" nods Herbert, waggin' his head and glarin' at all of us.
"C'mon--hic--Cmon, M' dear!"
Somethin' comes staggerin' up and grabs the Kid by the arm. It was
Tony.
"Aha!" he yells. "Who'sa taka my bottle gin, bottle bourbon?
_Sapristi_! You bigga stiffa, I--"
The Kid gives him a slow straight arm, and Tony goes over the table
backwards, landin' right beside his master.
"No spika da Engleesh!" says Scanlan, as Tony disappears.
I grabbed him by the arm.
"Show me them bottles," I says, gettin' wise in a flash.
The Kid takes out two _empty_ non-refillables and tosses 'em in the
grass.
"My!" he says, dreamily. "How that little guy went to it!"
Toot! Toot! Toot! goes the Santa Fe flier pullin' out with G. Herbert
and Helen Dear.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha--ho, ho, ho, ho!" screams Van Ness from
under the table. "She promised--ha, ha, ha! to cheer me up--hic--ha,
ha, ha! and she--hic--certainly--ha, ha, ha!--made good!"