noise in the next room, and nudged Jim, her husband.
"What's the matter?" inquired Jim.
"There is a burglar in the other room," said Bonnie.
"How do you know?"
"I can hear him."
There was a pause, then she whispered excitedly,
"_Jim, he is under the bed._"
"No, he isn't," said Jim.
"How do you know he isn't?"
"Because I am under there."
* * * * *
Jack Wilson went into an auto supply store in New York and wanted to buy
a pedometer for his car.
"A speedometer you mean, don't you?" said the clerk, smiling.
"No; I want a pedometer," said Jack.
"But," persisted the clerk, "a pedometer is for registering how far you
have walked. You don't want that on your car."
"Humph," said Jack, "you don't know my car."
* * * * *
A Critic had criticized me rather severely, and then, not satisfied with
that, had come around to see me and tell wherein I was wrong.
"See here," I said, "how is it that you, a newspaper man here in a small
town; a man that never wrote a play; never produced a play; and never
played a part in your life; how is it that you feel competent to give
lessons to me, who have made a life's study of this line of work?"
"Well," he said slowly, "it is true that I never wrote, produced or took
part in a play. Neither have I ever laid an egg. But I consider myself a
better judge of an omelette than any hen that ever lived."
There was a kind of a R.S.V.P. in his tone but I did not have any answer
to make right at the time.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Far from Home and Kindred.]
It was at a little station way out on the plains of Nebraska. There were
exactly sixteen houses in sight. Two men met just outside our window.
"Why, hello, Henry," said one; "what are you doin' down town?"
VAUDEVILLE VS. THE LEGITIMATE
A few years ago a handsome, immaculate young man came over to me as I
was sitting in the office of the Adams House in Boston and said,
"Mr. Cressy, my name is so-and-so; I am an actor; a good actor too, and
I have always been very proud of my profession. My mother is one of the
most popular actresses in America to-day. But last summer I had an
experience that set me to thinking a little. As you were mixed up in it
I am going to tell it to you.
"Last season I was out with a company that made one of those 'artistic
successes,' but which did not seem to interest the public very much. As
a result, when the merry springtime came around, I had a trunk full of
good clothes, good press notices and I.O.U.'s from the manager, but not
a dollar in money.
"But I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation from a luckier
actor friend to spend a month at his summer home on the shores of Lake
Sunapee, N. H. Did I went? I did went! _Quick_.
"He had a beautiful home. And I was certainly some class; I had linens,
flannels, yachting clothes, tennis clothes, evening clothes; in fact I
had everything but money.
"One night we were sitting down on his little wharf enjoying our--no,
his--cigars, and a very pretty little launch passed by.
"'Whose launch is that?' I asked.
"'Oh, it belongs to some Vaudeville player by the name of Matthews, I
believe. They live over on the other side of the lake. I don't know
them.'
"Pretty soon another little launch came into the bay, cruised around the
shore, and went.
"'Whose boat is that?' I inquired.
"'That belongs to a Vaudeville fellow by the name of Merritt. I don't
know him.'
"A little while after a big cabin launch came into the bay and cruised
slowly around. Out on the deck was a party of young folks: two of the
girls were playing mandolins and they were all singing.
"'By Jove!' I exclaimed. 'That's a beauty! Whose is it?'
"'Oh, that is Will Cressy's boat,' replied my friend impatiently. 'He is
another of those Vaudeville people. There are a number of them over
across the lake there, but we don't know them at all.'
"I sat for a while--thinking. Here I was, a recognized Broadway player
of legitimate rôles, a man who could play any juvenile Shakespearian
rôle without a rehearsal, a member of The Lambs and The Players Clubs.
And here I was sitting out on the end of a wharf because I didn't have
money enough to hire even a bum rowboat. And the three first launches
that had passed by were all owned by _Vaudeville players_--whom my
legitimate friend 'did not know at all.' I thought it all out and then I
turned to my friend and said,
"'All right, Tom, but you want to make all you can out of this visit of
mine. For the next time I come up here you won't be speaking to me.'
"'Why won't I?' he asked in surprise.
"'Because the next time I come up here I am going to be "one of those
Vaudeville players." I am going to have some money in my pocket; and I
am going to have a boat; and I am going to sail by here every evening
and make faces at you "Legits."'"
* * * * *
Copy of a letter received from the proprietor of a hotel in Youngstown,
Ohio:
"To the Manager of the ---- Company.
"I can highly recommend you to my hotel we get all the best troups our
rates are as follows.
One man or one woman in one bed, $1.25.
Two men, or two women, or one man and one woman in one bed, $1.00.
And the hens lay every day.
"---- ----, Proprietor."
* * * * *
Hanging in each room of the Freeman House at Paterson, N. J., there used
to hang a neat little frame of "House Rules." Among these rules were the
following:
"Towel Service will be restricted to one clean towel for each guest
daily. The face towel of the previous day may (and should) be retained
for hand use the following day."
"Gentlemen will not be allowed to visit ladies in their sleeping rooms,
nor ladies to visit gentlemen in their rooms _except under extenuating
circumstances_."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Why?"]
A little boy playing around the stage door of the Orpheum Theater in
Kansas City spoke to me as I came out one afternoon.
"Hello, Mister."
"Hello, young feller."
"Do you work in there?"
"Yes."
"Are you an actor?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
And I couldn't tell him of a single reason.
A SOCIAL SESSION
_Being "An Outsider's" Views of an Elks' Social Respectfully dedicated
to Archie Boyd, a Real Elk._
Have you ever, when benighted
In a strange town, been invited
To a social of the B. P. O. of E.?
'Twas too early to be sleeping
And the "blues" were o'er you creeping
And you wished that at home you could be.
But when once you got inside,
Got to drifting with the tide
Of Goodfellowship that seemed to fill the room;
Was there not a better feeling
That came softly o'er you stealing
That seemed to send the sunlight through the gloom?
There is magic in those letters;
Binding men in Friendship's fetters,
Wondrous letters; B. P. O. of E.
There's "Benevolence," "Protection,"
Mark you well the close connection
As they beam down from above on you and me.
And you listen to the stories
That they tell about the glories
Of this Brotherhood you meet on every hand.
Of a hand outstretched in pity
To some Elk in foreign city,
A Stranger, and in a stranger land.
And now the murmur is abating;
And you notice men are awaiting
For the hour of Eleven's drawing near.
'Tis the sweetest hour of any;
Each remembered by the many,
As they drink to "Absent Brothers," held so dear.
And now I want to ask a question,
Or rather make a slight suggestion
To you "Strangers" that these invitations reach.
When you're asked to entertain them
Do not bashfully detain them
With that chestnut that you cannot make a speech.
You may not be a dancer;
Or your voice may have a cancer,
And as a singer you may be an awful frost.
But if you can't do recitations
Or other fancy recreations,
Don't consider that you are completely lost.
For somewhere in your travels
You've heard a story that unravels
All the kinks you had tied up in your heart.
And can't you, from out the many,
Tell one, as well as any?
It will show them that you want to do your part.
So do get up and make a try;
You can't any more than die;
And if it's rotten, your intentions will atone.
And you'll show appreciation
For the greatest aggregation
Of "Good Fellows" that the world has ever known.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Time All Open. Indefinite."]
Several years ago the Quigley Brothers, Bob and George, were living at a
boarding house on Fourteenth Street, New York. One afternoon George was
standing in front of the looking glass, shaving, and at the same time
practicing a new dance step. Bob was seated on the floor, writing
letters, on his trunk, to different managers for "time." He stopped,
looked up and said,
"How do you spell eighty, George?"
"Who are you writing to?" asked George.
"Huber."
"_F-o-r-t-y._"
* * * * *
All Artists, while playing "the Provinces" in England, stop at
"lodgings," that is, private houses. The landlady always keeps a book,
in which she has the visiting Artists write their autographs, and a line
telling how much they have enjoyed her "lodgings."
E. J. Connelly got into one house where he did not feel like writing
just what he thought about it; but the landlady was so insistent that
finally he took the book and wrote--
"Quoth the Raven; E. J. Connelly."
* * * * *
One night at the Vaudeville Comedy Club the conversation drifted around
to Stage Tramps. It happened that there were several of this style of
the genus homo present and they began a good-natured dispute as to which
had been playing tramp parts the longest.
Nat Wills went back as far as 1885. Charlie Evans said that "Old Hoss"
Hoey could beat that, as he was at it in 1881. John World said they
were mere novices; as he was playing a tramp part in 1874.
Just then Walter Jones wandered in, and the matter was referred to him.
"Boys," he said, stifling a yawn, "you are all Pikers; Mere Johnnie
Newcomers. Why, I played a tramp part in '1492.'"
BIGALOW AND THE BIG SIX
Charles Bigalow, the Hairless Comedian, has passed away; and when you
stop to consider that he put in a whole season in a company with Pete
Daily, Willie Collier, Lew Field, Joe Webber, John T. Kelley and Edgar
Smith, you can't wonder that he passed away. I never could see how
anybody lived through that season. I wouldn't put in a season with that
sextette for all the money Lee Harrison has got. What one of them
wouldn't think of another would; and generally they all thought of it at
once.
One of the scenes that season took place on the deck of a yacht. Daily
and Collier had a scene where they leaned over the rail of the boat,
this rail running across the stage right down next to the footlights,
and while pretending to be looking down into the sea, made fun of the
leader, the members of the orchestra and the audience.
Daily would point down to a couple of chaps and say to Collier,
"Oh, look! there are a couple of sharks."
"How do you know they are sharks?" Collier would ask.
"I was playing poker with them last night," Daily would reply.
Then Collier would get his eye on a party of girls.
"And look at the school of minnies!" he would say.
"Those are not minnies," Daily would say.
"What are they?"
"Rebeccas."
Now as this was a scene that didn't start anywhere nor go anywhere,
there had to be some sort of an interruption occur to get them off the
stage. So it was arranged that Bigalow should come rushing on calling
for help; Collier and Daily ask what is the matter. Bigalow says his
wife has fallen overboard and the three rush off to save her.
This version was played for several weeks; then Daily and Collier began
to fear that Bigalow was beginning to become mechanical in his work so
they decided to make a change in the scene; but they did not tell him
so.
That night the scene went on as usual, up to the time of Bigalow's
entrance. He came rushing, wild eyed and excited shouting--
"Help! Help!"
But instead of turning and asking what the matter was, Collier and Daily
kept right on with their kidding the audience. Again, and louder,
Bigalow yelled--
"_Help! Help!_"
Collier discovered a red-headed girl down in front and called Daily's
attention to the "Red Snapper" over on the right.
"_Help!_ HELP! HELP-HELP!!"
Daily called Collier's attention to the marcel waves beating on a
fellow's shoulder over in the left-hand box.
Bigalow was getting madder every minute. "Oh, say, for the love of Lee
Shubert, come and help a feller, will you?"
Collier pointed to a man in the front row and said, "Look at the gold
fish down there! See his gold teeth?"
By this time Bigalow was so mad he couldn't speak at all; so he just
stood and glared at the other two. Having accomplished their desires,
Daily now took Collier by the arm and they started off stage. Just as
they were about to exit, Collier stopped, held up his hand, listened a
moment, then said,
"I thought I heard something!"
They both put their hands to their ears and listened. Then Collier
turned and saw Bigalow, looked at him a moment and said,
"Er--I beg pardon! Did you speak?"
Bigalow just looked at him angrily.
"Something about 'help,' was it not?" continued Collier.
Still no reply.
"Help? Help?" said Daily, briskly; "what help do you want?"
"Oh, my wife fell overboard--an hour ago," said Bigalow in tones of
disgust.
"Is it possible?" said Daily; and, taking Collier's arm they walked off
unconcernedly, leaving Bigalow there alone.
For a full minute he stood there, looking off after them, too angry and
disgusted to speak. And then, at the top of his voice he yelled after
them--
"Well, say, you know I don't give a damn either."
And walked off.
* * * * *
Upon another occasion several of the Webber & Fields Stars were engaged
to appear at a function given by some millionaire up on Fifth Avenue.
They were to meet at the theater, dress there, and go up to the house in
taxicabs. As usual, Bigalow was late. But as this always happened nobody
bothered about it. They simply got dressed and went on their way,
leaving him to come as best he could.
But, in order that he should not feel neglected, they fixed things up
for him. In rummaging through his trunk Daily had come across a can of
burnt cork, that he had used in a minstrel show at St. James, L. I., the
previous summer. So while Collier wrote a note for Bigalow, telling him
that at the last minute it had been decided that everybody should "black
up," Daily daubed some of the burnt cork around the wash bowl and on to
his and Collier's towels. This done they all went up to the house where
they were to appear.
Can you see the next picture? Daily, Collier, Kelly, and the others all
in immaculate evening dress, sitting in the host's drawing room,
chatting with the host and a few friends, when the door burst open and
Bigalow dashed in--as black as burnt cork would make him!
Poor Charlie. May he rest in peace. And that is more than he would ever
have done in that company.
* * * * *
There was an English musical act playing over here last summer. The wife
carried the money. She had to; if she hadn't there wouldn't have been
any to carry. She had a time lock on the pocketbook and the time did not
expire until they got back to England. She had been brought up under a
free trade government and she did not like our protective tariff prices.
Hubby had one hat; a straw one. As Hubby had red hair and the hat was a
dirty white, he looked like a fried egg in it. For weeks he had been
trying to get a requisition on the treasury for a new one. But wife had
vetoed the appropriation every time.
Finally Hubby had a scheme. He went to Joe Apdale, the animal trainer,
for assistance.
"Now, Joe," he said, "Hi'll tell you wot we'll do; Hi will go down hand
set on the hedge of the dock there, hover the ocean. Hand you come along
hand say, ''Ullo, old chap!' and slap me on the back. Hi'll jump, and
the bloomin' 'at will fall hin the water."
"All right," said Joe; "set your stage."
Hubby went down to the edge of the wharf, leaning over and looking at
the water below.
Joe sauntered down that way, saw him, started, went over to him, said,
"Hullo, old chap!" and slapped him on the back.
Hubby started--and lost his glasses into the ocean, while the hat
remained firmly on his head.
* * * * *
The Four Blank Sisters were playing the Columbia at Cincinnati; Mama
Blank traveled with the act; Mama was about five feet long and four
wide; and she was built too far front; she was at least fifteen inches
out over the building line.
On this particular night the German Consul was to be in front to see the
girls. Coram, the English Ventriloquist, was doing his act in "One." The
girls came next. Mama spied a peek hole in the curtain; this peek hole
was about the center of the stage. Mama said, "So; I should see if the
Consul iss dere already yet."
So she went to the peek hole; it was just about two inches too high; so,
in order to make it, Mama had to stand on tiptoe; this change in her
"point of support" threw her center of gravity still further front, so
that by the time she got her eyes up to within a foot of the peek hole,
her front piazza was right up against the curtain; but she didn't know
it; she kept stepping forward to get nearer to the peek hole, and her
stomach kept shoving it further and further away.
Meanwhile she was crowding poor Coram, out in front, further and further
into the footlights. Finally, in desperation, he brought his elbow back
against the curtain with a whack. It struck poor Mama where she was the
most prominent, and knocked every bit of breath out of her. With a groan
she collapsed, and it took the four daughters all the rest of the
evening to get her pumped up again.
* * * * *
Hanging on the walls of the old S. & C. House in Seattle were the
following rules:
If you don't like the Laundry, tell the Property Man, and he will put a
washtub and clothes line in your room.
If you don't like the way the stage is run, join the Union and run it
yourself.
If you don't like the Manager, tell him, and he will resign.
If your act don't go well here it is because you are over their heads.
In case of fire all Artists will please gather in the center of the
stage and wait orders from the Stage Manager.
[Illustration: "Good Morning."]
NEVER AGAIN
Harry Fox, with his two little pardners, the Millership Sisters, Flora
and Lillian ("Lillian is the one in yellow"), were playing at the New
Orleans Orpheum. As it was Mardi Gras week and everything was crowded,
Harry "doubled up" for the week with a Contortionist by the name of
Marseilles, and they took a large room with two beds in it.
It was Harry's first visit to New Orleans, and his first meeting with
the Contortionist. But the Contortionist was well acquainted, and after
the show Monday night he took Harry out to meet some of his friends.
Harry says he never met a man who knew so many bartenders in his life.
The result was that when Harry woke up in the morning he did not
remember going to bed.
Now all the beds in New Orleans have mosquito nets over them; this was
also a new wrinkle on Harry. And when he woke up it happened that his
face was right close up to this mosquito netting as it hung down at the
side of the bed. He opened his eyes, but he could not see; he winked
several times and shook his head; but it was no use; everything was
blurred to him; the fearful thought came to him,
"I am going blind; everything looks misty and blurred to me."
Cold chills began to run up and down his back at the horror of it; he
seemed paralyzed; he could not move. And then, from somewhere out in
that blur of misty light a voice said,
"Good morning."
Harry peered closer out through the mist before him, and after a
moment's search he gave a yell and started upright in the bed with a
scream of fright. For there, standing in the center of the room was the
Contortionist, "limbering up." He was standing with his toes pointing
toward Harry, but he had bent himself over backwards until his head was
way down between his legs, with his face sticking out through in front,
looking at Harry with a cheerful grin.
This was at eleven forty-five; at twelve ten Harry was over at the
office of a justice of the peace, taking the pledge.
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT
Some folks are of an artistic nature; some folks are satisfied if things
are useful, while others like to have them ornamental as well. A lady
friend of ours, up in New Hampshire, belongs to this latter class. She
likes to see things about the house look neat and pretty.
One of the things that grated on her artistic sense was the bath tub; it
held water all right, and it was clean enough; but it was a plain,
unpainted tin affair and she shuddered every time she looked at it.
Every time she took a bath she shuddered twice.
One evening while reading _The Ladies' Home Journal_, she came across
the heading--"How to Enamel a Tin Bath Tub." "Ah ha! At last!" She read
the article; then she read it again; it was simple enough; she could do
it; she knew she could. And she also knew that if it was done, she would
_have_ to do it; for Hubbie didn't have the Artistic Temperament worth a
cent. He wouldn't have cared if the bath tub was made of old rubber
boots; he didn't use it much anyway.
So the next morning she took the clipping from the paper down to the
paint store, bought a can of enamel, a bottle of varnish and a paint
brush, and after dinner went after that bath tub. First she scrubbed it
thoroughly; then she dried it; and then she put on the white enamel; a
good job too. But as she stood back and looked at it, it did not quite
fill the bill; it was rather thin; the tin showed through in spots.
Well, if one coat was good, two coats ought to be better; so she went
back and put on another coat. It was a great improvement; wonderful, in
fact; a third coat would make it look like the finest marble; so on went
a third coat.
The next thing, according to the printed directions, was the coat of
varnish. Now the man that wrote those directions probably took it for
granted that any one using them would know enough to let one coat dry
before putting on another; so he did not mention that fact in his
directions. And so now, according to directions, our lady friend, not
content with putting on three coats of enamel, all at one sitting,
proceeded to put on the coat of varnish.
The directions then were to fill the bath tub with cold water and let it
set for twenty-four hours.
As this was on a Wednesday, and of course there could be no use for the
tub before Saturday, she let the water set until that time, in order to
let the paint get "set" good and firm.
Saturday night she went in and let the water out and after admiring the
white and gleaming tub for awhile she proceeded to take her bath.
Usually, on account of her hatred for the old tin tub, she made this
ceremony as short as possible; but to-night, sitting there in this
beautiful white tub, she lingered; she could almost close her eyes and
imagine herself Cleopatra reclining in her alabaster bath, waited on by
slaves; she reached up and got a bottle of perfume from a shelf over her
head and perfumed the waters. And she decided that in addition to the
regular Saturday night performance she should hereafter play a Wednesday
matinée.
But all good things come to an end; and finally she decided to arise;
with a sigh she placed her hands on the side of the tub and lifted; with
a scream she took her hands off the side of the tub and settled back,
and felt. She discovered that this "good thing" had "come to an end" in
more ways than one; and that as far as she was able to discover "the
end" and "the good thing" were liable to remain together indefinitely;
for she had settled into that mess of paint, enamel and varnish, until
she and that bath tub had formed an attachment that nothing short of a
doctor or a plumber could separate.
For purely personal reasons she did not want to call for either the
doctor or the plumber. And much less did she want to explain her
predicament to her husband. She always had been in the habit of facing
her troubles bravely; but here was a situation where this rule was hard
to follow. Another rule she had always tried to follow was to put her
troubles behind her; but, although she was now following this rule,
somehow it brought no relief.
Meanwhile, while she sat there thinking all these things over, the paint
was setting harder than ever; ditto the lady. Something must be done;
and she had got to do it herself. So she began a sort of rocking
movement; back and forth, side to side, she twisted and writhed. She
realized, more than ever, how much she had become attached to that old
tin bath tub; she realized how it was going to pain her to break away
from it; sometimes she doubted as to whether she _could_ go away and
leave it; she wondered if she would have to go through life wearing that
darned old tin bath tub.