On a barn-storming crusade with a small show, I remember, at an
afternoon rehearsal, the flute player in the orchestra made me nervous
by playing off key. After vainly endeavoring to correct the man, I lost
my temper and exclaimed:
"Cut out the flute for goodness' sake!"
Thereupon the musician arose with fire in his eye.
"Oh! you want to get rid of the flute, do you?" he asked.
"Yes," I drawled carelessly, "I guess we'll get along all right without
your assistance."
"Oh! you will, will you! Well, see here, young fellow, if I don't play
the flute, you don't sing that song--and there'll be no show to-night.
You understand?"
"Who'll prevent?" I demanded.
"Only the flute," was the answer. "I'm the mayor of this place, I am,
and I issue the permits. See?"
And I saw.
On my last whirl around the circuit I went by way of the New York
Central.
There was a newly-married couple in our car, and of course lots of us
were more or less interested in their carrying-on.
[Illustration: Morris-sinia!]
Once the train plunged through a tunnel, and I suppose the newly-made
Benedict took advantage of the golden opportunity to kiss his spouse.
"Morris-sinia!" yelled the brakeman as we came to daylight again.
"I don't care if he did," snapped the woman, "we're married."
At our first stop in a bustling town up in York State I was in the box
office, when I was addressed by a young man who in hollow tones declared
he had heard that to see so great an actor as myself was good for any
form of ailment.
"You might help me," the young man declared with labored breathing;
"anyway, I'd like to enjoy myself once more before I die. I have
consumption, you know. Could you let me have a pass?"
[Illustration]
I couldn't help but feel sorry for such a woebegone-looking, hard-luck
chap, so I at once wrote him out a pass.
The man took the card, looked at it, coughed even more distressfully
than before, and asked:
"Couldn't you make it two? I would like to take a friend."
"Has your friend consumption, too?" I asked, solicitously.
"N--no--not yet," faltered the man.
"Ah! then, I'm afraid I can't accommodate your friend. You see, I never
give passes except to persons with the consumption."
Some people think there is little in a name, but I'm a great believer in
an attractive title. I could mention scores of reasons for thinking as I
do, and you can better believe I'm not alone in this thing.
Passing the Academy of Music a short time ago, one matinee day, I met
my friend Shackleford coming out, and the play only half over.
"What is the matter?" I asked; "play bad?"
"No," he replied, "but it is too hot in there; the house is literally
packed with women. You see it's the name--'Ninety and Nine'--that
catches them. Why, it's better than an actual horse-race or a
locomotive, to draw. They fancy that the admission has been marked down
from a dollar and can't resist the bargain."
Whenever I meet Chauncey Billings on Broadway the sparks are sure to fly
in the fireworks display of dry wit that passes between us, just as
though you struck flint and steel smartly.
The other day he approached, looking very happy, as though anticipating
overwhelming me, so being forwarned I prepared to resist boarders.
[Illustration: Pool 2-1/2 cents a cue]
"My dear Niblo," said he, "you will be surprised to learn I've taken up
a new business."
"Indeed, What are you now?" I asked.
"I'm a detective in a pool room."
"What do you do?"
"Oh, I spot balls."
"That's nothing," I remarked, casually, "I used to work in a cheese
factory."
"And what did you do?"
"Oh, play baseball."
"What, baseball in a cheese factory, Mr. Niblo!"
"Sure, I used to chase flies. That got tiresome and I went to work in a
barber shop."
"What were your duties there?"
"I used to mix lather."
"And what did you mix lather for?"
"Oh, to lather Irishmen and Dutchmen, etc."
"I have a brother who works in an eye hospital," said Chauncey, soberly.
"What does he do?"
"Oh, he makes goo-goo eyes."
"That's nothing, I have a sister who works in a watch factory making
faces."
[Illustration]
And so we pass the retort discourteous, and exchange pleasantries as
only old friends may.
In the Catskill village, where we delight to spend a portion of the
heated term and all our hard-earned capital, there is a boarding-house
run by an eccentric genius, who knows how to set a good table and never
has an empty room through the season, though over the gate leading up
to his hotel he has painted a sign that might well cause consternation
in the breast of many a would-be sojourner, for it reads:
"Boarders taken by the day, week or month. Those who do not pay promptly
will be taken by the neck."
[Illustration: Boarders taken by the day, week or month. Those who do
not pay promptly will be taken by the neck.]
There were some rumors floating around that this remarkable Boniface, as
a Christian Science advocate, had been benefited to an astonishing
extent in the recovery of his health.
Being of an investigating turn of mind, and anxious to learn all that
was possible concerning the latest fad, I cornered old Bijinks out near
the hog-pen and engaged him in conversation, during which he made a
positive assertion that rather staggered me.
"Do you mean to tell me that you actually believe Christian Science
cured you?" I demanded, eagerly.
"Sure," he said, nodding.
"Of appendicitis?"
"B'gosh, no--of Christian Science."
There was a crusty old bachelor at the house who got disgusted with the
spoony couples and came up to my room to talk it over with me.
"What is love, anyway?" he demanded.
"Intoxication," I answered, unguardedly.
"Right," he quickly said, "then possibly marriage must be delirium
tremens."
Before I could recover my breath he fired another hot shot at me.
"There's three things I never could stand if I ever married."
"And what are they?" I asked.
"Triplets."