AMATEUR NIGHT
The unfortunate reporter who had made the mistake, and who had been
discharged in consequence, left the room. He had gained his position
under somewhat false pretenses, and so there was little sympathy felt
for him.
“We don’t want careless work on the _Leader_,” went on Mr. Emberg,
speaking to no one in particular. “We want the news, and those who have
no noses for it had better look alive. We’re in the news business, and
that’s what we have to give the people.”
The reporter, to whom Mr. Emberg had given the clipping, soon
ascertained that, in the main, it was correct. So a story was made up
concerning the Eleventh Ward meeting, and run in the second edition of
the _Leader_, much to the disgust of the city editor, who hated to be
“beaten.”
The rebuke the unfortunate reporter received produced a feeling of
uneasiness among the others on the staff of the _Leader_, and there were
many whispered conferences among the men that afternoon. However the
“ax” did not fall again, much to the relief of several who knew they had
not been doing as well as they might—the “ax” being the reporter’s slang
for getting discharged.
When the last edition had been run off on the thundering presses in the
basement, the reporters gathered in small groups in different parts of
the room, and began talking over the events of the day. Larry saw his
friend Harvey Newton come in from an assignment.
“How did you make out to-day, Larry?” asked Mr. Newton.
“Pretty fair,” responded the boy. “I didn’t have any big stories,
though.”
“They’ll come in time. Better go slow and sure.”
“Did you strike anything good?”
“Not much. I’ve been down to City Hall all day, working on a tip I got
of some land deal a political gang is trying to put through. Something
about a big tract in the Bronx, but I didn’t land it.”
The remark made Larry stop and think. He remembered his mother had,
among her papers, a deed to some land in that section of New York City
called the Bronx, because it was near a small river of that name. The
land had been taken by Mr. Dexter in connection with some deal, and had
never been considered of any value. One day, as told in the previous
volume, Mrs. Dexter was about to destroy the old deed, but Larry
restrained her. He thought the land might some day be of value. So the
document was put away.
When Mr. Newton spoke Larry wondered if, by any chance, the land the
reporter mentioned as being that over which a political deal was being
made, could be located near that which was represented by the old deed.
He made up his mind to speak of it some time.
It was now about four o’clock, and, as the reporters went off duty in
half an hour, Mr. Emberg was busy over the assignment book.
The _Leader_ was an afternoon paper, but sometimes there were things
occurring at night that had to be “covered” or attended to in order to
get an account of them for the next day. Usually only very important
events were covered at night by the _Leader_, since the morning papers,
or news associations, got accounts of them.
Mr. Emberg came over toward Larry with a slip of paper in his hand.
“How would you like to try your hand at a funny story?” the city editor
asked the boy.
“I’d like to, only I don’t know that I could do it. What sort of a story
is it?”
“Amateur night at a theater. Did you ever see one?”
Larry said he had not, and Mr. Emberg explained that the managers of
certain cheap theaters, in order to get some variety, frequently had
amateur nights at their playhouses. They would allow any one who came
along to go on the stage between the acts of the regular performance,
and sing, dance, recite, do feats of strength, or whatever the amateur
considered his specialty.
The audience, for the most part made up of young men and women, seldom
had much sympathy to waste on the amateurs, and it must be a very brave
youth or maiden who essayed to do a “stunt” under the circumstances.
“Here are two tickets to the Jollity Theater,” said Mr. Emberg. “Go up
there to-night, take someone with you if you like, and give us a good
funny story to-morrow.”
Larry was delighted at being able to go to the theater without paying,
but he was a little doubtful of his ability to do the story. However, he
resolved to try. He told his mother of it at supper last night.
“I’ll take Jimmy with me,” said Larry.
“I’m afraid your brother’s too young to go out, as you will have to stay
rather late,” said Mrs. Dexter. “Can’t you take Harry Lake?” referring
to a boy who lived on the floor below the Dexter apartments.
“I guess I will,” replied the young reporter, and soon he and Harry were
on their way to the theater.
The play was one of the usual melodramatic sort but to Larry and Harry
it was very interesting. They watched eagerly through the first act, as
did hundreds around them, but there was more interest displayed when the
manager came before the curtain.
He announced that a number of amateurs had come to go through their
various “turns,” and added that they would be allowed to stay and amuse
the audience as long as the latter seemed to care for the offerings.
When too much displeasure was manifested the performers would be obliged
to withdraw, being forcibly reminded to leave, sometimes, by being
pulled from the boards by a long-handled hook which the stage hands
stuck out from the wings, or sides of the stage.
“Johnny Carroll, in a song and dance specialty,” announced the manager
as the first number, and then he retired to give place to Johnny. The
latter proved to be a tall, thin youth, who shuffled out upon the stage
and stood there looking about rather sheepishly.
“Ladies an’ gen’men,” he began in such weak tones that someone shouted:
“Take your voice out yer pocket!”
“I’m goin’ t’ dance a jig!” cried Johnny, defiantly, and the orchestra
struck up a lively tune. Three times the young performer tried to get
into step, but something seemed to be the matter with his feet, for they
would not jig. A general laugh ran around.
“I’m goin’ t’ sing!” cried Johnny, in desperation. “I’ll give you that
latest song success, entitled, ‘Give Me Another Transfer, This One Has
Expired,’” and the orchestra began playing the opening strains. Johnny
opened his mouth to sing, but, as his voice was rather less harmonious
than a crow’s, he was met with howls of laughter.
“T’ou’t ye was goin’ t’ sing!” someone in the top gallery shouted.
“Give me a chanst!” pleaded the performer.
“Get the hook! Get the hook!” shouted several, and out from the wings
came an instrument like a shepherd’s crook. Johnny was removed from the
stage, protesting in vain.
“Sammy Snipe will play the mouth organ,” announced the manager, and
Sammy came on. He seemed to be an old hand at the turn, for he entered
with an air of confidence, and was greeted with some applause. He lost
no time in talking, but began to play, and made not unmusical sounds on
the harmonica. He made a “hit” with the audience, and there were no
discouraging remarks. Sammy played several popular airs, and then tried
to play a jig and dance it at the same time. Sammy would have done
better, however, to have stopped when he had the approval of his
audience. Unfortunately he could not divide his attention between his
playing and his dancing. While he could do either separately, when he
essayed both he found he had tried to cover too much territory. He
started off on a lively air, but, no sooner had he danced a few steps,
than he forgot to keep playing, and he soon lost time. Then he tried to
start dancing, and come in with the music when he had the jig going
well. This, too, failed, for he soon forgot to dance, and only played.
“Take him away; he’s no good!” the audience shouted, and then came the
fatal call: “Get the hook!” and Sammy was removed.
Next a young woman appeared who tried to recite “Curfew Shall Not Ring
To-night!” The audience either had no regard for the curfew, or did not
care to hear anything tragic. The young woman got as far as the third
line when there was a series of groans that indicated anything but
enjoyment.
“Ding-dong! Ten o’clock! Time’s up!” called someone, and the performer
retired in confusion.
Larry and Harry were enjoying the efforts of the amateurs more than they
had the real show. They were anxious for the second act to be over to
see what the unprofessional performers would offer next.
When the curtain was rung down the second time, leaving the heroine in
great trouble and distress, the next amateur performer was another young
woman who wanted to recite. She selected “Paul Revere’s Ride,” and began
in a loud tone: “Listen, my Children——” but she had only gone that far
when someone in a high falsetto voice called out:
“Oh mercy, mother, did you put the cat out, and lock the door?”
This was too much for the elocutionist, and she rushed off the stage in
confusion. Next appeared a tall young man with light hair, and a purple
necktie, who tried to sing: “Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming.” He
managed to make himself heard through two lines, and then such a chorus
of yells, whistles, and cat-calls, mingled with “Get the hook!” broke
out, that he had to stand helpless. He was game, however, and Larry
could see, by the motion of the youth’s lips, that the performer was
going through with the song. But not a sound of it was heard, and there
was no second verse.
This was followed by two boys who managed to get through some buck and
wing dancing, winning hearty applause. Next there was a youth who
essayed a tumbling act.
He, too, seemed to please, and did not get the “hook.” Not so fortunate,
however, was the following performer, who was announced as a “strong
man.”
Several stage hands carried a number of heavy weights out on the boards.
The “strong man” in pink tights, making several bows, lifted a few
dumb-bells.
“Aw, I kin do that meself!” exclaimed a disgusted newsboy, leaning far
over the edge of the gallery. “Do a hard one, or go back home.”
The performer next tackled a big dumb-bell that must have weighed
several hundred pounds. Either he had underestimated its heft, or he had
overestimated his powers, for he could not budge it. He strained and
tugged, but the bell did not move.
“Fake! No good! Get the hook!” were some of the cries that greeted the
man.
He was pulled from the stage by some of the hands, and two of them came
on to move the weights. Then it was disclosed that a trick had been
played on the “strong” man for the big dumb-bell was merely made of
wood, painted to resemble iron. It had been fastened to the floor with
hooks, which accounted for the inability of the performer to move it.
One of the stage hands, unfastening the bell, lifted it easily with one
hand. Then the laughter broke out louder than ever, Larry and Harry
joining in.
Between the third and fourth acts other amateurs appeared. Some did
fairly well, but most of them had a bad attack of stage fright, or were
scared by the remarks made to them by the audience. Altogether it was a
funny experience.
Larry was so anxious to make a good story that he sat up after he
reached home that night, and wrote it out, just as he had seen it. He
gave it a lively touch, and made the most of the situations. It was with
some anxiousness, however, that he placed the story on Mr. Emberg’s desk
the next morning.