In the land of the sage and the cottonwood,
The cactus plant and the sand,
When you've just dropped in from the effete East
There's a greeting that's simply grand;
It's when some giant comes up to you,
With a hand that weighs a ton,
And cries as he smites you on the back;
"Why, you derned old son of a gun!"
Texas, quoting Col. Bailey of the _Houston Post_, "is a symphony, a vast
hunk of mellifluence, an eternal melody of loveliness, a grand anthem of
agglomerated and majestic beneficence. Texas is heaven on earth and sea
and sky set to music."
With ample room to spare, Texas would accommodate either
Austria-Hungary, Germany and France; and if it were populated as thickly
as is Belgium it would have a population of over 265,000,000.
The State of Texas could accommodate comfortably the people of all the
European nations.
Texas was wild and woolly when Alfred first toured it with a wagon show.
Weatherford was away out west; Dallas was in its swaddling clothes and
Houston was a village. Hunting was good just over the corporation line
and there was no closed season on anything. Charley Gibbs and Henry
Greenwall owned the State. Charley Highsmith was a schoolboy; he had
never owned a dog or looked along the barrels of a double-barreled gun.
Mike Conley was setting type in a printing office run by hand, and Bill
Sterritt was the printer's devil, excepting when ducks were coming in.
Ben McCullough was the only railroad man in north Texas, and George
Green the only Republican in the State. Jake Zurn had not left Germany
and Jim Hogg was a cowboy.
A pair of Texas ponies, an open buggy, a doubled-barreled shotgun, two
dogs and an invalid, were Alfred's constant companions on that tour of
Texas. The invalid who was touring Texas for his health, was a relative
of the managers, a German, refined and scholarly, a high class
gentleman.
This was the introduction:
"Alfred, Mr. Smith is not well. The doctor advised that he live in the
open. He is my guest and I want him to ride with you. I am sure you will
like him. I want this trip to benefit his health. You have the best team
with the company. You can make the route in half the time it requires
the show to drive it. Sleep late in the morning."
Despite this advice, the invalid and Alfred were well on their way by
daylight almost every morning, nor did they make the routes in half the
time the show did. It was more frequently the reverse, particularly if
the shooting was good. The invalid was the wellest sick-man companion
ever toured with. His cheeks were sallow, low in flesh, but the spirit
was there. It was a case of the invalid looking after the nurse. The
vast plains were covered with cattle--Texas steers. The invalid
marvelled at their numbers. While Alfred was scouring the prairie with
dog and gun the invalid would stand erect in the buggy, on the road
side, computing the number of Texas steers within sight. How the cattle
men separated their droves, claiming their cattle, was a wonderment.
Cowboys and Texas steers was a theme on which the invalid never tired
talking. Texas steers were a hobby with him. He would talk with cowboys
for hours, collecting information.
Many nights the circus people in making long drives between exhibiting
points were compelled to sleep in their wagons, tents, or anywhere they
could find shelter. This sort of life soon brought bronze to the
invalid's cheeks and strength to his body.
Pidcock's Ranch, embraced several thousand acres of land, a house with
four rooms and porch or veranda. All the house was given over to the
ladies. Alfred explained to the manager of the ranch that he had in
charge an invalid and requested the ranchman to do the best he could for
them in the way of sleeping quarters. The ranchman arranged a
comfortable bed on the porch for the invalid and Alfred, advising they
would be compelled to sit up until the ladies retired. All had long
retired ere the invalid put in an appearance. The invalid invariably
found congenial company--cowboys, cattlemen or rangers. Each night
finding his way to bed he would awaken Alfred to explain something new
as to Texas steers. The invalid had dispatched two cowboys thirty miles
for refreshments. The invalid did not part from his guests until late.
Alfred's wife had sent him a birthday present, a pair of night-shirts
worked with red braid, and he was very proud of them. The invalid on
retiring commented again on the beauty of Alfred's hand-painted
night-shirts and the immensity of the droves of Texas steers.
Sleeping in the open on the porch, their slumbers were deep. Awaking
late, Alfred's face felt drawn up. It was as though it was puckered out
of all shape. Placing his hand on a substance as large as a hulled
hickory nut, it was with some little difficulty peeled from his face. A
dozen other lumps of similar size were scattered over his ample
countenance. Glancing at the invalid whose face was adorned with a full
set of whiskers, Alfred discovered they were liberally sprinkled with
the whitish-grayish substance that adorned his own face and the front of
his decorated night garments. Prying loose another lump, Alfred, holding
the substance at arm's length, scrutinizing it closely, endeavoring to
analyze it. A "cluck-cluck" caused him to look aloft and there, on a
beam, sat ten or twelve contented "dominicker" hens. He could discern
but half of their bodies--that part that goes over the fence last.
Rudely awaking the invalid, Alfred brushing, picking and pinching the
white and greenish bumps from face and night-shirt, indulging in
language not proper even on a Texas ranch, he slowly worked his way to
the watering trough (the only bathing facility), followed by the
invalid, who was parting his whiskers to free them from the hidden
lumps, meanwhile endeavoring to console Alfred: "Never mindt, Alfred.
Never mindt. Your shirt vill vash all right, und my viskers, too,"
parting his whiskers and dumping a few more deposits, he remarked: "It's
purty badt I know, but, Alfred, it might a bin wusser. 'Ust s'posin' dem
schickens roostin' over us hadt been Texas steers."
* * * * *
"The sooner a man goes into business, the sooner he will be able to
retire; that is, if he is baked done. If he ain't, he better let
somebody do business for him. My boy, it's better to go into business
too young than too old. If you happen to spill the beans, you've got the
vim to pick them up again."
"Well, Uncle Henry, if I have good luck this season, I'm going to make a
break for myself."
"Good luck, huh? If you're lookin' for luck to help you, you'll be so
near-sighted you can't see a business chance across a narrow alley. If
luck got you anything you might. There ain't no luck coming to any man
that waits on it. Every man that's got any get-up in him always has bad
luck. He brings it on himself, then he just beats luck out. There ain't
no good luck. It's grit and judgment agin dam-fool notions. And grit and
judgment wins out nearly every time. I'd rather drive a bad bargain than
drive a dray. You can drive a dozen bargains a day. You can drive only
one dray. One of your bargains may buck, the other eleven win out. A
minstrel show is alright, but, mind, it's a lifetime job, going into
business. You ought to know what you're doing. But, I'd thought you'd go
into the circus business."
"Well, I would, Uncle Henry, but I haven't got the capital. It takes
more money than I ever hope to possess. Besides, I want a business
wherein I can make a reputation for myself."
"You better go into a business where you can make money. The reputation
will make itself. If you can't make money, you can't make reputation."
"But it's my ambition to have the biggest minstrel show in the country."
"Well, you do that which you feel would be the most agreeable to you.
When I went into the grocery business in Burlington, everybody behind my
back predicted I would lose out. Everybody told me to my face I'd win
out. Make up your mind to stand on your own judgment."
Sam Flickinger, editor of the _Ohio State Journal_, wrote the first
mention of the Al. G. Field Minstrels. He gave Alfred desk room in the
job office of the _Journal_, of which he was manager and editor. The
first advertising for the Al. G. Field Minstrels was printed in the job
office of the _Ohio State Journal_. The dates and small bills have been
printed in that office, or the successors of it, ever since.
Almost every one of Alfred's friends advised him to abandon the idea of
entering the minstrel business. His family were all opposed to it.
This was the manner in which Alfred's declaration as to going into
business seemed to be received by his friends.
Col. Reppert of the B. & O. assured Alfred he would send him a ticket to
any point he might require it from. Billy McDermott, probably fearing
the Colonel might not get the ticket to him, presented Alfred with a
pair of broad-soled low-heeled walking shoes.
There was one staunch friend whose words were always encouraging.
"You're right, old boy. I wish you all the success you so richly
deserve. Never mind the knockers. You're in right. You'll make it go."
Thus did Bill Hunter of the Penna. R. R. encourage Alfred. Alfred often
declared Bill a level-headed man, one who would be heard from later.
Frank Field was the city passenger agent of the Penna. R. R. Frank and
Bill were very kindly disposed towards show folks. They carried a troupe
on their own account over the Penna. Lines. They were security for the
fares to the amount of a couple of hundred dollars. The troupe stranded
Bill held the musical instruments. The instruments were taken to the
city ticket office, concealed under the counter. Bill and Frank were
"stuck." They endeavored to dispose of the horns to Alfred. Alfred joked
Bill frequently, advising him to organize a band, and learn to play one
of the horns. This "guying" did not alter Bill's attitude towards
Alfred's enterprise. He was even more optimistic as to its success. Bill
would slap Alfred on the back, saying: "Never mind the salary you are
leaving. You'll make more money with this minstrel show in a year than
you would on salary in two."
Alfred from the first day he began his minstrel career sought to
introduce new ideas; not to do things as they had been done. He was the
first to uniform the parade. The costumes were long, light-colored,
newmarket overcoats, black velvet collar, stylishly patterned. They were
very attractive overcoats, contrasting effectively with the red
broadcloth, gold-trimmed band uniforms.
The company rehearsed in Columbus and opened at Marion, Ohio, October 6,
1886. The opening day was a dismal, rainy, fall day, just verging on
winter. Alfred's good friends gathered in the union depot at Columbus to
bid the minstrels Godspeed, although they traveled on another line. Bill
Hunter was at the depot to see them off. The genteel appearance of the
troupe, especially the overcoats, were favorably commented upon. Bill
shook hands with each member of the company as they entered the car.
When the last man was aboard, when the last good-bye had been spoken,
Barney McCabe remarked to those assembled: "I don't know what kind of a
show Alfred's got, but they have the finest overcoats that ever went out
of this depot." Bill, winking at Barney, said: "I'll have 'em all before
two weeks. If he makes money with this troupe, he can ketch bass with
biscuits."
Another of Alfred's innovations was a large amount of scenery and
properties. Each piece of baggage was marked with bright letters, "The
Al. G. Field Minstrels."
The afterpiece, "The Lime Kiln Club," was quite a pretentious affair for
a minstrel company in those days. The stage setting, representing the
interior of a Lodge, required antiquated furniture such as could not be
hired in the one night stands. Therefore, the minstrels carried all this
furniture, a large sheet-iron wood stove with lengths of stovepipe. Not
until the last trunk was loaded onto the baggage wagon, did Alfred leave
the depot that first morning. Walking slowly along the street, keeping
pace with the heavy wagon, proud of the new trunks with the plainly
painted names on each, the furniture for "The Lime Kiln Club," with the
stove and stovepipe atop of all, the wagon passed up the street.
While passing a building in course of erection, the workmen ceased their
labors to gaze at the wagon. A plasterer with limey overalls gazed at
the wagon intently until it passed by. Turning to his fellow workmen,
pushing his hands in his pockets deeper, and shrugging his shoulders, he
sympathetically remarked: "Hit's mighty cole weather fur flittin'. I
allus feel sorry for pore folks as has tu move in cole weather." Looking
down the street from where the wagon came he continued: "I wonder whar
the folks is. Walkin' to keep warm, I reckon. I hope they hain't any
children." Thereafter, Alfred ordered the odd furniture, stovepipe and
stove loaded in the bottom of the wagon.
A heavy rain interfered with the attendance the opening night. In the
excitement, Alfred did not realize that he had lost money. It was only
after the second night--Upper Sandusky--that he figured the first two
nights were unprofitable. Chas. Alvin Davis, of Alvin Joslin fame, and
his manager, were visitors the second night. The receipts at Bucyrus
were very light, and to pile up troubles for the new minstrel manager, a
boy connected with the theatre stole from Alfred's clothes in the
dressing room all his private funds. The empty pocket-book was found in
an ash-barrel at the rear of the boy's residence, yet the police did not
feel it was sufficient evidence to warrant the arrest of the young
scamp.
The fourth night, at Mansfield, rain, hail, sleet and snow, such as Ohio
had never experienced at that season of the year, (October 10), made the
streets impassable. The minstrels played to a very meager audience.
After all bills were paid the company had thirty-seven dollars in the
treasury.
Several friends in Columbus assured Alfred that if he ran short he could
draw on them. Alfred had learned six weeks was the most lengthened
period any of his friends gave him to keep the company afloat.
"He's ruined. All his savings gone, he will be worse off than when he
began life." This was the comment of one of his dearest friends.
Leaving Mansfield at midnight, arriving at Ashland, Alfred, that he
might not have the night lodging to pay, sat in the depot until
daylight, then sauntered to the hotel. Thirty-seven dollars in the
treasury, cold and snowing. Alfred debated in his mind as to whether he
should telegraph his friends in Columbus for assistance. His decision
was: "No, I will not humble myself. I'll pull through some way. Besides,
I have invested my own money in this concern. If I lose it, it's gone. I
can earn more. If I borrow money and lose, I'm in debt."
He didn't know he could do it. He wasn't sure he could pull the show
through. He had heard and seen the sneers and smiles of incredulity. He
remembered Uncle Henry's advice:
"If you haven't got the stuff in you to stand alone and fight for
yourself, you're wasting time trying to do business. Being smart is only
half of it. Being game is the other half. The biggest persimmons are
atop of the tree. You've got to climb to get them. There are times when
you'll have to hold on by your finger tips. But if you're not game
enough to take the risk, you don't deserve what's up at the top. The
cowards are standing under the tree waiting for the persimmons to fall.
There's so many of them they have to fight harder to get those that fall
to the ground than the game fellow that climbs the tree. Men will pull
you down, tramp on you, in their endeavors to climb over you. It's the
selfish idea of many men they can build up more rapidly if they tear
down. They'll block your game, they'll lie about you, they'll not only
throw you down but they'll sit on you, and hold you down, until you
gather force to squirm from under. You'll never suffer as much when you
have the least as you do when the grit has leaked out of you. The man
who climbs the tree from the bottom to the top is never licked. If they
pull him down he will start from the bottom again. Poverty cannot ruin
him. It's only a check. He has less fear than those who have had a
ladder placed against the tree for them to climb up. Believe in
yourself. Take everything that belongs to you. Take your licking but
don't sell out to cowardice. When your grit's gone you're done for."
A thin, a very thin partition between the room he occupied and that of
two of his principal people, Alfred was compelled to play the role of
eavesdropper again.
"He won't pull through. I am sorry I joined the show, I throwed away a
good engagement to accept this one. I'm stuck again. This thing won't
last a week. I'm going to get away at the first opportunity." It was one
of a talented team of musicians. They not only did a fine specialty but
doubled in the band. The one talking was the manager of the act. Alfred
held a contract with the trio. He had fulfilled all the requirements of
it and they owed him considerable money, advanced for hotel bills during
rehearsals, railroad fares, etc. He lay on the bed debating with himself
what to do, enter the room and throw the talker out of the window, or
have him arrested.
"I heard Field tell his treasurer he had no money. I'm going to skip.
Take my word for it, we're all up against it."
The other replied: "Well, I owe the company a lot of money. I'll stick
until I see how it goes."
Alfred was on fire. He would die rather than fail. The following day was
Sunday. This would entail extra expense. Basing his calculations upon
receipts in other cities, he feared he would not have funds to carry the
company to Akron, the next exhibition point.
He accidently met a Columbus man, a minister, Reverend Messie, the
pastor of the church where Alfred's family worshipped. He had recently
officiated at the wedding of Alfred's sister; he felt he had met a
friend from home. He decided to lay his troubles before the good man but
weakened at the beginning. Instead he inquired as to whether the
minister was acquainted with a banker in the city. The minister
accompanied Alfred to a bank and had Alfred requested him, to make a
favorable talk for him, the good man could not have said more.
"This is Mr. Field, a friend and neighbor of mine. He has not acquainted
me with the nature of his business with you, but he is responsible, owns
property in Columbus and bears an excellent reputation."
The banker invited the minstrel into his private office. Alfred made a
statement of his affairs, dwelling strongly on the robbery at Bucyrus,
exhibiting newspaper clippings to substantiate his statements.
"Let us see what your liabilities are. Going over them, there were none.
Nearly all of the company were indebted for money advanced. I can't see
where you are in any financial trouble. You have no debts following you,
have you?"
"None," answered Alfred.
"Well, what is the trouble?"
"It's like this," the minstrel explained. "We've done no business since
we opened. I have lost money at every stand. I have but thirty-seven
dollars on hand. It's a big jump to Akron. I am sure, I'll require a
little money, not much. If it hadn't been for that touch at Bucyrus I'd
be all right."
"You'll do business here. It's the best minstrel town in Ohio. Primrose
& West did fairly well, although our people didn't know them. Hi Henry
packed the house."
"I fear people do not know us," sighed Alfred.
"Well, I'll introduce you--they will know you."
Alfred had ended every statement with the wail that if he had not been
robbed in Bucyrus he would be all right.
"The bank closes at noon. Come around, take lunch with me, I'll see you
to Akron. Don't worry. I fear you're a bit shaky. You are just starting
in business, you require confidence."
"If it hadn't been for the touch at Bucyrus, I'd have been all right,"
ruefully remarked Alfred.
The President and Alfred made a round of the business houses of the
town.
"This is Mr. Field, the minstrel man, one of our people. His home is in
Columbus. I just bought four seats. The seats are going pretty fast. I
want you to be there tonight. Have you got your tickets?"
No one seemed to have taken the precaution to buy seats in advance
although all declared they were going. Rarely did the callers leave a
place until those called upon had reserved their seats. It was not long
until the seat sale assured Alfred it would not be necessary to
negotiate a loan.
"I would have helped you out if you had needed the money," declared the
banker, "but I knew we could hustle a bit and fill the house."
The gentleman was a good story-teller. Alfred was in a rare good humor.
He had a fund of stories new to the banker. The fact of the robbery in
Bucyrus was detailed to every business man they called upon. All
sympathized with Alfred. "Bucyrus is a tough town," several remarked.
"You'll never get your money," another declared. "Be more careful if you
ever go there again."
When about to separate, the banker in a kindly manner assured Alfred
that he was only too glad to have been of service to him. He spoke
encouragingly of the future. "If you have a good show, you are sure to
pull through. I wouldn't carry a great amount of money on my person
hereafter if I were you. Be careful. Do not have a repetition of the
Bucyrus affair. How much did they get from you over there?"
"Sixty dollars." The words were scarcely uttered until the banker
bursted into a fit of laughter. Alfred had never been accused of
destiny, but he could not realize what there was in the admission to so
excite the man's mirth. Had the gentleman known what sixty dollars meant
to him at that time, it would not have seemed so funny. From the fact
that Alfred had dwelt so strongly on the theft of his money, with the
constantly repeated statement that "if it had not been for the robbery,
he would have been all right," the moneyed man had gained the idea he
had lost several hundred dollars; hence his mirth.
At Akron the minstrels did capacity business. Warren and Youngstown were
equally satisfactory as were New Castle and Steubenville. Wheeling was
the first city wherein opposition was encountered. Wilson & Rankin's
Minstrels were billed at the Opera House, the Field Company at the Grand
Opera House. When the Wilson & Rankin party started on their parade, the
other company followed in their wake. Wilson shouted to the bystanders
in front of the McClure House, "War! War!"
This opposition embittered George Wilson and for years the two companies
waged a relentless war, which never ceased until Mr. Wilson disbanded
his company. Carl Rankin, who was a Columbus boy and an old friend of
Alfred's called on Alfred. He advised that he was dissatisfied with his
surroundings and a tentative partnership agreement was entered into for
the next season. However, the arrangements went no further as Mr.
Rankin's health failed him rapidly and it was not long until minstrelsy
lost one of the most versatile performers that ever adorned it.
Since the conversation overheard in Ashland, Alfred had not spoken to
the manager of the musical act. The telegraph wires were carrying
messages daily seeking an act to take the place of the dissatisfied one.
At Zanesville, just before the matinee, (Zanesville was the first city
wherein the Al. G. Field Minstrels appeared in a matinee), Alfred called
the manager of the musical act to his dressing room.
"Mr. Turner, it has come to me that you intended leaving this company.
Therefore, I have engaged an act to take your place; you can leave after
tonight's performance, or as soon thereafter as it suits your
convenience."
"Why, Mr. Field, I did not intend to leave your company. Who so advised
you? I never told anyone I intended leaving."
"Now Bob, don't deny it. I heard you say you were going to leave the
company, that you had no confidence in the stability of the enterprise.
Your talk came at a time when I was feeling pretty blue and it hurt.
Judging from your talk you are an undesirable man to have around and I
certainly am glad to dispense with your services."
The man threatened legal proceedings. Alfred was obdurate. The man was
tendered his salary. He refused to sign a receipt. Alfred ordered the
treasurer to give him his money without his signature to a receipt. The
other two members of the act protested vigorously. They presented their
case in this manner: "We were working for Bob. He owned the act. We
like the show; we like you. It's the middle of the season. We are liable
to be idle for months. We don't think we should be discharged for the
threats of Bob. We can't control his mouth. Mr. Field, if you discharge
every performer who indulges in idle talk, you won't have anybody around
you."
"Boys, I do not propose to discharge anyone for idle talk but I won't
keep a traitor in this camp. You remain with the company. I will pay you
the same salary you have been receiving just to play in the band and sit
in the first part."
With varying success the first season progressed. But never a salary day
that the "white specter" did not perambulate. Every obligation met
promptly, a few folks began to take notice of the new show, persons who
had held their faces the other way. The manager was forced to practice
the greatest economy. There was a few weeks around Christmas time when
his shoes leaked. After Christmas he purchased two pair of shoes,
preparing for future contingencies. Smallpox was raging through
Minnesota and Wisconsin, many cities were quarantined. At LaCrosse,
Winona, Rochester and Eau Claire, the people would not go to the
theatre; hence, the show was a big loser. At Hudson, Wis., a big lumber
camp in those days, the gross receipts were the least the company ever
played to--just sixteen dollars--a few cents less than the receipts of
Alfred's first show in Redstone School-house. Alfred requested the
manager of the Opera House to dismiss the audience. The manager refused
to listen to the proposition. He contended it was Saturday night, and
that many would drop in. They failed to drop in or to be pushed in.
However, Alfred has always felt grateful to that manager. No audience
was ever dismissed by the Al. G. Field Greater Minstrels in all the
years of their existence, although an engagement in Atlanta, Ga., was
curtailed.
The company opened to an over-flowing house. The advance sale for the
remainder of the engagement was gratifying. Henry Grady, the famous
journalist and orator, after delivering a speech that electrified not
only the Boston audience that listened to it, but the nation, had died.
Atlanta and the entire south was stricken with sorrow. The minstrel
manager was intimately acquainted with Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady was one of
the promoters of the Piedmont Exposition. Peter Sells was one of Mr.
Grady's admirers, and as a courtesy to him had loaned the exposition a
flock of ostriches; which was one of the attractive features of that
most memorable exposition. Alfred was entrusted with the details
pertaining to the transaction. Mr. Grady had been very courteous to
Alfred. There never was a man who knew Henry Grady that did not admire
his charming personality. Therefore, when Mr. De Give suggested the
engagement of the minstrels end and the theatre be closed out of respect
to the memory of Mr. Grady, Alfred promptly acquiesced.
The closing of this engagement was a sacrifice that Alfred felt greatly
at the time. It meant pecuniary loss that was embarrassing to him, yet
there never was a moment he regretted his action.
It was the beginning of friendships that have endured all the years
since. Not only the success attending his annual visits to Atlanta, but
the associations are of that pleasant character that make a stranger
feel he is in the home of his friends.
Capt. Forrest Adair, one of Atlanta's foremost citizens, journeys each
year to the annual banquets celebrating the birthday of the Al. G. Field
Greater Minstrels. He is as well known and as greatly respected by every
member of the organization as by Alfred.
The first season the profits were not great, although on the right side
of the ledger. The opposition of family and friends continued. "Abandon
the minstrels, go back to a salary." Alfred was considered bull headed,
contrary, without judgment, etc. However, nothing swerved him. He
announced to all he would continue in the minstrel business.
George Knott, (Doc.) and Gov. Campbell were the agents of the Al. G.
Field Minstrels the first season. Gov. Campbell's folks once resided in
Woodville. The citizens united in their endeavors to have him bring his
minstrels to the town. There had never been a minstrel entertainment
presented in the town previously and none since. The hotel man had
undertaken the building of a hall. All sorts of inducements were held
out in the letter received by Alfred. Terms were satisfactorily
arranged, a date scheduled and the minstrels billed to appear in
Woodville.
A narrow-gauge railroad, a train with a disabled engine and a disgusted
minstrel troupe arrived at 3 p. m., six hours late. Charles Sweeny, the
stage manager, came swiftly into the dining room, leaning over Alfred,
he whispered: "There's no stage, no scenery, no seats. Just a bare hall.
No reserved sale. There's--" only thus far did Sweeny get in his
enumeration of his troubles until Alfred was searching for the manager.
He hurriedly inquired of the hotel man as he left the dining room,
without his dinner, as to the place of business of the manager of the
theater. The hotel man gazed at him in blank surprise. Alfred, in his
impatience, did not await an answer. Rushing up the principal street of
the village, he inquired of several persons as to where he could locate
the manager of the theater. Finally the postmaster, in answer to his
impatient questions, said: "You will not find any particular manager as
he ain't got to that yet. He's just built a room and thar's nuthin' in
it. He's at the hotel down yonder." It began to dawn upon Alfred that
the landlord of the hotel was the man he was looking for.
"Lord, young man. If I'd known you was lookin' for me, I'd told you
quicker, who I was. I'm no theater manager."
"But you wrote me you had a theater. I am here with my company ready to
give a performance and you have neither stage nor scenery in your hall.
How do you expect me to put the show on?"
"Why! don't you carry your stage and scenery?" the man asked, in candid
surprise.
"Certainly not. And you should know it. You haven't even got a seat sale
on."
The hotel man began to get excited. "What the hell have I got to do with
selling tickets? If you don't carry your own tickets you're a purty
cheap concern. I don't propose to be brow-beaten by you. If you don't
like the place the road runs both ways out of it." And he walked away
from the minstrel man in high dudgeon.
Seats were borrowed from the Court House, the Methodist Church, the
hotel, anywhere they could be secured. A half dozen carpenters were
working on the improvised stage until the minute the curtain went up.
The dining room of the hotel was converted into a dressing room. After
supper was served the minstrel trunks were placed in the dining room.
Pickles, crackers, ginger snaps, etc., were all in place on the table
for an early morning breakfast. The minstrels ate the tables bare,
ransacked cupboards and sideboards in kitchen and dining room, feasting
and frolicking during the performance.
The bar adjoined the dining room. The minstrels blackened and in their
stage attire, they said to the peg-legged barkeeper: "These are on me;
I've got on my other clothes; I'll settle after the show."
The dressing, or dining room, was about twenty yards from the stage of
the hall. As there was no stage door, (only a front door in the hall),
the minstrel men were obliged to enter by a window. The sash taken out,
leaned against the wall. In the piano chorus of a most pathetic ballad,
both window sashes fell over. The crashing glass brought the entire
audience to their feet. The hall owner stepped over the low footlights
onto the stage, brushing the semi-circle of surprised minstrels to one
side. Disappearing behind the curtain, he reappeared in an instant,
bearing in either hand a window sash with shattered bits of glass
sticking here and there. Crossing the stage, at the instant the
interlocutor announced the singing of the reigning song success,
"There's a Light in the Window for You," placing the sash in front of
the stage, he seated himself.
The stage, or platform, was very low. The sash stuck up several inches
above the footlights. Harry Bulger, in one of his dances purposely
kicked them over again. Down they fell among the musicians. Mr.
Hall-owner was again to the rescue, this time triumphantly bearing the
sash to the rear of the hall.
Alfred looked after the front of the house as well as his stage work.
Remaining at the door until he had barely time to make up, he requested
the hall owner to take tickets until he returned, and not to permit any
to enter without tickets.
The hall man promised not to permit any to enter without tickets. Alfred
sang a song, "Hello, Baby, Here's Your Daddy," the title of it. The
dozen end men, during the chorus, drew from under their chairs large
dolls with blackened faces. Each burlesqued a person handling a baby
awkwardly. As Alfred took his seat his eyes went anxiously to the door.
It was closed. No one entered all the while he was on the stage. At the
end of the baby song, it was customary for Alfred to cast a big ugly
doll, with the words "Here's Your Daddy," into the audience. One of the
company dudishly attired was seated in the audience to catch the doll,
leave the house, pretending to be greatly embarrassed. The audience
usually howled. The baby was flung in the direction of the member of the
company. Unfortunately, it had to pass over the head of the manager of
the hall. Jumping up, reaching into the air much as an expert baseball
player does in pulling down a hot one, he pulled the baby down. Holding
it upside down, he flung it towards Alfred. Anxious to save the scene,
with all his force Alfred flung it towards the young man of the company,
who stood waiting to play his part. But again the hall man jumped
between and caught the baby. By one foot he swung it about his head a
couple of times; the head and arms of the rag doll flew towards Alfred,
striking the stage at his feet. The man holding the legs and all that
part of the baby below the belt, waved it aloft. Meanwhile the audience
was encouraging him with shouts of approval.
Concluding his stage work, hastening towards the door, not even delaying
to change his costume or remove the black from his face, he vigorously
beckoned the hall man to him. Walking towards the door, Alfred poured
forth a torrent of peevish abuse:
"Why, you wrote me all sorts of letters that people were crazy mad for a
minstrel show and there's not fifty dollars in the house."
The landlord doubted this statement. "Not fifty dollars in the house,
huh? Why, there's men in thar," and he jerked his head towards the
audience, "there's men in thar with three hundred dollars in thar
pockets right now. Don't you think you're in a poverty-struck place. Our
people have all got money." Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets,
jingling keys and coins.
"I mean the tickets do not represent fifty dollars so far. I'm in good
and deep and you are the cause of it."
"I find nothing to do business with. I ask you as a last request to
watch the door for me. You leave the door and every jay will walk in."
"Oh no, they won't," interrupted Mr. Hall-man. "They won't get in this
hall without paying."
"Why, what in thunder is to hinder them? The whole town could walk in
without paying one cent."
[Illustration: He Waved the Key]
"I'll be durned if they could," ejaculated Mr. Hall-man, and he waved
the key of the door triumphantly at Alfred. The man had actually locked
the door. When opened, there were some dozen seeking admission. Many
left in disgust.
There was a bill for lights of glass, and numerous drinks at the bar
presented to Alfred. The glass he settled for, informing the hotel man
he did not pay bar-bills. The barkeeper could not recognize any one of
the performers in their street attire.
He assured Alfred "the hull pack of niggers with you jus' drank and
drank and only a few paid. The bill don't amount to much, so far as enny
one of the men is concerned; but one gal, one nigger gal, jus' treated
right and left. If we could get what she owes, I'd let the rest go." The
barkeeper referred to Harry Bulger.
Alfred's great desire was to present his minstrel show in his old home
town, Brownsville. The stage in Jeffries' Hall was too small to
accommodate the minstrels. Therefore, one of Alfred's boyhood friends,
Levi Waggoner, arranged to play the minstrels in the skating rink. Levi
was one of the boys who had stood by the old town through all its
changes and become one of its substantial citizens. Awake to every
business opportunity, he had not only seated the floor space of the rink
but builded circus seats against the rear wall.
Alfred was not in the old town an hour until it became imperative that
he should seek protection from his friends. He delegated one of the
company, one who was noted for his staying qualities, to represent him.
Every man met, no matter how old, claimed to be a schoolboy friend of
Alfred's. "There goes another old friend of Alf's" became a by-word long
before night.
"Spider" Pomeroy, six feet six then, when a boy, (he has grown some
since), celebrated Alfred's return more uproariously than any one person
in the town. Alfred supplied him with a ticket early in the morning. By
noon "Spider" had obtained six tickets, always claiming he had lost the
other one. When the doors opened, "Spider" ran over the small boys in
his way, brushed the ticket taker aside, entering without a ticket he
perched himself on the top of Lee Wagoner's improvised circus seats, his
legs doubled up until his knees stuck up on either side above his head
like a grasshopper.
He sat through the first part. The minstrel with the staying qualities
was laboring with a monologue. "Spider", after his strenuous day, was
sleeping off his exuberance. At the dullest part in the monologist's
offering, "Spider" let go all holds. The skating rink was built on
piles, over the river's bank. One walking on the floor, their footsteps
awakened echoes. When "Spider" hit that floor--and he hit it with all
his frame--legs, arms, feet and head, all at one time, it sounded as if
the building had collapsed. All were on their feet looking towards the
back of the rink. As "Spider" lit, the monologist shouted: "There goes
another old friend of Alf's." It came in pat. The audience grasped it
and the monologist established a reputation for originality. "There goes
another old friend of Alf's" is a common saying in Brownsville until
this day.
The property man that first season was a German, new in the minstrel
game. He is now a capitalist and probably would not relish the
disclosing of his name.
Chas. Sweeny, the stage manager, was a stickler for realism. In the
burlesque of "The Lime Kiln Club," one climax was the sound of a cat
fight on the roof. The cats were supposed to fall through the skylight.
Every member of the lodge was supposed to have his dog with him--colored
people are fond of dogs. When the cats fall into the lodge room, every
dog goes after them. Fake, or dummy cats were prepared for the scene
and used during rehearsals. The first night Sweeny ordered Gus, the
property man, to procure two live cats. Gus, stationed on a very high
step-ladder in the wings, at the cue was to throw the cats on the stage.
Gus was heard to remark: "You all better hurry or send some von to
manage one of dese cats." The cat fight was heard on the roof. The glass
in the skylight was heard to break. The cats were, with great
difficulty, flung by Gus. They clawed and held onto him. The long
step-ladder was rocking like a slender tree in a gale. One cat left the
hands of Gus, alighting with all four feet on Sweeny's neck, with a
spring that sent it out over the heads of the orchestra to the fourth or
fifth row in the parquet. The cat left its marks on Sweeny's neck and
the scars are there today as plain as twenty-seven years ago. As Gus
flung the second cat the exertion was too much for him. He followed on
the step-ladder, overturning Brother Gardner and the stove. Three dogs
pounced upon Gus as he rolled over and over on the floor. Three of the
largest dogs had followed the first cat over the heads of the orchestra,
and a stampede of the audience was in progress, the dogs and cats under
the feet of men and women, who were jumping on chairs or rushing towards
the exits. The curtain went down without the humorous dialogue that
usually terminated the scene.
"Mr. President: I moves you, sir, dat no member ob dis club hyaraftuh be
admitted wid more'n three dogs."
Alfred put his shoulder to the wheel wherever and whenever a push or a
pull was required. Night after night, he assisted the stage hands in
hustling effects from the theatre to the train. On one occasion the
train was scheduled to leave in a very short time after the curtain
fell. Alfred, without changing his stage clothes, busied himself
assisting the stage hands. Gus, the property man, flung Alfred's
clothing into his trunk, not observing they were his street apparel
instead of stage costumes. The trunk was sent to the depot. When Alfred
prepared to follow he was minus everything except a large pair of
shoes, thin pants, long stockings and undershirt. There was no time to
be lost; grabbing up a large piece of carpet, Alfred wound it around
himself and started for the depot on a run.
Doc Quigley, Arthur Rigby and several of the company stationed
themselves along his route to the depot, hiding in the shadows of
doorways. One after another shouted: "Good-bye, Al, good-bye old boy.
You've got the best show ever. Come back again. Your show's great."
[Illustration: "Good-bye Al, Old Boy"]
"All right boys, good-bye. I'll be with you next season," shouted the
hustling minstrel as he sped for the train. Alfred was completely
deceived. He imagined the compliments were coming from the towns-people.
The German property man, whose mistake was responsible for Alfred's
grotesque appearance, was stationed by the jokers behind a fence near
the depot. As Alfred hove in sight with the old rag carpet flapping
around his form, Gus shouted: "Goot bye, Mr. Fieldt. Goot luck. Your
show iz great. Kum unt see us agen. I hope your show will be here nexdt
season."
"It will be, but you won't be with it, you dutch son of a gun." Alfred
had recognized the voice.