Well, I decided to get into my class, so I started for the smoking-room.
I hadn't gone three feet till some woman held me up and began telling me
how she adored Grand Opera. I didn't even reply. I fled madly, and
remained hidden in the tall grasses of the smoking-room until it was
time to go home. Jim, should any one ever tell you that Grand Opera is
all right, he is either trying to even up or he is not a true friend. I
was over in New York with the family last winter, and they made me go
with them to _Die Walkure_ at the Metropolitan Opera House. When I got
the tickets I asked the man's advice as to the best location. He said
that all true lovers of music occupied the dress-circle and balconies,
and that he had some good center dress-circle seats at three bones per.
Here's a tip, Jim. If the box man ever hands you that true-lover game,
just reach in through the little hole and soak him in the solar for me.
It's coming to him. I'll give you my word of honor we were a quarter of
a mile from the stage. We went up in an elevator, were shown to our
seats, and who was right behind us but my old pal, Bud Hathaway, from
Chicago. Bud had his two sisters with him, and he gave me one sad look,
which said plainer than words, "So you're up against it, too, eh!" We
introduced all hands around, and about nine o'clock the curtain went up.
After we had waited fully ten minutes, out came a big, fat, greasy
looking Dago with nothing on but a bear robe. He went over to the side
of the stage and sat down on a bum rock. It was plainly to be seen, even
from my true lovers' seat, that his bearlets was sorer than a dog about
something. Presently in came a woman, and none of the true lovers seemed
to know who she was. Some said it was Melba, others Nordica. Bud and I
decided that it was May Irwin. We were mistaken, though, as Irwin has
this woman lashed to the mast at any time or place. As soon as Mike the
Dago espied the dame it was all off. He rushed and drove a straight-arm
jab, which had it reached would have given him the purse. But shifty
Sadie wasn't there. She ducked, side-stepped, and landed a clever
half-arm hook, which seemed to stun the big fellow. They clinched, and
swayed back and forth, growling continually, while the orchestra played
this trembly Eliza-crossing-the-ice music. Jim, I'm not swelling this a
bit. On the level, it happened just as I write it. All of a sudden some
one seemed to win. They broke away, and ran wildly to the front of the
stage with their arms outstretched, yelling to beat three of a kind. The
band cut loose something fierce. The leader tore out about $9.00 worth
of hair, and acted generally as though he had bats in his belfry. I
thought sure the place would be pinched. It reminded me of Thirsty
Thornton's dance-hall out in Merrill, Wisconsin, when the Silent Swede
used to start a general survival of the fittest every time Mamie the
Mink danced twice in succession with the young fellow from Albany, whose
father owned the big mill up Rough River. Of course, this audience was
perfectly orderly, and showed no intention whatever of cutting in, and
there were no chairs or glasses in the air, but I am forced to admit
that the opera had Thornton's faded for noise. I asked Bud what the
trouble was, and he answered that I could search him. The audience
apparently went wild. Everybody said "Simply sublime!" "Isn't it grand?"
"Perfectly superb!" "Bravo!" etc.; not because they really enjoyed it,
but merely because they thought it was the proper thing to do. After
that for three solid hours Rough House Mike and Shifty Sadie seemed to
be apologizing to the audience for their disgraceful street brawl, which
was honestly the only good thing in the show. Along about twelve o'clock
I thought I would talk over old times with Bud, but when I turned his
way I found my tired and trusty comrade "Asleep at the Switch."
At the finish, the woman next to me, who seemed to be on, said that the
main lady was dying. After it was too late, Mike seemed kind of sorry.
He must have give her the knife or the drops, because there wasn't a
minute that he could look in on her according to the rules. He laid her
out on the bum rock, they set off a lot of red fire for some unknown
reason, and the curtain dropped at 12:25. Never again for my money. Far
be it from me knocking, but any time I want noise I'll take to a
boiler-shop or a Union Station, where I can understand what's coming
off. I'm for a good-mother show. Do you remember _The White Slave_, Jim?
Well, that's me. Wasn't it immense where the main lady spurned the
leering villain's gold and exclaimed with flashing eye, "Rags are royal
raiment when worn for virtue's sake." Great! _The White Slave_ had _Die
Walkure_ beaten to a pulp, and they don't get to you for three cases
gate-money, either.