A BLACK-FACE PURSUIT
Life in the United States army is very nicely balanced, at least in the
big cantonments where civilians are turned into soldiers in about six
months’ time.
That is to say there is a well-balanced schedule, so much work and so
much play. Reading the schedule of what is required in the way of drill
would lead one to suppose that there was no time for play at all, but
there is, even on the French front, with grim No Man’s Land staring one
in the face. Shows and plays are sometimes given within sound of the
big guns.
The officers in charge of the men well knew that “all work and no play
makes Jack,” not only a dull boy, but a poor soldier. So recreation
is planned for. Part of this plan is to let the young fellows amuse
themselves, make their own fun, which sometimes is better than having
it made by others.
The captain of the company in which Ned, Bob and Jerry lived, moved and
had their being, had planned a minstrel show, as Bob had said. On the
cantonment grounds was a theater to which professionals occasionally
came from the cities to give their services. Almost every night there
was a moving picture show.
“But this is to be different,” explained Bob, to his listening chums.
“Captain Trainer has found out that there’s considerable talent in our
bunch----”
“Ahem! did you look at me?” asked Jerry, assuming an air of importance.
“He pointed to me!” declared Ned.
“You’re both wrong! It was I--Macbeth--he meant!” declaimed a lad with
a deep and resonant voice.
“Oh, cut it out and listen,” advised Bob. “This is the game. The
captain has found out there are a lot of fellows in our company who
have acted in amateur theatricals, and there are a few professionals.
So he’s going to get up a minstrel show, and let the other companies
see what we can do. There’ll be a little admission charged, and if we
make any money it will go into the company’s fund to buy----”
“Grub!” some one cut in, and everybody laughed, for by this time all
knew Bob’s weak point.
“Well, grub, if you like,” he admitted. “But say, fellows, won’t it be
great?”
“Sure!” came in a chorus.
And then the boys fell to talking about the coming minstrel show.
Preparations for it went on apace. Captain Trainer was an enthusiast,
and when he set out to do a thing he carried it to a finish. It was
that way with the minstrel show.
A good many “try-outs” and much practice work were necessary. Then,
after a deal of weeding work, like that which a careful gardener gives
his plants, a very good show was evolved.
It took pattern after the usual black-face affairs, with end-men,
bones, tambourines, the interlocutor and specialists. Some of the lads
were very clever, and really were almost as good as professionals. Ned,
Bob and Jerry were called on to state what they could do, and when it
was found that they had a comic-song trio “up their sleeves,” they were
put down for that.
“We’ll make a hit all right,” declared Bob, after one of the rehearsals.
“If we don’t get hit ourselves,” added Jerry.
“That’s right!” chimed in Ned. “I understand there is a premium on old
cabbage stumps and other articles of that nature.”
“Don’t let him scare you, Jerry,” advised the stout lad. “He’s only
afraid of that high note of his. But don’t worry, Ned. We’ll cover you
up if you make a break!”
“Huh! I like your nerve. Now come on, let’s try that jazz song over
again,” which they did, to the delight of those privileged to listen to
the try-out.
In the camp was a professional who showed the boys how to make up
with grease paint; burnt cork, the time-honored method of making a
black-faced comedian, is now only used by boys when they play in the
barn. On the stage, even for amateurs, black grease paint is used.
“Say, you look just like a negro!” exclaimed Bob to Jerry, as they were
getting dressed in the evening before the show was to be given. “You’ve
even got the walk down pat.”
“Yes. I’ve been practicing a bit,” Jerry admitted. “If you’re going to
do a thing, do it right, I say. You’re not bad yourself, Bob.”
“Oh, well, my figure is against me. But I guess we’ll make out all
right.”
Indeed the three motor boys were taking special pains with their
appearance. That is not to say the other actors were not also, but Ned,
Bob, and Jerry seemed to enter into the spirit of it more than some of
their chums.
The various acts came off as planned, and were much appreciated by the
audience. There were many local hits and take-offs, not only on the
enlisted men, but on the officers as well. Mild fun was poked at the
different weaknesses of many in the ranks, and not a few of those
higher up, and considerable laughter resulted.
The three Cresville friends did their act so well that they were
recalled again and again, and if they had not prepared something for
encores, which Jerry had insisted on, they might have had merely to bow
their thanks. As it was they sang verse after verse of a comical song,
bringing in all their friends, to the great delight of the latter.
“You couldn’t have done better, boys,” complimented Captain Trainer,
as Ned, Bob, and Jerry came off the stage for the last time. “I’m glad
you’re with us. When we get over on the other side I hope you’ll still
keep up your spirits enough to give us some enjoyment, when we’ll need
it more than we do here.”
“We’ll do our best,” said Jerry modestly.
“You’d think they were a bunch of professionals to hear them talk,”
came a low, sneering voice to the ears of the three chums, when the
captain walked away. There was no need to ask who had spoken. It was
Pug Kennedy, and he was standing just outside the dressing room,
talking to one or two of his special cronies. He did not have many
associates. His “scrappy” nature prevented this.
“I’ve a good mind to go over and give him a punch,” declared Ned,
angrily. “He’s made too many of those uncalled-for remarks of late.
I’m not going to stand it!”
“Don’t start a row now,” advised Jerry. “It will spoil all the fun. Let
him alone. I heard something to the effect that he was going to apply
for a transfer, and if he does he won’t bother us any more.”
“I hope to goodness he does,” said Bob. “He makes me tired!”
Pug gazed over in the direction of the three friends, almost as if
inviting trouble, and then, seeing that they were not going to resent
the remark he had made with the intention that they should hear it,
he lighted a cigarette and strolled out into the darkness. Discipline
was somewhat relaxed on account of the minstrel show, and permission
was given for the men to remain up an hour later than usual, while the
guard lines were extended to allow considerable strolling about.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” suggested Bob. “It will cool us off.”
“What, walk with this black stuff on our faces?” exclaimed Ned. “If any
one sees us we’ll be taken for negroes.”
“What of it?” asked Jerry. “Every one knows what’s going on. Besides,
we can’t wash up yet. We have to go on in the final chorus in about an
hour. I’m with you, Bob! We’ll take a walk and cool off.”
They strolled through the camp, and presently found themselves near its
outskirts. They had plenty of time, as they had finished their special
part of the programme, and only came on in the grand “wind-up.”
As they were walking along, talking intermittently of the show and
the chances of going “over there,” Bob, who was slightly in the lead,
called in a low voice:
“Look, fellows! See him!”
“See who?” asked Ned. “Do you mean Pug Kennedy?”
“No, but look over under that light!” went on Bob, pointing. “Don’t
you see that man. It’s Crooked Nose again! Come on! We’ll get him this
time!” and he started to run, followed by Ned and Jerry, who did,
indeed, see in the glare of a camp light, the form of a man. And, as he
momentarily turned his face toward them, they saw that his countenance
was marred by a bent and crooked nose.
The boys gave pursuit, their faces still blackened.