MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS
It is in the hope of directing you to your market that this chapter
is designed. But there is no form of writing for which it is more
difficult to point out a sure market than for vaudeville material.
Even the legitimate stage--with its notorious shifting of plans
to meet every veering wind--is not more fickle than the vaudeville
stage. The reason for this is, of course, to be found in the fact
that the stage must mirror the mind of the nation, and the national
mind is ever changing. But once let the public learn to love what
you have given them, and they will not jilt your offering in a
day. The great advantage the writer of vaudeville material today
has over every one of his predecessors, lies in the fact that the
modern methods of handling the vaudeville business lend him security
in the profits of his success.
1. Preparing the Manuscript
(a) _The acceptable manuscript forms into which all vaudeville
material may be cast_ may be learned by consulting the examples
of the different vaudeville acts given in the appendix to this
volume. A moment's examination of them will show you that there
is no difference between the manuscript _ways_ of presenting the
different acts. All are made up of the names of characters,
business and dialogue. Therefore they may all be discussed at the
same time.
(b) _Have your manuscript typewritten._ This suggestion has the
force of law. While it would seem self-evident that a manuscript
written out in long hand has a mussy appearance, however neat the
writing may be, the many hand-written manuscripts I have tried to
read suggest the necessity for pointing out this fact. You surely
handicap your manuscript by offering it in long hand to a busy
producer.
(c) _The two recognized methods for the typing of stage manuscripts._
First, the entire manuscript is typed in black, blue or purple.
Then, after the manuscript is complete, the name of the character
above each speech is underlined in red ink, and every bit of
business throughout the manuscript is also underlined in red.
This method is illustrated below.
[Here, text originally underlined in red appear in all CAPS.]
-36-
ACT II)
GRAVES. Yes. (TURNS TO DICTIONARY) That's all.
(ELLEN, THOUGH CURIOUS, CONTINUES READING
IN AN UNDERTONE TO HER FATHER, MARLIN
AND JOHN. GRAVES OPENS THE DICTIONARY,
STARTS AT SIGHT OF THE NOTE,
SNATCHES IT UP WITH TREMBLING FINGERS,
AND READS IT. HIS FURY RISES. AFTER
A PAUSE, CRUMPLING THE NOTE, HE TURNS
TO BURTON AND SPEAKS WITH AN EFFORT)
GRAVES. Burton!
(STARTLED BY HIS TONE, THE OTHERS TURN AND
REGARD GRAVES CURIOUSLY)
BURTON. Yes, sir.
GRAVES. Where's Sam?
BURTON. He went out, sir---
GRAVES. Went out?
BURTON. Y-yes, sir. About a quarter of an hour ago.
GRAVES. Where to?
BURTON. He didn't say, sir.
(GRAVES TURNS AWAY HELPLESSLY. BURTON
LISTENS AND THEN EXITS C. GRAVES
WALKS UP AND DOWN, WRINGING HIS HANDS)
MEAD. Anything wrong?
GRAVES (LAMELY) No, no. Don't mind me. Marlin's
proposition's all right---
(PAUSE. SUSAN ENTERS R AND IS TROUBLED AT
SIGHT OF GRAVES'S EMOTION)
SUSAN (APPROACHING HIM) Father---!
GRAVES (UNABLE LONGER TO RESTRAIN HIMSELF) Hell's fire!
MEAD. Christopher!
Second, a typewriter using two colors is employed. The name of
the character above each speech is typed in red, and red is used
to type the bits of business. The speeches alone are typed in
black, blue or purple as the case may be. The following example
illustrates this method.
-32-
ACT I)
BOOTH
Heavens! It reads like a fairy tale, doesn't it?
HENRY
I don't know; does it?
BOOTH
Yes; and many thanks. I'll do my best not to let you
regret it.---Only, in the old fairy tale, you know, it always
ended with the---the young man's marrying the---the rich
old geezer's daughter!
HENRY
(CHUCKLING)
And I'm the rich old geezer, eh? Well, I mightn't 'a' been
half as rich this minute if it wasn't for you!---Heigho!
(SIZES UP BOOTH)
Now, I suppose my cantankerous daughter wouldn't have you,
Piercy; not if I said anything to her about it. But if she
would---and you was willin'---
(HELEN AND BOOTH EXCHANGE ELOQUENT GLANCES)
---why, you're just about the feller I'd want her to have.
(HELEN DANCES A LITTLE SKIRT DANCE OF DELIGHT BETWEEN
THE DOOR L AND THE SCREEN. THEN SHE DARTS INTO
THE ADJOINING ROOM, BEING OBSERVED ONLY BY BOOTH)
BOOTH
(WITH SPONTANEITY)
Say, Boss, put her there again!
(ANOTHER HANDSHAKE)
Do you know, you and I are getting to be better friends
Either of these methods serves the same purpose equally well. The
aim is to separate the names and business from the dialogue, so
that the difference may be plain at a glance. The use of either
of these ways of typing a manuscript is desirable, but not absolutely
necessary.
(d) _Use a "record ribbon"_ in typewriting manuscript, because a
"copying ribbon " smudges easily and will soil the hands of the
reader. Observation of this mechanical point is a big help in
keeping a manuscript clean--and respecting the temper of your
judge.
(e) _Neatness_ is a prime requisite in any manuscript offered for
sale. Be sure that the finished copy is free from erasures and
penciled after-thoughts. "Do all your after-thinking beforehand,"
or have a clean, new copy made.
(f) _Re-copy a soiled manuscript_ as soon as it shows evidence of
handling. Keep your "silent salesman" fresh in appearance.
(g) _Bind your manuscript in a flexible cover_ to give it a neat
appearance and make it handy to read.
(h) _Type your name and address in full_ on the outside of the
cover, and on the first white page. Thus you stamp the manuscript
as _your_ act, and it always bears your address in case of loss.
(i) _Have your act copyrighted_ is a bit of advice that would seem
needless, but many performers and producers refuse to read an act
unless it is copyrighted. The copyright--while it is not as good
proof in court as a public performance--is nevertheless a record
that on such and such a date the author deposited in the Library
of Congress a certain manuscript. This record can be produced as
incontrovertible evidence of fact. The view of the performer and
the producer is that he wishes to protect the author as much as
possible--but himself more. He desires to place beyond all
possibility any charge of plagiarism. Therefore, copyright the
final version of your act and typewrite on the cover the date of
copyright and the serial number.
(j) _How to copyright the manuscript of a vaudeville act._ Write
to the Register of Copyrights, Library of Congress, Washington,
D.C., asking him to send you the blank form prescribed by law to
copyright an unpublished dramatic composition. Do not send stamps,
as it is unnecessary. In addition to the blank you will receive
printed instructions for filling it out, and full information
covering the copyright process. The fee is one dollar, which
includes a certificate of copyright entry. This covers copyright
in the United States only; if you desire to copyright in a foreign
country, consult a lawyer.
(k) _The preparation of a scene plot_ should not be a difficult
task if you will remember that you need merely draw a straight-line
diagram--such as are shown in the chapter on "The Vaudeville Stage
and its Dimensions"--so as to make your word-description perfectly
clear. On this diagram it is customary to mark the position of
chairs, tables, telephones and other properties incidental to the
action of the story. But a diagram is not absolutely necessary.
Written descriptions will be adequate, if they are carefully and
concisely worded.
(l) _The preparation of property plots and light plots_ has been
mentioned in the chapter on "The Vaudeville Stage and Its Dimensions,"
therefore they require a word here. They are merely a list of the
properties required and directions for any changes of lighting
that may occur in the act. For a first presentation of a manuscript,
it is quite unnecessary for you to bother about the technical plots
(arrangement plans) of the stage. If your manuscript is acceptable,
you may be quite sure that the producer will supply these plots
himself.
(m) _Do not offer "parts" with your manuscript._ A "part" consists
of the speeches and business indicated for one character, written
out in full, with the cues given by the other characters--the whole
bound so as to form a handy copy for the actor to study. For
instance, there would be four "parts" in a four-people playlet
manuscript--therefore you would be offering a producer five
manuscripts in all, and the bulk of your material might deter a
busy man from reading it carefully. If your manuscript progresses
in its sale to the point where parts are desired, the producer
will take care of this detail for you. And until you have made a
sale, it is a waste of money to have parts made.
2. The Stage Door the Vaudeville Market-Place
Unlike nearly every other specialized business, there is a market
in each city of the country for vaudeville material. This market
is the stage door of the vaudeville theatre. While it would be
unlikely that a dramatist would find a market for a long play at
the "legitimate" stage door--although this has happened--there are
peculiar reasons why the stage door may be your market-place. A
large percentage of vaudeville performers are the owners of their
own acts. They buy the material, produce it themselves, and play
in it themselves. And they are ever on the lookout for new material.
Not only is there a market at the stage door, but that market
changes continually. Without fear of exaggeration it may be said
that with the weekly and sometimes semi-weekly changes of the bill
in each house, there will in time flow past the stage door nearly
all the acts which later appear in vaudeville.
Offering a manuscript at the stage door, however, should not be
done without preparation. As you would not rush up to a business
man on the street or spring at him when he emerges from his office
door, you certainly would not care to give a vaudeville performer
the impression that you were lying in wait for him.
(a) _The personal introduction_ is a distinct advantage in any
business, therefore it would be an advantage for you to secure,
if possible, a personal introduction to the performer. However,
you must be as discriminating in choosing the person to make that
introduction as you would were you selecting an endorser at a bank.
A stage-hand or an usher is likely to do you more harm than good.
The "mash notes" they may have carried "back stage" would discount
their value for you. The manager of the theatre, however, might
arrange an introduction that would be of value. At least he can
find out for you if the performer is in the market at the time.
(b) _The preliminary letter is never amiss_, therefore it would
seem advisable to write to the performer for whom you feel sure
you have an act that will fit. Make the letter short. Simply ask
him if he is in the market for material, state that you have an
act that you would like him to read, and close by requesting an
appointment at his convenience.
Do not take up his time by telling him what a fine act you have.
He does not know you, and if you praise it too highly he may be
inclined to believe that you do not have anything worth while.
But do not under-rate your material, either, in the hope of engaging
his attention by modesty. Leave it for him to find out if you
have an act, first, that is worth while, and second, that fits him.
If you do not hear from the performer, you may be sure that he is
not interested in your act. He may be out for the first few weeks
in a brand new act, and not in the market at all. So if you do
not hear from him, wait until another act comes along and you see
someone for whom your act is "just made."
(c) _Should you receive a favorable reply_ to your request for an
appointment, you may be reasonably sure that your prospective
purchaser at least needs a new act. In meeting your appointment,
be on time, and have someone with you. A woman, of course, would
have a chaperon, precisely as she would if she were meeting any
other stranger. And a man might care to have someone to engage
the attention of the performer's companion and leave him an
uninterrupted opportunity to talk business.
(d) _Ask for an immediate reading_ of your manuscript, or at least
request it read the next day, when you can be present while he is
reading it. Do not leave a manuscript to be returned to you by
mail. Vaudeville performers are as honest as any other class of
men, but they are busy people and the thing that is put off is
forgotten. They are in one town today and miles away tomorrow,
and they may leave the manuscript on the bureau of their hotel
room intending to mail it at the last minute--and rush away and
forget it. Therefore you should ask for an immediate reading.
It will take a performer only a few minutes to decide if he cares
to consider your act. He knows of what he is in need--and usually
is prepared to tell you.
(e) _Do not ask for specific criticism_, for of all people in the
world vaudeville performers are the most good-hearted. They would
rather please you than hurt you. They will evade the point nine
times out of ten; so save them and yourself needless embarrassment.
And thus you may also avoid a false valuation of your manuscript.
(f) _If the performer cannot use the act himself_, and if the act
possesses merit, the chances are that he will suggest some other
performer who might want it. If he does not suggest someone
himself, ask him. Vaudeville performers know what other performers
want, because they are continually discussing plans for "next
season." You may thus pick up some valuable information, even if
you do not dispose of the particular manuscript you have for sale.
3. Producing Your Act Yourself
While you are likely at many turns of the sales road to have offered
you an opportunity to produce your own act, this method of finding
a market is rarely advisable. You would not start a little magazine
to get your short-story into print; your story could not possess
that much value even if it were a marvel--how much less so if you
were unable to find someone willing to buy it!
But there is a still more important reason why you should not rush
into producing your act yourself. Producing is a specialized
business, requiring wide experience and exact knowledge. Besides,
it is one of the most expensive pastimes in the world. Without a
most comprehensive experience and peculiar abilities, failure is
sure. Do not attempt private production even if you are offered
the services of a performer or a producer in whom you have absolute
faith. Remember, if they thought your act was really worth while
they would be anxious to reap the profits for themselves.
4. Selling an Act to a Producer
While any performer who owns his act is a producer in the sense
that he "produces" his act, there are men who make a business of
buying manuscripts, engaging people, and producing many acts in
which they do not themselves play. Producers who may own a dozen
acts of all different kinds would seem to offer to the writer for
vaudeville an ideal market. How, then, is the writer to get in
touch with them?
(a) _Selling through a Play broker_ is a method that is precisely
the same as though you consigned a bill of goods to a commission
agent, and paid him for disposing of it. The play broker reads
your manuscript and engages to try to dispose of it for you, or
returns it as not likely to fit in with the particular line of
business of which he makes a specialty. If your act is really
good and yet the broker is able to make some suggestions that will
improve it, he is likely to offer such suggestions, purely in the
hope of earning a commission, and in this way he may prove of
distinct value as a critic. In any event, if he accepts a manuscript
to sell for you, he will offer it in the quarters he thinks most
likely to produce it and will attend to all the business incidental
to the making of the contract.
For this service the broker charges a ten per cent commission.
This commission is paid either on the price of outright sale, or
on the royalty account. If the act is sold on royalty, he will
collect the customary advance and also the weekly payments. After
deducting his commission, he will remit the balance to you.
On the last page of this chapter you will find a partial list of
well-known play brokers. Although I do not know of any who deal
exclusively in vaudeville material, any one of the agents who handles
long plays is glad to handle an exceptionally fine playlet.
(b) _Seeking a personal interview with a producer_ is usually
productive of one result: The office-boy says, "Leave your manuscript,
and he'll read it and let you know." Anxious as he is to secure
good material, a man who is busily engaged in producing vaudeville
acts has little time to spend on granting personal interviews.
And there is another reason--he fears you will try to read your
act to him. A personal reading by the author is either a most
distressing affair, because the average writer cannot read stage
material as it should be read, or else it is very dangerous to the
listener's judgment. Many a producer has been tricked into producing
an act whose merits a masterly reader has brought out so finely
that its fatal faults were forgotten. And so the producer prefers
to read a manuscript himself. Alone in his office he can concentrate
on the act in hand, and give to it the benefit of his best judgment.
(c) _Offering a manuscript by mail_ is perfectly safe. There has
never come to my knowledge one clearly proved instance of where a
producer has "stolen an idea."
(d) _Send your manuscript by registered mail and demand a return
receipt_. Thus you will save losses in the mail and hold a check
against the loss of your manuscript in the producer's office. And
when you send your manuscript by mail, invariably enclose stamps
to pay the return to you by registered delivery. Better still,
enclose a self-addressed envelope with enough postage affixed to
insure both return and registry.
(e) _Three weeks for consideration_ is about the usual time the
average producer requires to read a manuscript at his leisure.
In times when a producer is actively engaged in putting on an act,
he may not have an hour in the week he can call his own. Therefore
have patience, and if you do not receive a reply from him in three
weeks, write again and courteously remind him that you would like
to have his decision at his earliest convenience. Impatient letters
can only harm your chance.
5. Hints on Prices for Various Acts
What money can be made by writing vaudeville material? This is
certainly the most interesting question the writer for vaudeville
can ask. Like the prices of diamonds, the prices of vaudeville
acts depend on quality. Every individual act, and each kind of
act, commands its own special price. There are two big questions
involved in the pricing of every vaudeville manuscript. First,
of what value is the act itself? Second, what can the performer
or the producer afford to payor be made to pay for the act?
The first question cannot be answered for even a class of acts.
The value of each individual act determines its own price. And
even here there enters the element inherent in all stage material--
a doubt of value until performance before an audience proves the
worth of the act. For this reason, it is customary for the purchaser
of a vaudeville act to require that it first make good, before he
pays for it. "Try and then buy," is the average vaudevillian's
motto. If you are a good business man you will secure an advance
against royalty of just as much as you can make the producer "give
up." Precisely as in every other business, the price of service
depends upon the individual's ability to "make a deal."
The answer to the second question likewise depends upon the
vaudeville writer's individual ability as a business man. No hints
can be given you other than those that you may glean from a
consideration of average and record prices in the following
paragraphs.
(a) _The monologue_ is usually sold outright. The performer nearly
always will tell you--with no small degree of truth--that the
monologist makes the monologue, not the monologue the monologist.
Many a monologue has sold for five dollars, and the purchaser been
"stung" at that price. But very rarely is a monologue bought
outright in manuscript--that is, before a try-out. A monologue
must prove itself "there," before a monologist will pay any more
than a small advance for the exclusive privilege of trying it out.
If the monologue proves itself, an outright offer will be made by
the performer. While there are no "regular rates," from two hundred
and fifty dollars to seven hundred dollars may be considered as
suggestive of the market value of the average successful monologue.
In addition to this, the monologist usually retains the author to
write new points and gags for him each week that he works. This,
of course, increases the return from a monologue, and insures the
writer a small weekly income.
In very rare cases monologues are so good and, therefore, so
valuable that authors can retain the ownership and rent them out
for a weekly royalty. In such a case, of course, the author engages
himself to keep the material up to the minute without extra
compensation. But such monologues are so rare they can be counted
on the fingers of one hand. There is little doubt that "The German
Senator" is one of the most valuable monologue properties--if it
does not stand in a class by itself--that has ever been written.
For many years it has returned to Aaron Hoffman a royalty of $100
a week, thirty and forty weeks in the year. This may be considered
the record price for a monologue.
(b) _The vaudeville two-act_ varies in price as greatly as the
monologue. Like the monologue, it is usually sold outright. The
performers use precisely the same argument about the two-act that
is used about the monologue. It is maintained that the material
itself is not to be compared with the importance of its presentation.
When a two-act has been tried out and found "there," the performers
or the producer will offer a price for it.
The same rule, that vaudeville material is worth only as much as
it will bring, applies to the two-act. From two hundred and fifty
dollars to whatever you can get, may be considered suggestive of
two-act prices. Although more two-acts have sold outright for
less than three hundred dollars than have sold above five hundred
dollars, a successful two-act may be made to yield a far greater
return if a royalty arrangement is secured.
Whether it is a two-act, or any other vaudeville act, the royalty
asking price is ten per cent of the weekly salary. This rate is
difficult to enforce, and while five per cent is nearer the average,
the producer would rather pay a definite fixed figure each week,
than a percentage that must be reckoned on what may be a varying
salary. Usually a compromise of a flat amount per playing week
is made when a royalty is agreed on.
(c) _The playlet_ varies in returns amazingly. While one small-time
producer pays no advance royalty and a flat weekly royalty of from
ten dollars to fifteen dollars a week--making his stand on the
fact that he gives a longer playing season than his average
competitor--many a big-time producer pays a good round advance and
as high as $100 a week royalty.
Edgar Allan Woolf has said: "The desire for the one-act comedy is
so great that even an unknown writer can secure an advance royalty
as great as is paid to the author of a three-act play, if he has
written a playlet which seems to possess novelty of story and
cleverness of dialogue."
George V. Hobart is reported to have had a variously-quoted number
of playlets playing at the same time, each one of which returned
him a weekly royalty of $100 a week. And half a dozen other one-act
playwrights might be named who have had nearly equal success.
On the other hand, Porter Emerson Brown is quoted as saying: "The
work of writing a playlet is nearly as great as writing a three-act
play, and the returns cannot be compared."
One of the collaborators on a famous big-time success received
forty dollars a week for three seasons as his share. Another
playlet writer was paid one hundred dollars a week for one act,
and only twenty dollars a week for another. And a third was content
with a ten-dollars-a-week royalty on one act, at the same time
that another act of his was bringing him in fifty dollars a week.
These examples I have cited to demonstrate that the return from
the playlet is a most variable quantity. The small-time pays less
than the big-time, and each individual act on both small- and
big-time pays a different royalty.
When a playlet--either comedy or straight dramatic--is accepted
for production, it is customary, although not an invariable rule,
that an advance royalty be paid "down." When the act proves
successful, one or more of three propositions may be offered the
writer: outright sale at a price previously agreed upon; outright
sale to be paid in weekly royalties until an agreed upon figure
is reached, when ownership passes from the author to the producer;
the more customary weekly royalty. As I have said before, what
price you receive for your act finally depends upon your keenness
in driving a bargain.
In nearly every case, outright sale has its advantage in the fact
that the author need not then worry about collecting his royalty.
Of course, when a recognized producer puts out the act there need
be no concern about the royalty, so in such instances a royalty
is preferable. But in some cases, as when the performer is making
long jumps and has a hard time making railroad connections, a
weekly royalty has its disadvantages in causing worry to the author.
(d) _The one-act musical comedy_ is usually bought outright--after
the act "gets over." While many a "book" is contracted for in
advance at a small figure, to be doubled or trebled on success,
it is also true that royalties are paid. In this case, the custom
is to divide the royalty equally between the writer of the book
and lyrics, and the composer of the music. When a third person
writes the verses of the songs and ensemble numbers, the royalty
is usually split three ways. It would be misleading to quote any
figures on the musical comedy, for the reason that circumstances
vary so greatly with each that there are no standards.
(e) _The burlesque tab_ pays about the same rates as the one-act
musical comedy, its kindred form.
(f) _The popular song_, unlike the other material treated in this
volume, has a well established royalty price: one cent a copy is
the standard. Of this, half a cent goes to the writer of the
lyric, and half a cent to the composer of the music.
As a popular song, to be considered successful, must sell anywhere
from half a million to a million copies, it is easy to estimate
the song-writer's return. If the same man writes both the words
and the music he will receive from five to ten thousand dollars--or
twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars if he divides with
another--for being able to make the nation whistle. Of course,
many song-writers have two successful songs selling in a year--
therefore you may double the figures above to estimate some successful
song-writers' incomes. But it may safely be said that the song-writer
who has an income of twelve thousand dollars a year is doing very
well indeed! There are many more professional song-writers who
work year after year for the salary of the average business man
in every other line of endeavor. Don't count your royalty-chickens
too soon.
6. Important Lists of Addresses
SOME OF THE MORE PROMINENT PLAY BROKERS
AMERICAN PLAY COMPANY, 33 W. 42d St., New York
MARY ASQUITH, 145 W. 45th St, New York
ALICE KAUSER, 1402 Broadway, New York
DARCY AND WOLFORD, 114 W. 39th St., New York
KIRKPATRICK, LTD., 101 Park Ave., New York
MODERN PLAY CO., Columbus Circle, New York
LAURA D. WILK, 1476 Broadway, New York
GEORGE W. WINNIETT, 1402 Broadway, New York
PAUL SCOTT, 1402 Broadway, New York
SANGER AND JORDAN, 1430 Broadway, New York
MRS. M. A. LEMBECK, 220 W. 42nd St., New York
A LIST OF WELL KNOWN VAUDEVILLE PRODUCERS
The producers given here offer a market which varies so widely in
each instance that no attempt has been made to list their needs.
Some are interested in other lines of the amusement business as
well; and their activities elsewhere must be taken into consideration
as determining factors in their special market needs. No division
of these producers into big-time and small-time producers is made,
because such a distinction would be likely to be misleading rather
than helpful.
ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1493 Broadway, New York
JOSEPH HART, 1520 Broadway, New York
JESSE L. LASKY, 120 W. 41St St., New York
PLAYLET PRODUCING COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York
B. A. ROLFE, 1493 Broadway, New York
JOE MAXWELL, INC., 360 W. 125th St., New York
ROLAND WEST PRODUCING COMPANY, 260 W. 42d St., New York
HARRY RAPF, 1564 Broadway, New York
PAT CASEY, 1499 Broadway, New York
BILLIE BURKE, 1495 Broadway, New York
JOE PAIGE SMITH, 1493 Broadway, New York
ALF. T. WILTON, 1564 Broadway, New York
JOHN C. PEEBLES, 1564 Broadway, New York
JAMES PLUNKETT, 1564 Broadway, New York
C. M. BLANCHARD, 1579 Broadway, New York
LEWIS AND GORDON, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th
Ave. at 47th St., New York
MAX HART, 1564 Broadway, New York
JAMES J. ARMSTRONG, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th
Ave. at 47th St., New York
WILLIAM A. BRADY, The Playhouse, 137 W. 48th St., New York
BART McHUGH, Land Title Building, Philadelphia
MENLO E. MOORE, 22 W. Monroe St., Chicago
MINNIE PALMER, 35 Dearborn St., Chicago
THE LARGER CIRCUITS AND BOOKING OFFICES
The following vaudeville circuits, while they may not maintain
regular producing departments, produce acts every now and then.
THE UNITED BOOKING OFFICES OF AMERICA, 1564
Broadway, New York. This organization books
the B. F. Keith Theatres and allied small- and
big-time houses
ORPHEUM CIRUIT COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York
LOEW'S THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES, 1493 Broadway, New York
POLI'S CIRCUIT, 1493 Broadway, New York
THE WESTERN VAUDEVILLE MANAGERS' ASSOCIATION,
Majestic Theatre Building, Chicago
GUS SUN CIRCUIT, New Sun Theatre Building,
Springfield, Ohio
BERT LEVEY CIRCUIT, Alcazar Theatre Building, San Francisco
PANTAGE'S CIRCUIT, Seattle
SULLIVAN AND CONSIDINE, Seattle
To these markets nearly every booking agent and manager in the
vaudeville business might be added. Each one has a list of acts
he handles that need new material from time to time. And often
the agent or manager will add to his list of clients by producing
an exceptionally fine act himself.
The reason such a list is not given here is that it would require
a small volume merely for the names and addresses. Consultation
of "The Clipper Red Book"--a handy directory of theatrical agents,
sold at ten cents--will supply this information. A knowledge of
the special kinds of acts handled by each agent or manager, and
the producers previously given as well, may be gathered by a careful
reading of the various theatrical specialized journals. This
knowledge can only be acquired a bit here and a little there through
persistent attention to the notices of new acts and announcements
of plans.
PUBLISHERS OF VAUDEVILLE MATERIAL
SAMUEL FRENCH, 28 W. 38th St., New York
T. S. DENNISON, Chicago
PROMINENT THEATRICAL PAPERS
VARIETY, 1536 Broadway, New York
THE DRAMATIC MIRROR, 1493 Broadway, New York
THE NEW YORK MORNING TELEGRAPH, 50th St. &
8th Ave., New York
THE NEW YORK STAR, 1499 Broadway, New York
THE CLIPPER, 47 W. 28th St., New York
THE BILLBOARD, 1465 Broadway, New York
THE DRAMATIC NEWS, 17 W. 42d St., New York
THE NEW YORK REVIEW, 121 W. 39th St., New York
THE THEATRE MAGAZINE, 8 W. 38th St., New York
THE GREEN BOOK MAGAZINE, North American Building,
Chicago.
CHAPTER XXV
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED
While an understanding of how a vaudeville act is transformed from
a manuscript into a commercial success may not be necessary to the
writing of a good act, such a knowledge is absolutely necessary
to the writer who hopes to make money by his work. For this reason
I shall devote this final chapter to a brief discussion of the
subject.
Permit me, therefore, to take the manuscript of an act, assuming
for my purpose that it represents a monologue or a two-act, a
playlet or a musical comedy, and trace its commercial career from
the author's hands, into a producer's, through a booking office,
to success. Anyone of the famous examples printed in this volume
could be so taken and its history told, but no one would combine
in its experience all the points that should be given. So I shall
ask you to imagine that the act whose commercial story I am about
to tell represents in itself every kind of act to be seen in
vaudeville. I shall call this act by the name of "Success."
When Mr. Author, the writer of "Success," received a letter from
Mr. Producer accepting the act and requesting him to call at his
office to discuss terms, Mr. Author was delighted and hurried there
as fast as he could go.
The office boy ushered him into Mr. Producer's private office, and
before the caller could get his breath Mr. Producer had made him
an offer. He accepted the offer without haggling over the terms,
which seemed to Mr. Author very satisfactory. To tell the truth,
he would have accepted almost anything, so eager was he to get his
first act on the stage, so it was lucky for him that the terms
were really fair.
He had hardly folded up the contract and stowed it, with the advance
royalty check, in his bosom pocket, before Mr. Producer plunged
into business. He pressed a button for the office boy and told
him to tell Mr. Scenic Artist to come in. Now Mr. Scenic Artist
was the representative of a great scenic studio, and he sketched
a design for a special set in a jiffy; then he thought of another,
and then of a third. And Mr. Producer and he were so interested
in combining all their good ideas into one admirable set that Mr.
Author was startled when they shoved a sketch under his nose and
asked for suggestions. He made two that were pertinent to the
atmosphere he had imagined for his room, and when they were
incorporated in the sketch, Mr. Producer O. K'd it and Mr. Scenic
Artist bowed himself out, promising to have a model ready the next
day.
Mr. Producer then rang for Miss Secretary, and told her to have
Mr. Star, Miss Leading Lady and other performers in the office
next morning at eleven o'clock, gave her a list of the characters
he wished to cast, and handed her the manuscript with an order to
get out parts, and to have them out that night. He turned to Mr.
Author with a request for the incidental music for the act. Mr.
Author told him he had none. Then Mr. Producer reached for the
telephone, with the remark that the music could wait, and called
up the United Booking Offices of America.
After a few minutes wait, Mr. Producer got the special Mr. Booking
Manager for whom he had inquired, told him he had an act for which
he wanted a break-in week, and as he hesitated and named a date
three weeks later, Mr. Author was sure the act had been booked.
Mr. Author marveled that the act should be contracted to appear
when it was not even yet out of manuscript form, but when he
mentioned this with a smile, Mr. Producer wanted to know how he
ever would get "time" for an act if he didn't engage it ahead.
He explained that he had a regular arrangement with Mr. House
Manager to play new acts in his house at a small "break-in" salary.
It was an arrangement convenient to him and gave Mr. House Manager
fine acts at small cost.
After this, Mr. Producer rose from his desk and Mr. Author went
out, promising to be on hand that evening at eight to go over the
manuscript and make some changes that Mr. Producer promised to
prove were necessary to the success of the act. And as he passed
through the outer office, Mr. Author heard Miss Secretary explain
over the telephone that Mr. Producer wished a hall at eleven o'clock
two days later to rehearse a new act.
Promptly at eight o'clock that night Mr. Author presented himself
at the office again, and found Mr. Producer busily engaged in
reading the manuscript. A tiny paper model of the mimic room in
which the act was to be played stood upon the desk. When he stooped
he saw that the walls were roughly colored after the sketch they
had discussed and that the whole scene bore an amazing likeness
to the place of his imagination. Mr. Producer explained that he
had had the model rushed through to make it possible for them to
"get down to brass tacks" at once. The act needed so many little
changes that they would have to get busy to have it ready for the
morning.
When Mr. Producer began discussing various points about the act,
Mr. Author could not for the life of him imagine what all these
changes could be. But when Mr. Producer pointed out the first,
Mr. Author wondered how he ever had imagined that the heroine could
do the little thing he had made her do--it was physically impossible.
Point after point Mr. Producer questioned, and point after point
they changed, but there was only the one glaring error. A motive
was added here, a bit of business was changed there, and as they
worked they both grew so excited that they forget the time, forgot
everything but that act. And when the manuscript at last dropped
from their exhausted hands, it looked as if an army had invaded it.
Mr. Author glanced at the pile of nicely bound parts and sighed.
All that work would have to be done over! "Only another one of my
mistakes," smiled Mr. Producer as he scribbled an order to Miss
Secretary, attached it to the manuscript, together with these now
useless parts, and laid them on her desk, as he and Mr. Author
went out into the cool night air. "See you tomorrow at eleven,"
said Mr. Producer as they parted. And Mr. Author looking at his
watch wondered why he should take the trouble to go home at all.
At eleven Mr. Author found the little outer office crowded with
actors and actresses. Miss Secretary was busily directing the
typing of the new manuscript and parts. Mr. Producer was late.
After Mr. Author had waited an hour in the private office, Miss
Secretary came in and said he should wait no longer, because Mr.
Producer had been called out of town to straighten out some trouble
which had developed in one of his acts and had just telephoned
that he would not be in until late that afternoon. Rehearsal would
be as scheduled next morning, Miss Secretary explained. The
performers would be on hand, and she hoped to goodness they would
have some idea of their parts by then. Mr. Author wanted to know
how the cast could be engaged when Mr. Producer was away, and Miss
Secretary told him that Mr. Producer knew the capabilities of
everyone who had called and had even directed her to engage the
ones he named.
The following morning Mr. Author saw his characters for the
first time in the flesh--and was disappointed. Also, the rehearsal
was a sad awakening; it wasn't anything like he had imagined it
would be. They all sat around on chairs and Mr. Producer told
them what the act was all about. Then he suggested that they go
through it once, at any rate. Chairs were placed to mark the
footlights, chairs were used to indicate the doors and window, and
chairs were made to do duty as a table, a piano and everything
else.
Finally they got started and limped through the lines, reading
their parts. Then Mr. Producer began to show them how he wanted
it done, and before he had finished he had played every part in
the act. They went through the act once more with a myriad of
interruptions from Mr. Producer, who insisted on getting things
right the very first time, and then he knocked off, calling it a
day's work.
The next morning Mr. Author was on hand early with some suggestions:
one Mr. Producer adopted, the others he explained into forgetfulness--and
rehearsing began in earnest. They worked all morning on the first
quarter of the act and went back at it late that afternoon. Miss
Leading Lady unconsciously added one line and it was so good that
it was kept in the act. Then Mr. Star did something that made
them all laugh, and they put that in. Of course some pretty lines
in the dialogue had to come out to make room, but they came out,
and Mr. Author never regretted their loss. And the next day it
was the same, and the day after that, and the seventh day, and the
eighth day.
Then came a day when Mr. Author saw the act taking shape and form,
and when he spoke to Mr. Producer about it, Mr. Producer said he
thought that after all the act might whip around into something
pretty good.
A few days later when Mr. Author arrived at the rehearsal hall,
there were three strange men facing the company, who were going
through the act for the first time without interruptions from Mr.
Producer. Mr. Author wondered who they were, and watched their
faces with interest to see how they liked his act. After a while
he came to consider as great compliments the ghosts of smiles
flickering across their jury-like faces. And when it was all over
the performers gathered in one corner, and Mr. Producer came over
to him, and the three men whispered among themselves. Mr. Producer
explained that they were booking managers, and then Mr. Author
sensed the psychological reason for the unconscious drawing together
of the different clans.
His heart beat rather violently when the three men came across the
room, and he felt a great wave of gladness sweep over him when the
tallest of the three pulled out a little black book and said, "Mr.
Producer, I'll pencil it in one of my houses for next week at this
figure," and he showed Mr. Producer what he had written.
"And I'll take you for the second break-in, as we agreed when you
'phoned," said the shortest man. "And I'll take the third at
that."
Then it was that Mr. Author felt a great admiration for Mr. Producer,
because Mr. Producer dared assert his personality. Mr. Producer
objected to the figure, talking of the "name" of Mr. Star.
"That's every penny he's worth," came the adamant answer.
Then Mr. Producer mentioned transportation costs, and the cost of
hauling scenery, as additional arguments.
"Why didn't you say special set at first?" said the smallest man;
"I'll give you this advance." Then all four looked, and they all
agreed.
Then Mr. Author was introduced, quite casually. "Guess your act'll
get by," conceded one of the jury generously, as they all left.
"So you're going to open a week earlier?" gasped Mr. Author to Mr.
Producer, when they were alone in the interval between the exit
of the three and the entrance upon the scene of the performers,
who came swiftly across the room to learn their fate. "And you've
booked three weeks more!"
"Well," said Mr. Producer, "you know the boys only pencilled those
weeks in--pencil marks can be rubbed out."
The next day as they were on their way to the train to go up to
the town where the act was to open, Mr. Producer suddenly remembered
that he had forgotten to send Miss Secretary up to the Booking
Offices for his contract. He wanted that contract particularly,
for he had a feud of long standing with the manager of that
particular house. So up he rushed to get that contract, with Mr.
Author tagging at his heels.
It was the first time Mr. Author had seen even the waiting room
of a booking office--it amazed him by its busy air. A score or
more performers crowded its every inch of space. They were thickest
around a little grilled window, behind which stood a boy who seemed
to know them all. Some he dismissed with a "Come in tomorrow."
Others he talked with at length, and took their cards. When he
had a handful he disappeared from the window.
But Mr. Producer was calling Mr. Author. Mr. Producer stood holding
open the inner door. So in Mr. Author went--to another surprise.
Here there was no crush of people--here there was no rush, and
little noise. Stenographers stood about, seemingly idle, and at
a dozen little desks sat a dozen men quietly bending over rather
odd-looking books, or talking with the few men who came in.
One of these men Mr. Author recognized as Mr. Booking Manager, for
whom they were to play the second week. He was about to speak to
him, when up came a bustling little man who said, "Do you want
Miss Headliner for the week of the thirtieth? I can give her to
you."
"Nope, all filled. Give you the week of the twenty-third."
"All right."
Mr. Booking Agent made a note in his little book, and Mr. Booking
Manager bent over his desk and wrote Miss Headliner's name in his
big book--and a business transaction was consummated.
Then Mr. Booking Agent hustled over to another desk and repeated
his offer of the week of the thirtieth.
"Sorry, give you the week of the twenty-third," said this man.
"Just filled it," said Mr. Booking Agent. "Can't you give me the
thirtieth? Who's got the thirtieth open?"
The man at the next desk heard him. "Who for? Miss Headliner?
All right, I'll take her."
Just then Mr. Producer came out of a little room and Mr. Author
followed him in a wild dash to catch the train. In the smoker he
asked Mr. Producer to explain what he had seen in the Booking
Offices. And Mr. Producer said: "Each one of those men you saw
up there is in charge of the shows of one, or maybe three or four
vaudeville theatres in different cities. It is their duty to make
up the shows that appear in each of their houses. For instance,
Mr. Booking Manager, whose house we are playing this week, books
the shows in four other houses.
"The man you heard ask him if he would take Miss Headliner for the
thirtieth, is Miss Headliner's business representative. His name
is Mr. Booking Agent. Besides Miss Headliner, he is the representative
for maybe fifty other acts. For this service he receives a
commission of five per cent of Miss Headliner's salary and five
per cent on the salaries of all the acts for whom he gets work.
It is his business to keep Miss Headliner booked, and he is paid
by her and his other clients for keeping them working.
"Mr. Booking Manager, on the other hand, is not paid a commission.
He receives a flat salary for the work that he does for his houses.
You remember you met him yesterday, when he pencilled 'Success'
in for the house we are on our way to play. Well, that is also a
part of his business. For some of his houses that like to make a
big showing at little expense, he must dig up new big acts like
ours, which are breaking-in.
"Now, the price I get for this act for the breaking-in weeks, is
mighty low. But this is customary. That is the reason why the
performers have to be content with half salaries, and you with
half-royalty. But this price does not affect the future price I
will receive. It is marked on the books as the 'show price.' That
means that it is recorded in the book-keeping department by the
cashier as the price for which I am showing this act to the managers.
When the act has made good, a price is set on the act, and that
is the standard price for the other houses that book through these
offices. The book-keeper watches the prices like a hawk, and if
I tried to 'sneak a raise over,' he would catch it, and both yours
truly and Mr. Booking Manager would be called up on the carpet by
the head of the Offices. The only increase that is permitted is
when a new season rolls around, or two or three booking managers
agree to an increase and consult the office head about boosting
the salary on the books."
That night Mr. Author rather expected to see a dress rehearsal of
the act; he was disappointed. But the next morning there was a
full dress rehearsal, played in the brand new special set which
had come up with them and that now shone like a pretty picture in
the dingy theatre.
It rather amazed Mr. Author to note that the emphasis of this
rehearsal was not put on the speeches, but upon the entrances and
exits, and the precise use and disposal of the various properties
employed. A glimmering of the reason came to him when Mr. Star
promised to murder anyone who moved a book that he used in his
"big" scene. "Unless it is here--right here--I'll never be able
to reach it and get back for the next bit without running."
And so the rehearsal went on, with no effort to improve the lines,
but only to blend the physical movements of everyone of the
performers to make a perfect whole and to heighten the natural
effect of even the most natural action. Then the dress rehearsal
came to an end, and the entire party went out to see the town.
That night, after the performance, they worked again on the act,
because Mr. Producer had been seized by an idea. And when they
had gone through the act time and again to incorporate that idea,
they all went wearily to bed, praying for success next day.
At ten o'clock in the morning Mr. Author was at the theatre. He
found that other acts had preceded him. The stage was littered
with trunks and scenery, trapeze bars, animal cages and the what-not
of a vaudeville show. Each performer as he came in was greeted
by the doorman with the gift of a brass check, on which there was
stamped a number. This number told the performer in what order
he was entitled to rehearse. Vaudeville is a democracy--first
come, first rehearsed.
The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which express-men had
dumped on the sidewalk, the electrician was busy mentally rehearsing
light effects according to the formula on a printed light plot
which was being explained to him by a performer. "Props" was busy
trying to satisfy everyone with what he had on hand, or good-naturedly
sending out for what had not been clearly specified on the property
plot. The spot-light man in the gallery out front was busy getting
his lamp ready for the matinee, and consulting his light plot.
And the stage-manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shoving
his scenery here and there to make room for the newly arrived sets,
directing the flying of the hanging stuff, and settling questions
with the directness of a czar.
Suddenly through the caverny house sounded the noise of the orchestra
tuning up. The leader appeared and greeted the performers he knew
like long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check Number
One dropped into his hand, and the Monday morning rehearsal began.
Then it was that Mr. Author learned that it is not the acts, which
are rehearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville orchestra,
and the light men and "Props."
This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer arrived with the
performers and "Success" went into rehearsal. Although the entire
staff of the theatre had been rehearsed the night before at the
final dress rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some lights,
to instruct "Props" more clearly, and to jack up the orchestra
into perfection. Therefore they all went through the act once
more. Then the scrub-women appeared and demanded the centre of
the stage with great swishes of watery cloths. The curtain came
down to hide the stage from the front of the house, and the first
early comers of the audience filtered in.
Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how "Success" played
that first performance. He has dim memories of a throbbing heart,
fears that lines would be forgotten or the whole "big" scene fall
to pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain came down,
amid--applause. The curtain went up and came down a number of
times, but Mr. Author was too busy pinching himself to make sure
that he wasn't dreaming, to count how many curtains the act took.
It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr. Producer was in a
rage. There were scores of points that had not "got over," half
a dozen of his finest effects had been ruined, and he was bound
those points should "get over," and those effects shine out clear
and big.
Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it as a nightmare
of changes. They cut out speeches, and changed speeches, and took
out bits of business, and added new bits--they changed everything
in the act, and some of the changes they changed back again, until
by Saturday the act was hardly to be recognized. And then they
played two more performances to crowded houses that applauded like
madmen; and Mr. Producer smiled for the first time.
Then they moved to the next theatre, and the first performance
showed even Mr. Author that all the work had been wise. Now he
was even more anxious than Mr. Producer to make the many changes
by which this week was marked. And by the end of the week "Success"
looked like--success.
They were preparing for a week of great things in the next town,
when Wednesday night a cancellation notice came for that precious
week. Something had gone wrong, and the pencilled date had to be
rubbed out. Of course, by all the laws of the legislatures that
week should never have been rubbed out, because there was a contract
fully binding on both the theatre and Mr. Producer. But the week
was rubbed out of sight, nevertheless, and Mr. Producer--knowing
vaudeville necessities and also knowing that only the most dire
necessity made Mr. Booking Manager "do this thing to him"--forgave
it all with a smile and was quite ready to get back to town when
Monday morning rolled around.
But Monday morning there occurred a "disappointment" at another
theatre in a town only a few miles away. The act that was to have
played that date was wrecked, or had overslept itself. Anyway.
the resident house manager telephoned to the Booking Offices that
he was shy one act. Now it happened that the act that "disappointed,"
was of the same general character as "Success." The Booking Manager
knew this, and remembered that "Success" was within a few miles
and with an open week that ought to have been filled. Therefore,
just as Mr. Producer and Mr. Author were leaving the hotel to join
the other members of "Success" at the railroad station. Mr.
Producer was called to the telephone--long distance.
In less time than it takes to recount it, the resident manager who
was suffering from a disappointment, and Mr. Producer, suffering
from the lack of a playing week, were both cured of their maladies
at the same time. And so, instead of going back to town, "Success"
rushed to the next city and played its week.
Now, in this last week of breaking-in, Mr. Author realized one
fact that stands out rather prominently in his memory; it is a
simple little fact, yet it sums up the entire problem of the show
business. Perhaps the rush of events had made it impossible before
for the truth to strike home as keenly as it did when there suddenly
came to him a tiny little bit of business which made a very long
speech unnecessary. He explained it to Mr. Producer, and Mr.
Producer seized on it instantly and put it into the act. That
night the act went better than it had ever gone before. This
little bit of condensation, this illuminating flash which was
responsible for it, "punched up" the big scene into a life it had
never had before. Then it was that there also flashed upon Mr.
Author's mind this truth:
A dramatic entertainment is not written on paper. It is written
with characters of flesh and blood. Strive as hard as man may,
he can never fully foretell how an ink-written act will play.
There is an inexplicable something which playing before an audience
develops. Both the audience and the actors on the stage are
affected. A play--the monologue and every musical form as well--is
one thing in manuscript, another thing in rehearsal, and quite a
different thing before an audience. Playing before an audience
alone shows what a play truly is. Therefore, a play can only be
made--after it is produced. Even in the fourth week of playing--the
first week of metropolitan playing--Mr. Author and Mr. Producer
made many changes in "Success" that were responsible for the long
popularity it enjoyed. Mr. Author had learned his lesson well.
He approached his next work with clearer eyes.
APPENDIX
NINE FAMOUS VAUDEVILLE ACTS COMPLETE
"THE GERMAN SENATOR," A Monologue, by Aaron Hoffman.
"THE ART OF FLIRTATION," A Two-Act, by Aaron Hoffman.
"AFTER THE SHOWER," A Flirtation Two-Act, by Louis Weslyn.
"THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER," A Travesty Playlet, by Arthur
Denvir.
"THE LOLLARD," A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan Woolf.
"BLACKMAIL," A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding Davis.
"THE SYSTEM," A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor Granville.
"A PERSIAN GARDEN," A One-Act Musical Comedy, by Edgar Allan Woolf.
"My OLD KENTUCKY HOME," A One-Act Burlesque, by James Madison.
A WORD ABOUT THE ACTS
The nine acts which are given, complete, in the following pages
are representative of the very best in vaudeville. Naturally,
they do not show every possible vaudeville variation--a series of
volumes would be required for that--but, taken together, they
represent all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are
commonly seen.
THE MONOLOGUE
The German Senator
This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen as perhaps the
best example of the pure monologue ever written. Originally used
by Cliff Gordon--continually being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute--it
has, since his death, been presented by numerous successors of the
first "German Senator." It is doubtful if any other dramatic
work--or any other writing--of equal length, and certainly no
monologue, has returned to its author so much money as "The German
Senator" has earned.
THE TWO-ACTS
The Art of Flirtation
For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville two-act, this
exceptionally fine example of two-act form has been used by various
famous German comedians. It may be considered to stand in much
the same relation to the two-act that "The German Senator" does
to the monologue. Its author, also Mr. Aaron Hoffman, holds a
unique position among vaudeville and musical comedy writers.
After the Shower
This delightful little example of lover's nonsense was played for
more than four years by Lola Merrill and Frank Otto. It has been
instanced as one of the daintiest and finest flirtation-couple-acts
that the two-a-day has seen. Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps
more successful acts of this particular style than any other author.
THE PLAYLETS
The Villain Still Pursued Her
This travesty, one of the most successful on record, was used for
years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan. Written by Mr. Arthur Denvir,
whose specialty is travesties, it undoubtedly became the inspiration
for the many similar acts that created the travesty-vogue of
1912-15.
The Lollard
Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical comedy, is
perhaps the most successful writer of playlets in this country.
For many years he has turned out success after success for famous
legitimate stars, while still other performers have become vaudeville
stars in his acts. Mr. Woolf himself chose "The Lollard" as
representative of his best comedies. The star role, Angela Maxwell,
was created in this country by Miss Regina Cornelli, and in England
by Miss Hilda Trevelyan.
Blackmail
Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction. This remarkable
little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum Circuit by Mr. Charles
Feleky, who declares it to be "the best tragic playlet I have
produced." From so eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed,
high praise. The character of Richard Fallon was created by Mr.
Walter Hampden.
The System
Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big productions
with which Mr. Taylor Granville has supplied The United Booking
Offices of America, during his many years as a producing star.
Mr. Junie McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was once
president of "The White Rats," the vaudeville actors' union, and
is now a successful vaudeville writer. Mr. Edward Clark, the third
collaborator, has written many successful vaudeville acts.
"The System" is said to have been characterized by Mr. George M.
Cohan as the best one-act melodrama he ever saw. Its extraordinary
popularity in this country and in England is but added proof of
the tenseness of its scenes and its great ending.
THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY
A Persian Garden
Played by Louis Simons season after season, this real comedy set
to music is without question Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf's best effort
in this field. Unlike the usual musical comedy, this act possesses
dialogue interest as well as pleasing brilliancy. It has won its
many years of success not because of scenery, costumes and the
chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent in the manuscript
divorced from them.
THE BURLESQUE TAB
My Old Kentucky Home
Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts in vaudeville,
this "Tab" has been played in various guises in the two-a-day and
in burlesque for many seasons. It is the work of a writer who
justly prides himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque
form, and who possesses the most complete library of burlesque
manuscripts in America. To the thousands of readers of "Madison's
Budget," James Madison requires no introduction.
Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance, been
personally granted to the author of this volume. This kind
permission covers publication in this book only. Republication
of these acts in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, is
expressly prohibited.
Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise forbidden. A
_Special Warning_ has been inserted in the introductory page of
every act, at the request of each author. The reason for such
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To the writers of these acts the author of this volume wishes to
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to print as illustrations of his text some of the finest acts that
vaudeville has ever seen.
The German Senator
A Monologue
By Aaron Hoffman
Author of "The Politicians," "The Belle of Avenue A,"
"The Newly-weds and their Baby", "Let George Do It,"
"School Days," Etc., Etc.
THE GERMAN SENATOR
My dear friends and falling citizens:
My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to come out here
before such an intelligence massage of people and have the chance
to undress such a large conglomerated aggravation.
I do not come before you like other political speakers, with false
pride in one hand and the Star Strangled Banana in the other.
I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man who is for
the public and against the people, and I want to tell you, my
'steemed friends, when I look back on the early hysterics of our
country, and think how our forefathers strangled to make this
country voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed
and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling of
patriotic symptoms--we got to feel a patriotic symp--symps--you
got to feel the patri--you can't help it, you got to feel it.
I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion when we look
out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way she stands, all alone,
dressed up in nothing, with a light in her hand, showing her
freedom.
And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.
With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the other.
And when she stands there now, looking on the country the way it
is and what she has to stand for, I tell you tears and tears must
drop from her eyes. Well, to prove it--look at the ocean she
filled up.
And no wonder she's crying. Read the nuisance papers. See what
is going on.
Look what the country owes.
According to the last report of the Secretary of the Pleasury, the
United States owes five billion dollars.
Nobody knows what we owe it for;
And nobody ever sees what we have got for it; [1]
[1] Here begins the "Panama Canal point," referred to in Chapter
V. It continues until the "End of Panama Canal Point" footnote
below.
First read the monologue including this point, then read it skipping
the point--thus you will see, first, what a complete "point" is;
second, what "blending" means; and third, how a monologist may
shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a
point. [end footnote]
And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the United States, and
ask them, THEY don't even know THEMSELVES.
Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the Pay-no-more
Canal.
It cost the Government nine thousand dollars an hour to dig the
canal. THINK OF THAT!
Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the worst of it is,
they ain't digging.
Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy million dollars to
dig a hole--they've been at it for over nine years--and the only
hole they've dug is in the United States Treasury.
Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up with a report;
He says: "Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better every day, a
million dollars MORE please."
He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels, then sends
back a telegram: HOORAY--The digging is very good, the two oceans
will soon be one.
Can you beat that?
Before they started the canal it didn't cost us nothing, and we
had two oceans.
And by the time they get through, it'll cost us three hundred
million and we'll only have one.
And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks like it was
going to get us into trouble.
Japan is against it on one side and England don't like it on the
other.
And that's why we've got to have a navy. [1]
[1] End of "Panama Canal point." See footnote above, also Chapter
V.
Of course, we've got a navy.
But everybody is kicking about it.
Why should they kick?
All we appropriated for the navy last year was four million dollars.
And there's eighty million people in this country.
And that figures a nickel apiece.
And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for a nickel?
Still they are crying that the country is in destitution circumstances.
That is inconsis--inconsis--you can't deny it.
Our country has got a superabum, a superabum--a superabum--we've
got a lot of money.
There's money lying in the treasury that never was touched. And
the first fellow that will touch it will get six months.
The whole trouble is the trusts.
Look what the cold storage trust have done with the eggs. Sixty
cents a dozen--for the good ones. And the good ones are rotten.
Then they say the reason prices are going up is because wages are
getting higher.
But why should they raise the price of eggs?
The chickens ain't getting any more wages.
And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth more than money.
Then there won't be any money.
Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat around.
A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.
When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving
the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin
steak.
If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny.
If they keep on, we won't be able to live at all.
Statistics prove that the average wages of the workingman is one
dollar a day.
Out of that, he's got to spend fifty cents a day for food; fifty-five
cents for rent; ten cents for car fare.
And at the end of a hard day's work--he owes himself fifteen cents.
Yet the rich people say that the poor people are getting prosperous.
They say, look at our streets. You see nothing but automobiles.
You don't see half the poor people now that you used to.
Certainly you don't.
Half of them have already been run over and the other half is
afraid to come out.
Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the poor man hasn't
got a chance to live.
And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the price of gas
will go up so high a poor man won't even be able to commit suicide.
They'll have him both ways. He can't live and he can't die.
And that's why I am with the socialists.
They say, "Down with the trusts! Do away with money. Make everything
equal."
Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying:
"Give me a diamond ring, here's a lemon."
But the socialists have got some good ideas for the working people.
And my heart and soul is with the labor class of people. I am for
labor unions.
But what help are the labor unions to the working man?
Look at it in the right light.
A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union. He gets a job in
a shop for two dollars a day, works two weeks, the union gets out
on a strike and he owes himself a dollar.
The unions are crying the days are too long.
They want the days shorter. They want the days should be eight
hours long.
But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where the days are
six months long. That's the place for the poor man to live.
When the landlord comes around and says, "Rent," all you have to
do is to tell him to come around the day after tomorrow.
Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us you should save
money and put it in the bank.
What's the use of putting your money in the bank?
It's easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to get it out.
When you want to take your money out, you got to give the cashier
sixty days notice.
And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go in sixty days?
Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improving.
It's ridiculum.
We were better off years ago than we are now.
Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.
Life to him was a pleasure;
There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.
Anything he wanted he could get.
But the darn fool had to get lonesome.
And that's the guy that started all our troubles.
We would be all right today, if it wasn't for Adam and Evil.
Then they say that Adam fell for an apple.
It just shows how men have improved.
No man would fall for an apple today.
It would have to be a peach.
And I tell you, it's no wonder that women feel stuck up. They say
they can do more than men can do.
That's very true, when you go back to the first woman, Eve.
She was only one little woman, all by herself, and she put the
whole human race on the bum.
Could a man do that?
And yet she was only a rib out of Adam's side.
It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition woman was.
Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman, you got to buy a diamond
ring, take her to the theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what's
left of your wages you got to spend on candy and tango trots and
turkey teas. There's where Adam had it on all of us.
All Eve cost him was one bone.
It all goes to show you how much better off man was in those days
than today, and while John D. Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede,
he comes out and says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says,
anybody can live on eighteen dollars a week.
He don't have to tell us that.
Let him tell us how to get the eighteen.
And still that great statesment, William Chinning Bryan, he comes
out and says, we are living in a great country. He says we are
living in a country of excitement intelligence and education.
That's very true.
Look at our public school system.
A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be
a man and he is thoroughly educated, he can go into the public
school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.
And the janitor gets ninety-five.
That shows you how education is coming to the front. Wouldn't it
better, instead of sending a child to school, to learn him to clean
out a cellar?
And what's the cause of all the trouble?
The House of Representatives.
We send them to Washington to look out for the people and the only
time they look out for the people is when they look out the window
and see them coming.
Then they get $7,500 a year. They spend $10,000 a year, and at
the end of the year they have $100,000 saved.
No wonder they are careless with our money.
That's all they got to do. Sit around Washington and touch the
treasury.
Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress and says:
"Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,000."
That's all they do, is make touches for millions.
You never heard of those suckers making a touch for a quarter, or
a half a dollar.
To show you what they do with our money, look at our Weather Bureau
Department.
We pay a fellow $10,000 a year. For what?
To tell us when it's going to rain.
And he don't know himself.
But he don't want to know.
He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going to lose his
job. But believe me, it's a soft job.
Nothing to do.
He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast, smokes a good
fat cigar; then he looks out of the window and says, "Fine weather
to-day."
Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk. I tell you,
my dear friends, the way the country stands now, the country stands
on the brink of a preci--the country stands on the brink of a
precip--and if somebody shoves it, it is going over.
And the cause of all the trouble in the country is the crooked
politics.
And that's why the women suffering gents have gotten together and
are fighting for their rights.
And you can't blame them.
Now I see where one married woman has hit on a great idea.
She says there's only one protection for the wives.
And that's a wives' union.
Imagine a union for wives.
A couple gets married.
And as soon as they get settled, along comes the walking delegate
and orders a strike.
Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives walking up and down
the streets on strike, and scabs taking their places.
The Art of Flirtation
A Two-Act for Two Men
by Aaron Hoffman
Author of "Toblitz, or The End of the World,"
"The New Leader," "The Son of Solomon,"
"The Speaker of the House," Etc., Etc.
THE ART OF FLIRTATION
STRAIGHT: Say, whenever we go out together, you always got a kick
coming. What's the matter with you?
COMEDIAN: Nothing is the matter with me.
STRAIGHT: With you always everything is the matter.
COMEDIAN: What's the trouble?
STRAIGHT: The trouble is you don't know nothing.
COMEDIAN: Yes, I do.
STRAIGHT: You know! If I only knew one-half of what you don't know,
I would know twice as much as the smartest man in the world.
COMEDIAN: What you got against me?
STRAIGHT: You ain't a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: What is a gentlemen?
STRAIGHT: A gentlemen is a man who knows how to act senseless vit
people no matter vat happens.
COMEDIAN: I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless.
STRAIGHT: You are a gentlemen! Look at you. How can a man be a
gentlemen with such a face like that. There are two kinds of
men--gentlemen and rummies. I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy.
COMEDIAN: I am a rummy? I know how to act vit people. Ven you
met your friends down the street, vat did you say to them?
STRAIGHT: I said come on and have a drink. I spoke like a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: And ve all vent to have a drink.
STRAIGHT: Ve did.
COMEDIAN: Didn't I pay for it?
STRAIGHT: Sure--that shows you are a rummy.
COMEDIAN: No, that shows I was a gentlemen.
STRAIGHT: Dat's right. In a saloon you are a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: Sure I am. I act just a bartender.
STRAIGHT: But the trouble with you is you don't know how to mingle.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I can mingle.
STRAIGHT: You don't know the first thing about mingling. As a
mingler you are a flivver. Among men you are all right, but as
soon as I take you out to some parties and dinners and you see
some women around, your brains get loose.
COMEDIAN: Why--what do I do?
STRAIGHT: It makes no resemblance what you do or what you say.
No matter how you do it--no matter how you say it, the women get
insulted. You ain't got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable
to the ladies.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought
to hear me talk to my wife.
STRAIGHT: To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife.
But tink of other women--the trouble with you is, you have no, as
the French people say, you have no _savoir faire_.
COMEDIAN: No what?
STRAIGHT: I say that you ain't got no, what the French people call,
_savoir faire_.
COMEDIAN: What's dot?
STRAIGHT: _Savoir faire_.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I can salve for fair.
STRAIGHT: You can salve for fair; yes, but you ain't got no
_savoir faire_. You are not a mingler. You have no vit, no humor.
You ain't got no _esprit_.
COMEDIAN: Vere do you get all dose words?
STRAIGHT: I get them because I am a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: Then I'm glad I am a rummy.
STRAIGHT: Sure you're a rummy. If you wasn't a rummy, you'd have
_esprit_.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I had a spree lots of times.
STRAIGHT: Not a spree. I mean _esprit_. I mean you ain't got no
refinement--like me. I got polish.
COMEDIAN: You're a shine.
STRAIGHT: No, I ain't a shine. I am a lady killer.
COMEDIAN: One look at you is enough to kill any lady.
STRAIGHT: I am a Beau Brummel. Ven I am with the ladies, I talk
to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet nothings, but you, you rummy
you, you don't know how to make the ladies feel unhappy.
COMEDIAN: How do you make them unhappy?
STRAIGHT: You got to be disagreeable to them.
COMEDIAN: And vat do you do to be disagreeable to ladies?
STRAIGHT: The only vay to be disagreeable to a lady, you got to
flirt vit her.
COMEDIAN: Flirt. Vat does that mean flirt?
STRAIGHT: Flirting is a thing that begins in nothing. You say
something, you talk like everything and you mean nothing, and it
liable to end up in anything. A flirtation is a clan-destination
meeting with a lady.
COMEDIAN: Vat kind of a meeting is dot?
STRAIGHT: Don't you know? Ven you flirt, you meet a pretty woman
in a shady spot.
COMEDIAN: Oh, you meet a shady woman in a pretty spot.
STRAIGHT: Not a shady woman. A pretty woman in a shady spot.
COMEDIAN: How do you know so much about flirting?
STRAIGHT: Now you come to it. I got here a book on the art of
flirtation. Here it is. (biz. shows book.)
COMEDIAN: What is the name of that book?
STRAIGHT: The art of flirtation. How to make a lady fall in love
with you for ten cents.
COMEDIAN: A lady fell in love with me once and it cost me Five
Hundred Dollars.
STRAIGHT: That's because you didn't have this book. This book
tells you how to make love. This book is full of the finest kind
of love.
COMEDIAN: For ten cents.
STRAIGHT: Yes, for ten cents.
COMEDIAN: Oh, it's ten cents love.
STRAIGHT: No, it ain't ten-cent love. It's fine love (opens book).
See--here is the destructions. Right on the first page you learn
something. See--how to flirt with a handkerchief.
COMEDIAN: Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt
with a woman.
STRAIGHT: Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things
have got a language. According to this book, flirters can speak
with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with
the handkerchief, with anything. This book tells you how to do it.
COMEDIAN: For ten cents.
STRAIGHT: Shut up. Now when you see a pretty woman coming along
who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should
do?
COMEDIAN: Run the other way.
STRAIGHT: No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. As soon
as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your hands in your
pockets.
COMEDIAN: And hold on to your money.
STRAIGHT: No, you take out your handkerchief. (biz.)
COMEDIAN: Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief?
STRAIGHT: Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in
the book. Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this
(biz.). Do you know what that means?
COMEDIAN: (Biz. of shaking head.)
STRAIGHT: That means you want her to give you--
COMEDIAN: Ten cents.
STRAIGHT: No. Dat means you want her to give you a smile. So you
shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.), then you draw
it across you mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean?
COMEDIAN: That means you just had a glass of beer.
STRAIGHT: No, dat means "I would like to speak with you."
COMEDIAN: And does she answer?
STRAIGHT: She got to, it says it in the book.
COMEDIAN: Does she answer you with a handkerchief?
STRAIGHT: Yes, or she might umbrella.
COMEDIAN: Over the head.
STRAIGHT: Sure. If she answers you with de umbrella over the head,
that means something. Ven she holds the umbrella over her head,
she means that she is a married woman.
COMEDIAN: Den you quit flirting.
STRAIGHT: No, den you commence. If she shakes it dis way (biz.),
dat means--
COMEDIAN: Her husband is coming.
STRAIGHT: No. Dat means "You look good to me." Den you hold your
handkerchief by the corner like dis (biz.).
COMEDIAN: Vat does that mean?
STRAIGHT: Meet me on the corner.
COMEDIAN: Och, dat's fine (takes handkerchief). Den if you hold
it dis way, dat means (biz.) "Are you on the square?"
STRAIGHT: You are learning already. You will soon be a flirter.
Now I vill show you how you flirt according to the book. You are
a man flirter, and I am a beautiful female.
COMEDIAN: You are what?
STRAIGHT: A female. A female.
COMEDIAN: Vat's dat, a female?
STRAIGHT: A female. Don't you know what fee means? Fee, that
means money. Male, that means man. Female. That means "Get money
from a man." That's a female. I am a beautiful woman and just
to teach you how to flirt, I am going to take a walk thro' the
park.
COMEDIAN: I thought you were a gentlemen.
STRAIGHT: No. No. Just for an instance I am a lady. I will walk
past in a reckless way, and I will make eyes at you.
COMEDIAN: If you do, I will smash my nose in your face.
STRAIGHT: No. No. When I make eyes at you, you must wave your
handkerchief at me three times. Den you reproach me vit all the
disrespect in the world and den you take off your hat and you say
something. Vat do you say?
COMEDIAN: Ten cents.
STRAIGHT: No. No. You say something pleasant. You speak of the
weather, for instance. You say "Good-evening, Madam, nice day."
COMEDIAN: Suppose it ain't a nice day?
STRAIGHT: No matter what kind of a day it is, you speak about it.
Now I'm the lady and I am coming. Get ready.
(STRAIGHT does burlesque walk around COMEDIAN. . . . STRAIGHT
stops and drops handkerchief.)
COMEDIAN: Say--you dropped something.
STRAIGHT: I know it. I know it. Flirt. Flirt.
(COMEDIAN biz. of pulling out red handkerchief.)
COMEDIAN: I am flirting. I am flirting.
STRAIGHT: What are you trying to do, flag a train? Why don't you
pick up my handkerchief?
COMEDIAN: I don't need any, I got one.
STRAIGHT: (Picks up handkerchief and turns.) Oh, you rummy you.
Why don't you reproach me and say something about the weather?
COMEDIAN: All right, you do it again.
STRAIGHT: Now don't be bashful! Don't be bashful! Here I come
(biz. of walk).
COMEDIAN: (pose with hat.) Good evening. Are you a flirter?
STRAIGHT: Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push).
COMEDIAN: Oh, what a mean lady dat is.
STRAIGHT: You musn't ask her if she's a flirter. You must say
something. De way it says in the book. You must speak of something.
If you can't speak of anything else, speak of the weather.
COMEDIAN: All right, I'll do it again this time.
STRAIGHT: This is the last time I'll be a lady for you. Here I
come (biz.).
COMEDIAN: Good evening, Mrs. Lady. Sloppy weather we're having.
STRAIGHT: Sloppy weather! It's no use; I can't teach you how to
be a flirter, you got to learn it from the book. Listen. Here
is what it says. "After you made the acquaintanceship of de lady,
you should call at her house in the evening. As you open the gate
you look up at the vindow and she will wave a handkerchief like
this (biz.). That means, somebody is vaiting for you."
COMEDIAN: The bulldog.
STRAIGHT: No. The flirtess. "You valk quickly to the door."
COMEDIAN: The bulldog after you.
STRAIGHT: Dere is no bulldog in this. You don't flirt vith a
bulldog.
COMEDIAN: But suppose the bulldog flirts with you?
STRAIGHT: Shut up. "She meets you at the door. You have your
handkerchief on your arm" (biz.)
COMEDIAN: And the dog on my leg.
STRAIGHT: No, the handkerchief is on your arm. Dat means "Can I
come in?"
COMEDIAN: And den what do you do?
STRAIGHT: If she says "Yes," you go in the parlor, you sit on the
sofa, side by side, you take her hand.
COMEDIAN: And she takes your vatch.
STRAIGHT: No. You take her hand, den you say: "Whose goo-goo
luvin' baby is oosum?"
COMEDIAN: Does it say that in the book?
STRAIGHT: Sure.
COMEDIAN: Let me see it. (COMEDIAN tears out page.) Den vat do you
do?
STRAIGHT: You put her vaist around your arms--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: Den you squeeze it--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: She'll press her head upon your manly shoulder--
COMEDIAN: And den--
STRAIGHT: She looks up into your eyes--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You put the other arm around her--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You hold her tight--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You turn down the gas--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: She sighs--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You sigh--
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: Dat's the end of the book.
COMEDIAN: Is dat all?
STRAIGHT: Sure. What do you want for ten cents?
COMEDIAN: But vat do you do after you turn down the gas?
STRAIGHT: Do you expect the book to tell you everything?
AFTER THE SHOWER
A TWO-ACT FOR A
MAN AND WOMAN
By
Louis Weslyn
Author of "At the News Stand," "The Girl and
the Pearl," "An Easy Mary," "A Campus
Flirtation," Etc., Etc.
AFTER THE SHOWER
CHARACTERS
THE FELLOW THE GIRL
SCENE: A pretty country lane in One, (Special drop) supposed to
be near Lake George. Rustic bench on R. of stage. When the
orchestra begins the music for the act, the girl enters, dressed
in a fashionable tailor-made gown, and carrying parasol. She comes
on laughing, from L., and glancing back over her shoulder at THE
FELLOW, who follows after her, a few paces behind. THE GIRL wears
only one glove, and THE FELLOW is holding out the other one to her
as he makes his entrance. He is dressed in a natty light summer
suit and wears a neat straw hat.
THE GIRL: (As she comes on with a little run.) I don't see why on
earth you insist upon following me.
THE FELLOW: (Lifting his hat.) I never knew why I was _on earth_
until I met you. (Waving glove at her.) Say, this is your glove--you
_know_ it's your glove.
THE GIRL: (Laughingly.) It must belong to somebody else.
THE FELLOW: No, it doesn't. I saw you drop it. Besides, you are
wearing only one glove, and this one matches it.
THE GIRL: (Stopping on right of stage near rustic bench and turning
to face him, holding out her hand.) You are right. It _is_ my
glove. I'll take it, please.
THE FELLOW: (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.) No, on second
thought, I'll _keep_ it. (He folds it up tenderly, and places it in
the upper left-hand pocket of his coat.) I'll keep it right here,
too,--near my heart.
THE GIRL: Oh, what nonsense! You've never seen me but three times
in your life.
THE FELLOW: (Coming nearer her.) Yes--that's true. And you look
better every time I see you. Say, you do look awfully nice this
morning. Nobody would think, from your appearance, that you
belonged to a camping party here on the shore of Lake George. I
guess that thunder storm last night didn't bother you a little
bit. Why, you look as if you were out for a stroll on Fifth Avenue.
THE GIRL: (Aside.) Little does he know that I got caught in that
shower and am now wearing my chum, Genevieve's, gown. (To him.)
What a jollier you are! You look pretty natty yourself this morning,
it seems to me.
THE FELLOW: (Aside.) This suit of clothes I got from Tommy Higgins
has made a hit with her. I guess I'll just let her think they
belong to me, and won't tell her that I got soaked in the rain
last night. (To her, lifting his hat again.) I'm tickled nearly
to death to have you say such complimentary things to me. It makes
me glad I came on this camping trip.
THE GIRL: You belong to the camping party flying the flag of the
skull and cross-bones, don't you?
THE FELLOW: Yes--all the boys are young doctors, except me.
THE GIRL: And what are you?
THE FELLOW: I'm the patient.
THE GIRL: Are you sick?
THE FELLOW: Love-sick.
THE GIRL: (Turning up her nose.) How ridiculous! What brought you
to Lake George?
THE FELLOW: You.
THE GIRL: I! Oh, you are too absurd for anything. Give me my
glove, please, and let me go.
THE FELLOW: (Coming still nearer.) Don't be rash. There's no place
to go. All of your camping party have gone on a boating trip
except yourself. You're surely not going back there and hang
around the camp all alone?
THE GIRL: (In surprise.) How did YOU know that the rest of my party
had gone away for the day?
THE FELLOW: I saw 'em start. Why didn't you go with 'em?
THE GIRL: I had nothing to wear but this tailor-made gown, and a
girl can't go boating in a dress like this. I only intended to
stay two days when I came up here from New York to join the camp,
and was not prepared with enough clothes. I've sent home for
clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp this morning--
_that's_ why I didn't go boating, since you are impertinent enough
to ask. (She gives him an indignant look.)
THE FELLOW: I beg your pardon. Won't you sit down?
THE GIRL: No, I will not. (Still looking quite indignant, she sits
down immediately on bench. He sits down beside her.)
THE FELLOW: Neither will I. (He looks at her out of the corners
of his eyes, and she turns her face away, nervously tapping the
stage with one foot.)
THE GIRL: You seem to know all that has been going on at our camp.
I believe you have been spying on us.
THE FELLOW: Not at all. I know one of the girls in your camp.
THE GIRL: (Sarcastically.) Oh, you do! (She tosses her head.) So
you have been following me up in order to send some message to
another girl. Who is she?
THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.
THE GIRL: (Aside.) I'll _never_ let him know now that I have on
Genevieve's clothes.
THE FELLOW: But you're mistaken. I've already sent the message.
It was about _you_.
THE GIRL: About _me_? What about me?
THE FELLOW: I wanted Genevieve to introduce us. Say--you haven't
told me your name yet.
THE GIRL: I don't intend to. I think you are very forward.
THE FELLOW: Shall I tell you _my_ name?
THE GIRL: By no means.
THE FELLOW: You're not interested?
THE GIRL: Not a bit.
(There is a pause. She keeps her head turned away. He looks
upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.)
THE FELLOW: (Finally breaking the silence.) Are there any bugs in
your camp?
THE GIRL: (Facing him angrily.) Sir!
THE FELLOW: I mean gnats, mosquitoes--things like that.
THE GIRL: Yes. I was badly bitten last night by a mosquito.
THE FELLOW: (Very much interested.) Where did he get you?
THE GIRL: (Laughing.) Well, you are so fresh that I can't be mad
at you. You're _too_ funny. Since you want to know so much, he _got
me_ on the knee. I wasn't far-seeing enough to bring mosquito
netting. It's a bad bite.
THE FELLOW: Is it possible?
THE GIRL: Don't you believe it?
THE FELLOW: Well, I'm not far-seeing enough to know for sure. (With
a sly glance at her knees.)
THE GIRL: How silly of you! But say--I know a joke on you. I saw
you fall in the lake yesterday.
THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) While I was fishing?
THE GIRL: Yes; it was so amusing. I don't know when I've enjoyed
such a hearty joke. How did you come to fall in?
THE FELLOW: I _didn't_ come to fall in. I came to fish.
THE GIRL: I also saw that man with the camera over in your camp.
What was he dojng?
THE FELLOW: Oh, he was a moving picture man from New York. He was
taking moving pictures of our cheese.
THE GIRL: Preposterous! Have you caught any fish since you came?
THE FELLOW: Only a dog-fish, with a litter of puppies.
THE GIRL: (With wide-open eyes.) How interesting! What did you do
with them?
THE FELLOW: We made frankfurter sausages out of the little ones,
and we are using the big one to guard the camp.
THE GIRL: To guard the camp?
THE FELLOW: Yes--it's a watch-dog fish.
THE GIRL: Well, I've heard of sea-dogs, but I never knew before
that--
THE FELLOW: Oh, yes--quite common. I suppose, of course, you heard
the cat-fish having a concert last night.
THE GIRL: No--surely you are joking.
THE FELLOW: No, indeed--they were all tom-cats.
THE GIRL: Who ever heard of such a thing?
THE FELLOW: Well, you've heard of tom-cods, haven't you?
THE GIRL: Yes, of course, but--
THE FELLOW: Well, why not tom-cats then? Say, you must be sure
to come over to our camp and see the collection in our private
aquarium. We have two compartments, and keep the little daughter
fish on one side, and--
THE GIRL: The daughter fish!
THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) Yes, and the son-fish on the
other. (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.)
THE GIRL: You are simply guying me. I shan't listen to you another
moment. Give me my glove, sir, I demand it.
THE FELLOW: (Also jumping to his feet and grasping her by the arm.)
Oh, please don't get mad. We were getting along so nicely, too.
THE GIRL: (Sneeringly.) "WE" were getting along so nicely. You
mean YOU were. I wasn't.
THE FELLOW: Yes, you were doing FINE. You were listening to me,
and I can get along all right with anybody that will listen to me.
Besides--ah-ah--fraulein--mam'selle--you know, I don't know your
name--besides I--I--I like you. I--I think you're the sweetest
girl I've ever seen.
THE GIRL: (Turning her head away, and releasing her arm from his
grasp.) Oh, pshaw! You've said that to a hundred girls.
THE FELLOW: No--believe me, I have not. YOU'VE made a mighty big
hit with me. I'm hard hit this time. I--
THE GIRL: (Laughing in spite of herself.) Oh, you foolish boy.
How can you expect me to believe you? I'll bet anything that your
coat pockets are filled with love letters from other girls this
very minute.
THE FELLOW: You are wrong. You are unjust. Clementina, you are--
THE GIRL: (Indignant again.) Clementina! How _dare_ you address
me by such a ridiculous--
THE FELLOW: Oh, pardon me. I thought Clementina was quite poetic.
Besides, I've got to call you something. You do me a terrible
injustice. On my word of honor--as a--as a _fisherman_--I haven't
a love letter in my coat pocket--or anywhere else. I am young,
innocent, virtuous and--
THE GIRL: (Bursting into laughter again.) And utterly foolish, I
should judge. You are afraid to let me search your pockets.
THE FELLOW: Afraid? Who's afraid? Me afraid! Well, I'd be tickled
to death to have you search my pockets. I _dare_ you to search
my pockets. I dare you--understand? (He faces her and throws up
his hands over his head.)
THE GIRL: You dare me, do you? Well, I just _won't_ take a dare.
I'll do it.
THE FELLOW: Go ahead and do it. I repeat, I _dare_ you! If you
doubt my word, prove to your satisfaction that I never lie. I
_dare_ you!
THE GIRL: (Leaning her parasol against bench, and stepping up to
him in very business-like manner.) Very well, then. I accept your
challenge. You can't bluff me out. I believe that ALL men lie
when they talk to women, and I am under the impression that you
are no exception. Keep your hands up in the air--promise?
THE FELLOW: I promise.
THE GIRL: This is the first time I've ever held up anybody, but
here goes. (She searches his right-hand pocket.) I don't suppose
you've ever been robbed before?
THE FELLOW: Oh, yes--I was once surrounded by a band of robbers.
THE GIRL: (Still searching.) Indeed! On a public highway?
THE FELLOW: (Still holding up his hands.) No, in a New York hotel
cafe. They were the waiters.
THE GIRL: (Taking her hand out of right-hand pocket.) Well, there's
nothing in that one but a box of matches. How about this one?
(She thrusts her hand into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls
out a letter, written on dainty writing paper.) Ah! this is what
I expected to find. Perfumed note paper. (She looks at it
critically.) Yes, this is the one--no need to search further.
THE FELLOW: What the devil!--(His hands drop to his sides, and he
opens his eyes in amazement.)
THE GIRL: (Turning on him angrily.) Sir--such language!
THE FELLOW: Oh, I beg your pardon--but--but--(He points to letter.)
I--I--that letter isn't mine. I can't understand how it got into
my pocket. I--(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his
face. Aside, he says.) By thunder!--I had forgotten all about it.
This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy Higgins. Oh, what a mess
I've made of it. She'll never believe me _now_ if I tell her I am
wearing another fellow's suit. (To her, excitedly.) Say--listen
to me, honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy Higgins,
you see--
THE GIRL: (Waving him aside.) No excuses. You probably thought
you didn't have it with you. Falsehoods are always found out, you
see. I was right. You are like all the rest of the men--a born
liar--only with this difference--you are a _bigger_ liar than the
average. You are really in a class all by yourself. (With the
letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.)
Oh, this is immense!--this is delicious!
THE FELLOW: (Making a grab for the letter.) Give that to me, please.
THE GIRL: Not on your life. It may not be proper to read other
people's letters, but the present circumstances are unusual. I
shall certainly read it--and read it aloud. I want to make you
swallow every word and see how they agree with you. Listen to I
this, you barbaric Ananias. (She reads aloud.) "My beloved
Affinity--Come back to town next Saturday without fail. Just slip
away from the other boys at the camp. Tell them that an important
business matter demands your presence in the city. I am crazy to
see you. Life without you is very stupid. Come to me, my dearest,
without delay.
Always your own,
Clementina."
THE FELLOW: (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.) CLEMENTINA!!
THE GIRL: (Folding up the letter and looking at him in utter scorn.)
So _that's_ where you got the name! So you were thinking of the
writer of this letter when you addressed ME by the name of Clementina
a while ago. Simply outrageous! (She stamps her feet.)
THE FELLOW: (With a groan.) Oh, Lord! I just happened to say
"Clementina" because I thought it was a pretty name. Won't you
believe me? I don't know who this Clementina is. I never saw the
writer of that letter in all my life. That letter was meant for
Tommy Higgins. This suit of clothes--
THE GIRL: (Interrupting.) Don't even attempt to make ridiculous
explanations. Don't make yourself more of a liar than you have
already proved. I won't listen to another word from you. I didn't
want to listen to you in the first place. Here is your affinity's
letter, sir. (She hands it to him. He takes it and stuffs it
angrily into the coat pocket.) Now, let me have my parasol, please,
and my glove. (She reaches for the parasol, but he catches it up
and holds it behind his back, as he rises from the bench.)
THE FELLOW: You shall not go away until you hear what I want to
say. Tommy Higgins--
THE GIRL: Oh, bother Tommy Higgins!
THE FELLOW: Yes. That's what I say--only stronger. But listen,
please--
THE GIRL: Don't discuss the matter further. My parasol and glove;
sir! (She is facing him angrily.)
THE FELLOW: Oh, come now. Don't be so hard on a fellow. I tell
you that letter wasn't written to me. What if I should search
your pockets and find a letter that belonged to somebody else?
How would you feel about it?
THE GIRL: You would never find anything in MY pockets that I am
ashamed of--that is, if I HAD any pockets. But I have no pockets.
THE FELLOW: (Pointing with one hand at the right side of her
jacket.) I beg your pardon. It seems that you know how to tell
'em, too. What's that, if it isn't a pocket?
THE GIRL: (In embarrassment.) Oh--yes--so it is. (Aside.) I had
forgotten that I was wearing Genevieve's suit.
THE FELLOW: Well, turn about is fair play, isn't it? I'm going
to search _your_ pocket now.
THE GIRL: You mean to insinuate that I have anything in my pocket
of a compromising nature? How dare you!
THE FELLOW: You won't believe ME! Why should _I_ believe you? For
all I know, you may be a far different kind of girl than I took
you to be.
THE GIRL: (Very angry.) You are insulting, sir. But since I stooped
so low as to search your pockets, I will give you the satisfaction
of searching mine--and then that will be an end of our acquaintance.
You can then go your way--and I'll go my way.
THE FELLOW: We'll see about that. Hold up your hands.
THE GIRL: (Darting furious glances at him and holding her hands
over her head.) Very well, sir. Hurry up, please, and have it
over with. (THE FELLOW very deliberately goes to bench, leans the
parasol up against it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and
imitating the business-like way in which she had gone through his
pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves, as if
preparing for a serious piece of business.)
THE FELLOW: (Still mimicing her manner.) I don't suppose you've
ever been held up before?
THE GIRL: (Icily.) No--you are the first burglar I have ever met.
THE FELLOW: Promise to hold your hands up until I have finished?
THE GIRL: (Scornfully.) Of course, I'm a girl of my word.
THE FELLOW: All right then. (He deliberately kisses her squarely
on the lips, while her hands are held up over her head. She gives
a cry and starts to drop her hands and push him away, but he catches
her arms and gently holds them up over her head again.) No, no,
I'm not through yet.
THE GIRL: You are a brute. You are not worthy to associate with
a respectable girl. (THE FELLOW thrusts his hands into the pocket
of her jacket and puns out a box of cigarettes and a letter. He
holds them up before her horrified eyes.)
THE FELLOW: Well. I'll be--(He starts to say "damned," but stops
just in time. THE GIRL'S arms drop limply to her sides, and with
eyes staring in complete bewilderment she staggers to the bench
and collapses down upon it.)
THE GIRL: Good heavens!
THE FELLOW: (Blinking his eyes at the articles which he holds
before him.) What innocent playthings! A box of Pall Malls and a
letter--no doubt, an affinity letter. (He shakes his head, soberly.)
Well, well! And you just said I wasn't fit to associate with you.
THE GIRL: (Her breast heaving in great agitation.) Oh, this is a
terrible mistake! What could Genevieve have been doing with those
things?
THE FELLOW: (Turning on her, quickly.) Genevieve?
THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve.
THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.
THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve Patterson--the girl you know--my best
friend. Oh, _can't_ you understand? Those things don't belong to
me. They are--(She stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her
hands. Then says, aside.) Oh, what am I doing? I mustn't allow
Genevieve's reputation to be ruined. I might as well take the
blame and brave it out myself. This situation is frightful. (She
turns to him again.) I can't explain, but don't--oh, please don't
think that I--that I--(She stops, looking as if she is about to
cry.)
THE FELLOW: (Again looking at the articles and shaking his head.)
And you always looked like such a nice girl, too. Cigarettes--and--
(He opens up the letter.)
THE GIRL: (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You must not read that
letter. It does not belong to me. You have no right to read that
letter.
THE FELLOW: But you read the letter that didn't belong to me.
THE GIRL: It _did_ belong to you.
THE FELLOW: It didn't!
THE GIRL: DID!
THE FELLOW: Didn't!
THE GIRL: (Running forward and trying to grab the letter, which
he holds out of her reach.) I _forbid_ you to read that letter.
I swear to you, it is not mine.
THE FELLOW: (Still holding it out of her reach and looking it
over.) By George! You are right--it is NOT yours. It is MINE!
THE GIRL: YOURS?
THE FELLOW: Yes, mine. It's the very message I sent to Genevieve
Patterson yesterday--the letter in which I asked for an introduction
to you. (He hands it to her.) Here--read it yourself, if you don't
believe me this time. (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter and
reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide open in
surprise.)
THE GIRL: (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at him.) Then you
are NOT such a liar after all. You _did_ tell me the truth.
THE FELLOW: Nothing but the truth.
THE GIRL: But what about that other letter?
THE FELLOW: (Taking her by the shoulder and speaking quickly.)
Now, you've _got_ to listen. That other letter was written to Tommy
Higgins. I was caught in the shower last night, and had to borrow
this suit of clothes from Tommy.
THE GIRL: (A glad smile gradually coming over her face.) O-h-h!
THE FELLOW: But how did you come to have my letter written to
Genevieve?
THE GIRL: Oh, _don't_ you understand? (She looks at him beseechingly.)
THE FELLOW: (The truth suddenly striking him.) Oh-h-h-! I see! You
got caught in the shower, too. You borrowed that tailor-made suit
from Genevieve.
THE GIRL: Can you doubt it?
THE FELLOW: But the cigarettes?
THE GIRL: I can't account for them. I only know--
THE FELLOW: Never mind. I don't care. (He stuffs the cigarettes
into his own pocket and grasps both of her hands in his own.) Tell
me--you don't think I'm the biggest liar in the world, do you?
THE GIRL: (Archly.) No--not quite.
THE FELLOW: (Slipping his arm around her.) And if you were
married--to--to a fellow like me, you'd make him an awfully good
wife, wouldn't you?
THE GIRL: (Laughing.). No--I'd try to make HIM a good husband. (He
bends over and is just about to kiss her when a MAN'S VOICE is
heard off stage to the Right.)
MAN'S VOICE: (Off stage.) Hey, there, Miss--your trunk has come.
(THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring apart, guiltily.)
THE FELLOW: (Bitterly.) Just when I had it all cinched. (THE GIRL
runs to the bench, picks up her parasol, still laughing.)
THE GIRL: It's the wagon from the railroad station, with my clothes
from town. Good-bye. (She starts off, Right.)
THE FELLOW: But you're coming back again?
THE GIRL: Well--maybe--perhaps--If you're good. (She exits laughing.)
THE FELLOW: She's got me going. My head's in a muddle, and I feel
like a sailor full of horn-pipes. And that reminds me of Tommy
Higgins' latest song. It goes like this: (Here is introduced comic
song. At finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed in
a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty silk parasol.
THE FELLOW takes his hat off and holding it high over his head,
exclaims:) Here comes the rainbow after the shower!
THE GIRL: I must explain to you--I saw Genevieve--the cigarettes
belong to her brother, Jack.
THE FELLOW: And I've just found out what belongs to me.
THE GIRL: What?
THE FELLOW: You! (He takes her parasol, opens it, and holds it in
front of them for an instant so that their faces are hidden from
audience. This is music cue for the Conversation Number which
brings the sketch to a finish.)
THE VILLAIN
STILL PURSUED HER
A TRAVESTY
By
Arthur Denvir
Author of "Busy Isabel," "How Ignatius Got
Pneumonia," "When Wit Won," "The War
Correspondent," Etc., Etc.
THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER
CHARACTERS