"My God, how Mike has fallen away."

* * * * *

The manager of a small Moving Picture and Vaudeville Theater in Lincoln, Nebraska, was watching the opening show of the week. A Horizontal Bar came on, two men, one a straight acrobat, the other a clown. As soon as the act was over the manager went back and fired the clown.

"Fired?" said the clown in amazement; "what for?"

"Because you can't do nothin'; you missed every trick you went after; t'other feller is all right; he can work."

* * * * *

Joe Keaton, "the Man With the Table, a Wife and Three Kids," was in three hotel fires inside of fourteen months. But he always managed to get his little family out safe. In addition to doing that, he always managed to save something; and that something was the same every time. When they had all got down the fire escapes, and had reached a place of safety, Joe would find clutched tightly in his hand—a cake of soap.

* * * * *

One night Ezra Kendal left his wife at the elevator in the Union Hotel in Chicago, saying that he would be right up in a few minutes. Two hours later he came up to the room.

"Where have you been all this time, Ezra?" asked his wife.

"I met a couple of Interlocutors downstairs, and I have been doing End Man to them," said Ezra.



Fred Niblo and his wife (Josephine Cohan) were playing at Proctor's 23d Street Theater in New York. Fred always wore a Prince Albert coat in his act. On this day he had considerable trouble in getting his necktie to suit him. Finally he got arranged, slipped on the Prince Albert, buttoned it, took one final look into the glass, and started for the door.

"Where are you going, dear?" asked Mrs. N. in that wifely tone that always makes a man shrink.

"Why, I am going out to do my act," said Fred. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," said Mrs. N., "only I thought perhaps you would want to put some trousers on."



A NIGHT IN BOHEMIA

When George W. Day got married he took awful chances. Well, of course, we all do, for that matter; but George took more than usual, for he married into a Scotch Presbyterian family, and anybody knows that Actors and Scotch Presbyterians were not originally created for Affinities. But George, in addition to being an Actor, is a Musician, an Artist and a Corking Good Fellow, and the wife's folks, after taking him on probation for ten or fifteen years, finally decided that they would accept him into the family.

Up to two or three years ago, Mother-in-law was the only one of the family who had visited Mr. and Mrs. George in their New York home; the rest of the family had continued to reside in Peaceful Valley, or wherever it was, and hope for the best for that poor erring daughter who had fallen victim to the wiles of "a Actor." But finally Mr. and Mrs. George and Mother-in-law had persuaded Mother-in-law's two sisters and one of the sister's husbands to come down to New York and visit the Days.

Uncle Abinidab was a tall, ministerial appearing man, "ninety years of age, and whiskers down to here"; he dressed in a black pair of trousers, a black Prince Albert coat, black tie, and a black slouch hat.

The two aunts wore the black silk dresses that their father had brought from India sixty years ago. Mother-in-law was also dressed in black.

George worked in as many "neutral tints" on his own wardrobe as he could, trying to "tone down" to fit the occasion. The ice box was used for the sole purpose of storing food; George's cigars, pipes and tobacco were locked up in an old trunk in the storeroom. The family Bible was hunted up, dusted, and placed in a conspicuous position on the centertable in the front room. George carefully censored his drawings which were stuck up on the walls all over the house; and any lady who did not have on a Buffalo overcoat and rubber boots was placed out in the trunk with the pipes.

The week that followed was "one round of gayety" for the folks. George walked off over five pounds showing them the Brooklyn bridge, Central Park, Grant's tomb, Fifth Avenue, Fleischman's bread line, Macy's store, the post-office, Tammany Hall, and every church in the city.

It took them the first five days to play this route. And then on Friday night Mother-in-law horrified George by informing the others that on the next day she and George would show them Coney Island. By going out early in the morning, and in the evenings, and rehearsing his day's route in advance, George had managed so far to conduct his little Company around the city without running them into any "High Life." But he knew that if that crowd ever struck Coney Island on a good busy afternoon, his hopes of becoming a favorite son-in-law were gone.

But Mother insisted, so the next morning he took Deacon Abinidab and the three "sisters in black" and started for Coney Island. Although I have examined him closely on this point, he does not seem to have any very clear idea yet as to where they went that day, or what they did. All he can say is that "it was awful." They insisted on Hot Dogs, Pop Corn, Peanut Brittle, Dreamland, Luna Park, and all the rest; they went through the Old Mill, and they made George come down the "Bump the Bumps," "Shoot the Shoots" and such other exhilarating devices as they did not dare to tackle themselves.

They had supper in Henderson's, watching the Vaudeville show on the stage as they ate. They watched the fireworks, and it was ten o'clock before George could get them started toward home. When he got them on the train, homeward bound, he heaved a sigh of mighty relief, but afterwards regretted wasting a sigh of that sort in that way.

Arriving in New York, they were wending their way up Broadway, near Twenty-ninth Street; Uncle Abinidab had been sort of hanging back for a block or two, looking here and there in a searching kind of way, and finally he took George's arm and said confidentially: "George, laddie, do ye ken a place where we can get a wee nippie?" George didn't know whether the inquiry was on the level, or whether it was a sort of "feeler" to find out how he stood on the temperance question. But he decided to "play safety" so he stated promptly that he did not know of such a place in New York City.

But Mother! Ah ha! That mother-in-law, that since Creation's dawn has been abused and vilified, that mother-in-law, that through all those years George had feared and dreaded; that mother-in-law, at whose approach he had hidden his pipe and tobacco; that mother-in-law that he had never approached without a clove and a stage fright. Now, it was she who spoke up like Horatio at the Bridge and said:

"I know a place."

George was stunned; speechless; if the statue of Horace Greeley just passed, had spoken those words, he couldn't have been more surprised. He looked at her in amazement and asked her what "place" she knew. "Right down this street here," she said; "come on."

And if you guessed a thousand years, you never would guess where that blessed old lady steered those innocent Presbyterians. Into "Bohemia," one of the swiftest, all-night restaurants and dance halls in New York City. Neither Mr. or Mrs. George has ever had the courage to this day to ask how on earth Mother came to even know of the existence of such a place, much less of its locality.

Down Twenty-ninth Street they marched; Mother in the lead, the two sisters next, then Uncle Abinidab "with whiskers down to here," and last, and making himself the "least," he could, with his two hundred and seventy pounds, came George, wondering what the finish would be. The Orchestra, one of those Austrian Table-Dote-with-Red-Wine Affairs, consisting of half a dozen crazy fiddlers and a girl beating one of those woven wire mattress pianos with a couple of sticks, was whooping it up for all they were worth; the loud shrill voices of the women and the hoarse voices of the men, the shouts of the waiters and the clatter of dishes made a very babel of sound.

And then the Presbyterian convention walked in.

The crowd gave one look—and every sound stopped. The Orchestra died away in a discordant wail; the guests stopped, with glasses raised half way to their lips; the waiters stood as if petrified. Old Bohemia had seen many strange sights in its career; but no stranger cavalcade had ever marched in through its portals than this "Peaceful Valley Quartette." The three aged women, dressed in all the simplicity of their village home; Uncle Abinidab, tall, austere and with the snow-white whiskers, and behind them, a big, smooth-faced, broad-shouldered young chap that looked like a Plain Clothes Man in charge.

Four pale, anemic, shifty-eyed young fellows who were seated at a table near the door, took one look at George, reached under their chairs for their hats, and faded away through the door into the night. Mother, with a happy smile, piloted her little brood over to an empty table, and with a graceful gesture, motioned them to be seated. Then, with expectant faces, they all looked at George. Every eye in the place was still focussed on them. The silence and air of expectation which pervaded the room was so tense that everybody jumped when George mustered up courage at last to stammer,

"Er-er-what'll you have?"

The silence grew still more tense as everybody leaned forward to hear the answer. Uncle Abinidab glanced at the sisters nervously, then cleared his throat and said:

"Er-er-hem; I think I'll take a wee drop of whiskey."

There was a deep sigh of relief went up from the whole room, a sigh which swelled to an almost articulate cry of joy as Mother-in-law chimed in, "I think I will too."

The two sisters voted with the majority and George made it unanimous.

Every person in the room, guests, musicians and waiters, as if they could not really believe it yet, watched the drinks brought, and disposed of. Then Mother arose and majestically and calmly led her little flock to the door and out on to the street again. As the parade turned on to Broadway, George looked back, and every doorway and window in Bohemia was crowded with faces. And as the cavalcade passed from sight the Orchestra struck up their wild discordant clamor, the voices and the laughter broke out again, and Bohemia became herself again.

* * * * *

One day in June three sweet country Maids Decided at home no more they'd reside. So all three together sat out on a tramp And the tramp died.

* * * * *

I asked the old Gate Tender at a park in Columbus, Ohio, what time the electric cars left for the city.

"Quarter past—half past—quarter of and 'at,'" he replied.

* * * * *



Gene Ellsworth (Ellsworth & Burt) was playing the part of Dunston Kirk in the play of Hazel Kirk. At the end of the last act Dunston, who is supposed to be blind, strikes down the villain with his cane. On this occasion, just as 'Gene had his cane raised to strike him, a horseshoe fell from the flies above, struck the villain square on the top of the head, and knocked him cold. 'Gene saw the climax of his scene going, but quick as a flash raised his hand on high and said solemnly,

"Struck down by the hand of an outraged Providence."

* * * * *



James J. Corbett was indulging in one of his semi-annual attacks of acting, and it came along to a place where the villain was to say—

"Then die, you dog," and shoot Jim, who fell, wounded, to the floor.

Upon this occasion the villain spoke the line, pulled the trigger, and Jim fell. But the gun did not go off. Instantly Jim raised himself on his elbow and said in agonized tones—

"My God; shot with an air gun."

* * * * *

Mrs. Filson (Filson & Errol) had lost a ring in the Pullman car; after quite a search the porter found it and brought it to her.

"My Goodness, Lady," he said, "but you certainly is mighty lucky; there was some acters in this cyar las' night, an' ef one of them had found it—good-by ring."



BREAKS

Marshall P. Wilder had just come off the stage at Shea's in Buffalo. His act had not gone at all to suit him, and he stood shaking his head and wondering what was the matter. A big, fat acrobat who was closing the show noticed him and said,

"What's the trouble, Kid?"

"I don't know," said Wilder, "but I can't seem to make them laugh."

"Augh, don't you worry about that; you ain't supposed to; you draw 'em in; we'll make 'em laugh."

* * * * *

A girl who was opening the show at Keith's Providence house stood in the wings watching the Four Fords in their wonderful dancing act. At the end they came off, panting and gasping from their violent exercise. The girl watched them a moment pityingly, then said,

"Tough work, ain't it? I used to do all that stuff; but I found there wasn't any money in it, and I cut it out."

* * * * *



Robert Hilliard came off the stage at the Fifth Avenue Theater in New York; the house was small and he had not gone very well. A big, rough, knockabout comedian stood waiting his own turn to go on, and seeing Hilliard looked worried, said to him,

"What's the matter, Bo?"

"They did not seem to care much for my offering," said Hilliard.

"Why sure they don't; you don't hand it to 'em right. Give 'em the Gravy, Cull, give 'em the Gravy. I do."

* * * * *

William Hawtry had made his debut in Vaudeville and his friends at the Lambs' Club were asking him how he liked it.

"Well," said Mr. Hawtry, "I must say I found the audience very responsive; and the theater employes were very kind; but I met some of the strangest people, among the Artists, that I ever saw."

Upon being asked wherein they were strange, he replied,

"Why, there is a fellow dressing with me who has the largest diamonds and the dirtiest underwear I ever saw."



THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN NEW YORK AND CANANDAIGUA

We were touring in our auto from New Hampshire out to Buffalo. For several days everything had gone well. And then, within ninety miles of Buffalo, everything went wrong at once. I had had two blow-outs the previous day, and had bought two casings. Then, just as we were coming into Canandaigua my whole transmission went. This was ten or twelve years ago, and the nearest thing Canandaigua had to a garage was a tin shop. I got the car pulled in under a wagon shed and put in eighteen hours building a new transmission out of an old copper pump and a rainspout.

Buying the two casings had "broke" me, and now I had a two-days' hotel bill for four people, and nothing to pay it with. Fine! But with my most winning way I went up to the desk and said to the old landlord,

"Mr. Landlord, I am in rather an embarrassing fix. I owe you a bill and I have no money."

The landlord was a quaint, silent old fellow, with thick glasses and a very disconcerting stare. He now used this stare hard and said nothing. So I hastened to add—

"Of course I have got money, but I haven't got it with me; and I shall have to give you a check."

He just gave a little sniff and turned his head and glanced up at a framed card above the desk which read—

- NO CHECKS CASHED. -

"But," I hastened to add, "I'll tell you what I would like to have you do. You telegraph, at my expense of course, to Mr. Murphy, of the Genesee Hotel, or Mr. Shea, at Shea's Theater, and I think they will assure you that Will Cressy's check is good."

He sniffed again and looked at me through those big glasses, and I began to get rattled in earnest. There must be some way; I must have something that will convince this man I am not a crook. I have it! My Identification Card from my insurance company. Hastily getting out my pocketbook I showed him this card.

"I can show you all right that I am Will Cressy. See? Here is my picture; and how heavy I am; and how tall; and the color of my eyes; and hair; and my signature."

Anxiously I looked up at him again. And I hadn't touched him. I began to get desperate. Frantically I searched through my pocketbook for something that would show my identity. I dragged out my different Club Cards.

"See!" I said, "I belong to the Lambs' Club, in New York; and the Friars; and the Green Room Club; and the Touring Club of America; and the Vaudeville Comedy Club."

I stopped; almost tearfully I looked at him. I could do no more. He sniffed again, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said,

"You're a hell of a feller when you're home, ain't ye?"

* * * * *

As I was going to the theater in Indianapolis I passed two ladies who were busily discussing a third.

"You know she can't hear very well," said one.

"No, I see she can't," said the other.

* * * * *

"Bobbie" Richardson was not feeling very well, and for the past four nights had been taking a couple of pills each night. The fifth night Mrs. Bobbie happened to glance over toward him just as he was about to take his two pills.

"Bobbie," she said with a gasp, "what are you doing?"

"I am taking a couple of my pills," replied Bobbie.

"My Goodness," said Mrs. Bobbie, "those are not pills; that is a bottle I gave Alice to keep her beads in."

* * * * *

Julius Tannen and his wife were—er—talking it over. That is, she was; Julius was playing he was the audience. Finally Julius got an opening and said,

"Say, what would you think if you and I ever thought the same about something?"

Quick as a flash Mrs. Julius answered,

"I should know I was wrong."



LET US HOPE

"The Normal School Band uniforms will consist of a coat and cap at first, with the probable addition of trousers at a later date."—Kalamazoo Gazette.

* * * * *

At the Seelback Hotel in Louisville, Ky., I asked the colored waiter if they served a table d'hote meal in the morning. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the bill of fare, studied on it for a moment, then said,

"Er—no, suh; we haven't got table doe meal, but we have got oat meal."

* * * * *

I saw a wedding announcement in a Kansas City paper the other day and I didn't blame the girl a bit. Her name was Leafy Gose.

* * * * *

Al Fields' (Fields & Lewis) mother and father came from Berlin. Father teaches stuttering people not to stutter. One day he was busily beating time for a pupil to talk to, when the bell rang; he went to the door and a boy handed in a bundle, saying,

"Frank Brothers."

A couple of days afterwards Mother said to him,

"Papa, haf you seen a pair of slippers come by der house for Mama?"

No, Papa had seen no slippers.

"It iss funny iss," said Mama. "Two days ago yet I buy me a pair of slippers from Frank Brothers; unt they say they vill sent them by a boy to the house."

"From who iss it?" asked Papa anxiously.

"From Frank Brothers."

"Gott in Himmel; I thought the boy said 'Frankfurters'; they are the ice box in."

* * * * *

Al and his father were sitting at the breakfast table.

"Where iss it that you go next veek?" asked Papa.

"Birmingham," said Al shortly.

At this moment Mama came in from the kitchen, and overheard.

"No, Allie," she said quickly, "it iss not the ham vat iss burning; it iss the eggs."

* * * * *

In the "George Washington, Jr.," Company there was a young lady who laid great stress on the refined atmosphere in which she had been brought up. Everything in her home had been just a little more refined than any one else had ever enjoyed. One day at the table the subject of coffee-drinking came up; some thought it harmful, others did not; finally Carter De Haven asked this young lady what she thought about it.

"Well," she said, in her precise way, "I don't think it hurts anybody. I know Papa always drank five and six saucersful every morning, and it never hurt him."



THE OLD SHIP OF ZION

Old Dennie O'Brion had looked upon the wine when it was red in the cup so long that he was about down and out; no one would hire him any more, even in the most menial capacity. His poor, hard-working wife had at last taken the pledge not to support him any longer in idleness, so it was up to Dennie to do something desperate. The most desperate thing he could think of was to swear off. So before the priest he took a solemn vow not to touch a drop of liquor for one year.

And he managed to retain his seat on the wagon splendidly—for thirty-six hours.

On the evening of the second day Mrs. O'Brion, in appreciation of his desperate efforts to conquer the demon rum, took Dennie and their twelve-year-old-son Mickie to the theater. It was a rollicking, up-to-date, musical comedy. The boys and the girls of the chorus at the rise of the curtain gayly quaffed huge quantities of imaginary wine from near-golden goblets. The Comedian was a jolly, jovial souse who never, during the first two acts, got sober but once, and then got into trouble by it.

The first act took place in a Parisian cafe, where the chorus men were all American millionaires buying wine for the Chorus Ladies.

The second act took place in a brewery, where the Comedian fell into a beer vat and was only saved by the number of champaign corks he had in his pockets, which acted as life preservers.

'Twas a fine play to take a man to who was only thirty-six hours on the water wagon.

At the end of the second act, when the Comedian had just been rescued from the beer vat, Dennie scrambled to his feet and began climbing for the aisle.

"Where are ye's goin', Dinnie?" asked Mrs. O'Brion anxiously.

"Let go me tail," says Dennie. "Me foot's asleep; I must get out." And tearing his coat-tail away he hurried up the aisle.

"Mickie, darlin'," said Mrs. O'Brion to her young hopeful, "follow your father! Don't let him get into a saloon! And if he does, stick to him! Bring him home! Hurry, now."

Mickie hurried out and caught the old man just as he was making the swinging doors.

"Here, Father, Father, come out av that!" he cried, catching Dennie by that muchly pulled coat-tail.

"Oh, to h—— wit you!" says Dennie. "Go back to your mother!"

"But, Father, you promised the priest! You took a solemn vow not to touch liquor for a whole year."

"What av it?" says Dennie.

"Well, the year is not up," says Mickie.

"G'an!" says Dennie. "Go back to school! read your program! Look," and Dennie pointed to the program which he still clasped in his hand; "read that! 'Two years elapses between the second and third acts.'"

Leaving the dumbfounded Mickie there on the sidewalk, Dennie hurried into the saloon; but he did not hurry out. Meanwhile Mrs. O'Brion went home and Mickie waited at the door.

An hour later Dennie came out—endways. With a number nine boot just behind him. Mickie tenderly assisted his father to his feet and started him homeward. Dennie had now reached the crying stage; nobody loved him; he thought he should commit suicide; in the morning.

Now it so happened that on this night the Salvation Army were conducting an all-night session at their barracks. Dennie and Mickie had to pass these barracks on their way home. The lights and the music caught Dennie's wandering attention, and he insisted on going in. Mickie tried to tell him that it was no place for him, a good Catholic, but Dennie shook off his detaining hands and staggered into the hall, down the center aisle, tripped over an umbrella handle, and fell flat on his face right up against the platform. Mickie meanwhile stood back near the door horror-stricken.

The old, white-haired officer who was speaking as Dennie made his unexpected appearance at his feet, was quick to seize the opportunity and he delivered a beautiful and touching oration on the Heavenly hand that had guided the feet of this poor erring brother here to the Throne of Grace, and he finished up by saying,

"And now, brothers and sisters, let us all rise and sing that beautiful hymn, 'The Old Ship of Zion.'"

Three minutes afterwards little Mickie burst into his own home and threw himself into his mother's arms, sobbing as if his heart was breaking.

"What is it, me darlin'; what is the matter? Where is your father?"

"He's dead; he's dead," sobbed Mickie. "He wint into the Salvation Army, and he fell onto the flure, and they all stood up and begun to sing—'The Ould Mick Is Dyin'!'"

* * * * *

From a letter published in The Player:

"The theater is a dump, owing to the unsanitary condition of the house and management."

* * * * *

Little Miss Muffet Sat down on a tuffet In Churchill's new Cafe. A Pittsburger spied 'er And sat down beside 'er And they couldn't drive Miss Muffet away.

* * * * *

Special attention is called to the fact that this is the only collection of stories about actor folks ever published, that does not have the one about the man in the spiked shoes stepping on the actor's meal ticket.

* * * * *

From an English Theatrical paper I clip the following names:

Price & Revost; Bumps the Bumps. Niagara & Falls; French Acrobats. Boston & Philadelphia. Merry & Glad. Willie Stoppit.

* * * * *

Nat Haines was playing poker; Laloo was one of the players. Laloo was a freak that came to this country some years ago, and at one time commanded a salary of a thousand dollars a week. He was a very handsome young fellow, but had growing out from his breast the body of a small female. He had no muscular control of this secondary body, but could take hold of its hands and arms and work them all about.

After they had been playing a while Nat discovered that Laloo was cheating; he said nothing at the time, simply throwing his hand down and passing out. But when the hand was over and some one else was dealing, Nat leaned over to Laloo and said,

"Say, Kid; you do that again and I'll give your sister a kick in the neck."



FIREMAN, SAVE MY CHILD

A comic opera company was playing Moose Jaw, Canada. I don't have to say what kind of a company it was. The fact that they were playing Moose Jaw is enough.

(And by the way, who knows how that town got its name? And a bright little boy at the foot of the class held up his hand and said—"I know!" And the teacher said, "All right, Willie, you may tell us how Moose Jaw got its name." And Willie said—"It is derived from an Indian expression which means, 'The-Place-Where-the-Man-Fixed-the-Wagon-With-a-Moose's-Jaw-Bone.'")

There was no regular theater there, so the company appeared in the fire station. The engines were run out in the street and the show was given there. There were big corridors on the second and third floors where the firemen slept; there was a brass rod running down from the upper to the lower floor for the firemen to slide down in case of a fire. The firemen all slept up on the third floor this night, giving the second floor up to the ladies for a dressing room.

It was at the end of the first act. The girls were changing for the second act. The change was complete; tights and all. And an alarm was rung in. B-r-r-r-r!! went the big gong downstairs. And swish! swish! went the red-shirted firemen down the pole. The girls thought the firehouse itself was afire and ran shrieking around the room begging to be saved.

There were eighteen firemen upstairs that night and only two of them got to the fire.

* * * * *

On the stage of the Orpheum Theater in Montreal hangs this sign:

- WHERE THERE'S SMOKE THERE'S FIRE. YOU DO THE SMOKING AND I'LL DO THE FIREING. MANAGER. -

* * * * *

I came near leaving the stage while playing in Montreal and going into the portering business; said change being suggested by the following advertisement in the Montreal Star:

"Wanted: A porter to drive bus and a dining room girl."

* * * * *

GOT ANY EXPERIENCED BABIES?

Wanted: Nursing; experienced babies. 10X Globe Office.—(Toronto Globe.)



PLAYING THE ENGLISH MUSIC HALLS

An American talking act going over to England to play has got a big job on hand. The trouble is going to come from a totally unexpected source too. It is because we do not speak the language. We say that we speak English; but we don't; that is, mighty little of it. We speak mostly plain, unadulterated, United States language, which is very different from English. So when we go over there, in addition to talking about things that they do not understand, we are also using a language that they don't know.

For instance: We opened up in Manchester with a play called The Wyoming Whoop. Now out of that title they understood just one word—"The." They did not know whether "Wyoming" was a battleship or some patent skin food. And "Whoop" was still worse.

During the progress of the play one of the characters speaks of having left the day's ice on the steps all the forenoon; I say—

"Has that piece of ice been out in that Wyoming sun all the forenoon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you take a sponge and go out and get it."

After two or three shows the manager came to me and asked me what that line about the ice meant; was it supposed to be funny? I told him it was in America. He wanted to know why.

"Well," I said, "you know Wyoming is the hottest place in America, don't you?"

"No; is it?"

"Well then, you know that if you left a piece of ice out in the sun all the forenoon it would melt, don't you?"

"No; would it?"

Upon investigation I found that there was probably not one person in ten thousand in those manufacturing towns of England who ever saw a piece of ice. They didn't know but that you could bake it.

* * * * *

It took me only three days to discover that I was in wrong with The Wyoming Whoop. So the next week in Liverpool I switched to Bill Biffin's Baby. Now we were on the right track. We had a subject, Babies, that they understood and liked. But on the second show I began writing it over—into the English language. I found that in twenty-four minutes I was using thirty-two words that they either knew nothing of, or else meant something entirely different from what I intended they should.

For instance: Take the words Trolley Car. An American player spoke of having seen a lady riding on a trolley, and the audience went into fits. The player was astounded; he hadn't told his "gag" at all yet—(and, by the way, it isn't a "gag" there; it is a "wheeze")—and the audience was laughing. And then when he finally told his "gag" not a soul laughed. Upon investigation he found that over there what he meant by a trolley car was "a tram." And what they called a "trolley" was the baggage truck down at the railway station that they hauled trunks around on.

Another of their "gags" was—

"I saw you coming out of a saloon this morning."

"Well, I couldn't stay in there all day, could I?"

Received with more chunks of silence.

He meant a place where they sold liquor. He should have said "a Pub."

A "saloon" there is a barber shop.

The ticket office is the booking office.

The ticket agent is the booking clerk (pronounced "clark").

A depot is the railway station.

You don't buy your ticket; you "book your ticket."

A policeman is a "Bobbie."

You drive to the left and walk to the right.

An automobile is a motor car.

The carburetor is the mixer.

The storage battery is the accumulator.

Gasolene is petrol.

Ask your way and instead of saying "second street to the left" they will say "second opening to the left."

If they bump into you instead of saying "excuse me" or "pardon me" they say "sorry."

Your trunks are "boxes," and your baggage checks are "brasses."

Your hand baggage is "luggage."

I found English audiences just as quick, just as appreciative and even more enthusiastic than our American audiences—if you talked about things they understood and in words they understood.

But the average American talking act is talking what might just as well be Greek to them. I never realized until I played in England what an enormous lot of slang and coined words we Americans use.

Another thing that we Americans are shy on, both in speaking and singing, is articulation. I always had an idea that I enunciated uncommonly clearly—until I went over there, when I learned more about speaking plainly in three days than I had in a lifetime here.

You will notice you can always understand every word and syllable uttered by an English singer.

One of the funniest things I saw over there were English actors trying to play "Yankee" characters. The only "Yankee" they had to it was to spit and say "By Gosh."

Upon the occasion of our first show in England, at Manchester, I said to my wife,

"Now we are closing the show, so let's get made up early and watch the other acts, and in that way we can get sort of a line on the particular style of humor that appeals strongest."

So when the show started we were right there in the wings, watching and listening.

The first act was a typical English "Comic Singer" of the poorest type, although we did not know that then. He had a pair of trousers six inches too short, white hose, an old Prince Albert coat, buttoned up wrong, a battered silk hat (called a "topper," by the way) and a violently red nose. His first song was about his recent wedding; he had evidently married an old maid of rather sad appearance. The first verse told of the wedding and the wedding dinner; and how they then went upstairs to their room, and, as soon as they got into the room she wanted him to kiss her. But he looked at her and said—

(Chorus)

"Not to-night, Josephine; not to-night; Not to-night; not to-night. For I've had such a lot of pork and beans; Gorgonzola cheese and then sardines. And now you ask for a kiss On a face like yours, old kite. Well, I wouldn't like to spoil the lovely Flavor of the beans, So not to-night, Josephine, not to-night."

Wife and I looked sadly into each other's eyes, clasped hands, and walked sadly to the dressing room. We knew we didn't have anything strong enough to compete with that.

* * * * *

After three weeks "in the Provinces," as they call everything outside of London, we went into the Palace Theater, London. We had had time to learn the language and sort of get acclimated so we did very well there.

But we kept bumping up against new quirks in the language. For instance, somebody asked me if we didn't "play two houses a night in Portsmouth?" and I said No. But I then discovered that "two houses a night" did not mean playing two different theaters a night, but playing two different shows in the same house each night.

I also discovered that several words which had a perfectly innocent meaning in America had entirely different meanings in London. I nearly got licked twice for using improper language.

I discovered that what we would call a Tramp over here was a Moocher over there. I could see a lady in the street but I mustn't see her on the street. I could go up the street two squares but I mustn't go up two blocks. I did not get my salary; I got my treasury. You did not "kid" anybody; you "schwanked" them (spelling not guaranteed) or perhaps you were "spoofing" them.

The big Artists are all "Toppers" or "Bottomers." A "Topper" is one who is always billed at the top of the list of players. A "Bottomer" is the act that is considered next in importance to the "Topper," and is billed in big type at the bottom of the billing.

One thing that makes it hard to please an English Music Hall audience is its widely different classes. Admission to the gallery is from four to six cents while the orchestra seats are two dollars and a half.

While you can see a first-class Vaudeville show for four cents, it costs you twenty-four cents to sit in the gallery of most any Moving Picture show; and sixty-two cents downstairs.

The Palace Theater in London is probably the highest class Vaudeville theater in the world. This is very nice, but it has its drawbacks. The audience applauds by gently tapping two fingers together and nodding heads approvingly.

Oscar Hammerstein asked Mrs. Cressy how she liked the London audiences.

"First-rate," replied Mrs. C., "only you have to look at them to see whether they are applauding or not."

"Look at them?" said Mr. H. "You have to ask them."

* * * * *

George Whiting had just had his hat cleaned.

"How does it look?" he asked of his partner, Aubrey Pringle.

"Looks all right enough," said Pringle, "but it smells like a monkey wedding."

* * * * *

It was Tuesday afternoon in St. Paul; the show was going very badly; the first three acts had gone on and come off, without a laugh; then Frank Moran went on. After he had come off, and was on his way to his room, one of the ladies who had been on before him called from her dressing room,

"Did you succeed in waking them up, Mr. Moran?"

"Um—yes—I woke up a couple of them," said Frank.

"What did they do?" asked the girl.

"Went out," said Frank.

* * * * *

We had received a letter from a European Booking Office requesting us to play an engagement at Glasgow, Scotland.

"I would like to know what they think we could do in Scotland," I said; "those chaps never could understand me."

"Well, my goodness," said my wife, "if they can understand each other they shouldn't have any trouble understanding us."

* * * * *

Probably the line that has been jumbled up and spoken wrong more times on the stage than any other is

"I am still fancy free and heart whole."

Try it; and see how many ways there are to go wrong on it.

* * * * *

At Keith's Theater in Boston one week the program announced that two of the acts to be seen that week were—

"Cressy & Dayne; The latest importation in trained animal acts."

and—

"Barron's Dogs, in Mr. Cressy's one act play, Bill Biffin's Baby."



"WOODIE"

"Woodie," of the old musical act, "Wood & Shepard," has grown quite deaf, and he tells many funny stories at his own expense. Upon one occasion he came into the Orpheum Theater at San Francisco and met Jim McIntire, of McIntire & Heath.

"Hello, Jim," said Woodie.

"Hello, Woodie," said Jim; "how are you feeling?"

"Half past ten last night," said Woodie.

* * * * *

Woodie was playing at Pastor's Theater in New York. He was living on Thirty-eighth Street. One night about two o'clock in the morning he got on to a Third Avenue elevated train to go home. The only other passenger in the car was a drunk, asleep in the corner. At Twenty-third Street Charlie Seamon, "the Narrow Feller," got on.

"Where are you living?" asked Seamon.

"Thirty-eighth Street," said Woodie; "where are you living?"

"Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street," said Seamon.

"Where?"

"Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street," said Seamon, louder.

"Can't hear you," said Woodie.

"One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street," howled Seamon.

"Gee Whiz," yelled the drunk, as he scrambled to his feet, and made for the door, "I've gone by my station," and off he got at Twenty-eighth Street.

* * * * *

Woodie was practicing on his cornet in the San Francisco Orpheum. The management sent back word that they could hear him way out in front; Woodie laid down the cornet, thought a moment, sighed, and said,

"Well, perhaps I can't play very good any more, but I must play loud."



A CORK MAN

We were going out to visit Blarney Castle. Not that I felt any particular need of kissing the Blarney Stone myself, for I had managed to talk my way through life so far without so doing, and saw no reason to doubt my ability to do so in the future, providing the United Booking Offices would continue to book us. But of course when you go all the way from New Hampshire to Ireland you just sort of have to see all these things. And then, of course, it would sound kind of cute to say, "Oh, yes; I kissed the Blarney Stone." And I still think it would sound cute; only I am not saying it. For when I took one look at that dinky little piece of rock stuck in the side of a wall one hundred and twenty feet above terra firma, and looked at the hole I was supposed to hang down through to get at it, I said to myself—"Not guilty." So any Lady-Manager or Booking Agent can still converse with me with perfect safety. I have not kissed the Blarney Stone.

But that is not what I started in to tell. Of course I could have gone out there in our automobile; but that would be a fine way to visit Blarney Castle, wouldn't it? Yes, it wouldn't. When you are in Ireland do as the Romans do. So we put the auto in a garage (and over there that word does not have any of the French curlicues we put on it, with the last syllable accented. It is pronounced to rhyme with the word carriage) and embarked in a jaunting (or jolting) car.

Our driver was a regular lad; several years ago I wrote a monologue for Marshall P. Wilder, and during this trip this driver told me the whole monologue. And then he had some other encore stuff too.

We were passing an insane asylum and he said that the previous summer he had driven a doctor from Philadelphia out to this asylum; and while there a very funny thing had happened. As the doctor was passing along through one of the wards—Now the driver of an Irish jaunting car sits way up in front, right over the horse's tail, and the passengers sit back of him, facing off sideways; so the driver has to turn his head to talk to the passengers. Up to this point of his story this driver had been turned toward me, telling his story to me; but now he happened to think that it would be more polite to tell it to the ladies; so he turned around back to me and told the rest of it to them. I did not hear a word of it; but when the finish came, and the ladies laughed, I laughed, just to be polite.

And when the laughter had died down I said,

"That puts me in mind of a story I heard over in America. A man was passing an insane asylum and he noticed a clock up on one of the towers; but there was some half hour's difference between his watch and the clock; and while he was standing there trying to figure out which was right, one of the patients stuck his head out of a window right beside the clock. The man below saw him and called up to him,

"'Hey, there: is that clock right?'"

"And the patient replied,

'No; if it was it wouldn't be in here.'"

Honest, if I hadn't known I was in Cork, Ireland, I should have thought I was playing Toronto, Canada; there wasn't a ripple; the driver gave me one disgusted look, hit the horse a cut with the whip and drove on in silence. My wife looked at me angrily and shook her head.

"All right," I said to myself. "You are a Mutt audience and I shall relate no more episodes of a comic nature." And I didn't.

When we had reached our rooms that night my wife turned on me and said sharply,

"What did you do that for?"

"What did I do what for?"

"What did you tell him that story for?"

"Well, why in thunder shouldn't I tell it to him? What's the matter with that story anyway?"

She looked at me curiously for a moment, then said,

"Don't you know what you did?"

"No."

"Why that was the same story he had just told you."

* * * * *

E. J. Connelly has got a summer home at Lake Sunapee, New Hampshire. He also owns several building lots around there. As building lots without buildings on them do not bring in much cash, Edward was seriously contemplating building some cottages on the lots, furnishing and renting them. I met him one evening this fall and asked him how the cottages were coming on.

"It's all off," he said; "nothing doing in the cottage line for me."

I asked him what had happened to change his mind so suddenly.

"Well, Bill," he said, "you know I am not a chap who goes hunting for trouble; I'm nervous; I don't like to be troubled with other people's troubles. This afternoon I was over to Bob Eaton's, and you know he has got some cottages up at the other end of the lake that he rents, furnished."

"Yes, I knew that."

"Well," continued Connelly, "while I was over to Bob's this afternoon a man who has rented one of these cottages came down there. He had left his cottage and driven twelve miles down to Bob's house to make a kick; and what do you suppose the kick was?"

"Haven't the least idea."

"There wasn't any nutmeg grater in the cottage. Twelve miles to make a five-cent kick. And my cottages would be only two hundred feet away. No landlord business for your Uncle Edward. No, sir."



THE TROUBLES OF THE LAUGH GETTERS

It is a solemn business, this getting laughs for a living. Supposing the people don't laugh. Then how are you going to live? Take an act that you have been doing for weeks. Every afternoon and every night the audience laughs at exactly the same lines; this goes on night after night, week after week and city after city. Then you go into some city like Toronto or St. Paul and Hamlet's soliloquy would get as many laughs as you do. Now what are you going to do? Other players on the bill are getting laughs right along and you, in the language of the stage, are "dying standing up."

I have had the same experiences off the stage. I once tried to tell an old German gentleman in St. Louis a story that had been highly recommended to me as being funny. It was about a man going up to a St. Louis policeman and asking him the quickest way to get to the Mt. Olive hospital. The policeman told him to go over to Grogan's saloon and call the bartender an A. P. A.

Then I waited for the laugh. And immediately I knew I had a Toronto audience. The old man studied a moment, then said,

"Why did he not tell him to take an Olive Street car?"

* * * * *

An old lady from Brooklyn was visiting us. I told her one of Lew Dockstader's stories. How he had a girl over in Brooklyn. Her father was an undertaker. And Lew could always tell how business was with the old man by the looks of the table. If he had had a good job lately there would be flowers on the table, and ice on the butter.

I waited for the laugh. "But the giggle that he longed for never came." The old lady looked up with a look of interest and said,

"Did he say what their name was? Perhaps we knew them."

* * * * *

I met a banker in Toronto. I tried to tell him a story referring to the banking business, hoping against hope that I might get one laugh in that city. I told him about a colored man who went into a colored bank down South and wanted to draw out his deposit of twenty dollars that had been in there for eight years. And the colored cashier told him he did not have any money in there. That the interest had eaten it up long ago.

"Yes," said the banking gentleman, with a pitying smile, "very clever. But he was wrong, you know; interest adds to your principal, not detracts."

* * * * *



William Cahill was playing Hoboken. Hoboken is entirely Dutch. William is entirely Irish. Result, William, on his opening show, did not get a laugh or a hand. After his act was over he stood around, dazed, for a few minutes; then he made his way over to the "peek hole," looked out and sized up the audience carefully, then turned away, muttering to himself,

"This is a h—— of a place for an Irishman."

* * * * *



Mr. and Mrs. Harry Foy carried a nurse-maid for their little girl. When I came in to the theater I would always go in and speak to the nurse-maid and the baby. Then after I was made up I would come in again and visit them. But the maid never knew that I was the same fellow; and along the last of the week she began to wonder what ever became of that old chap she saw around the stage during the show, but never afterwards. So she went over to Miss Dayne and said,

"Say, do you carry that old man with you or do you get a new one in every town?"

* * * * *

"Well," said Clarence Drown, manager of the Los Angeles Orpheum, "she is one of those women you are always glad to learn is the wife of some man you don't like."

* * * * *

Freddie Niblo, Jr., sat on the floor in their New York home one day, thinking it over. Finally he looked up at his mother (Josephine Cohan) and said,

"Say, Mama, wouldn't it be nice if you had a regular husband instead of an actor husband? Then perhaps he would be at home sometimes."

* * * * *

A well known Booking Agency had just transferred one of the stenographers from the New York office to the Chicago office. On her first morning in the new office she came over to the manager and said,

"I suppose you start the day the same here as they do in the New York office?"

"Why—er—yes—I suppose so," said the manager.

"Well, kiss me then, and let me get to work."



ASLEEP WITH HER SWITCH

A certain young lady (and Abe Jacobs says he knows she was a lady because she told him so, adding the information that any one who said she wasn't was a —— —— liar) was appearing at the Majestic Theater in Chicago not so very long ago. Owing to conditions over which she, apparently, had no control, the exact hours of her appearance were a little uncertain. Her first entrance was rather a dramatic affair. One of the other characters, hearing a noise behind a certain door, would draw a revolver, aim it at the door, and say—

"Come out! Come out, or I will shoot!"

Upon this occasion everything ran smoothly—up to this point; the gentleman had drawn his revolver and ordered her to appear.

"Come out!" he said; "come out or I will shoot!"

But there was nothing doing; so he repeated,

"Come out or I will shoot!"

And still nothing doing; so for a third time he called,

"If you don't come out I will shoot!"

There was a pause, then, as the curtain started to descend, a disgusted voice came from the stage manager's box,

"Go on and shoot; she's down in her dressing room asleep."

* * * * *

A crowd was sitting around the Vaudeville Comedy Club, and the conversation had drifted around to a discussion of the old-time Vaudeville and that of the present day.

"Well, I can tell you one thing," said James Dolan, of Dolan & Lenhar, "there didn't use to be all these divorces and separations among the old-timers. We didn't use to think that we had to have a new wife every year or two; we stuck to the old ones; the ones that had helped us get our starts. Look at Mr. and Mrs. Mark Murphy; Mr. and Mrs. Tom Nawn; Ryan & Richfield; Cressy and Dayne; Dolan & Lenhar; Filson & Errol. I tell you, boys, we stuck in those days."

"Yes, but here; wait a minute," spoke up Horace Wright; "give us youngsters a chance. I haven't been married but three years, but I am sticking as fast as I can. Give me time, and I'll get into your class—sometime."



I JOIN THE SUFFRAGETTES

I am now a suffragette. I don't exactly understand what it is all about yet, but when I was up in New Hampshire a few weeks ago I met a very enthusiastic lady who started in to convert me to "the cause." Finally, after she had talked fourteen minutes without breathing once, I got a chance to speak.

"But wait a minute," I said; "you are wasting time. As I understand this thing, what you want is equal rights—for the sexes; is that correct?"

She said that was it exactly.

"All right then," I said, "I am with you, heart and soul; and, although I haven't known it, I have been with you for a long time. I am willing to fight shoulder to shoulder with you for this glorious cause, for if there is anything that will get a man equal rights with a woman I am for it."

"But," she said, "you vote, don't you?"

"No," I said, "I can't! Martin Beck won't let me off to go home."

"But," she continued, "you can sit on juries, and we can't."

"Well, good Lord," I exclaimed, "you don't want to sit on juries, do you?"

"We want to do everything that men do."

"Well, I don't know," I replied; "it doesn't look good to me; women on a jury."

"Why not?"

"Well, supposing there should be some big case on, and there were six women and six men on the jury, and the jury should be locked up in the jury room all night. You know darn well the verdict would be 'Guilty.'"

* * * * *

If I had an automobile that was in the last stages of decomposition and I couldn't sell it to anybody else I think I should try to sell it to the chap that painted that automobile on the drop curtain in the Garrick Theater in Chicago.

On this drop curtain there is painted an electric runabout. The chap that painted it knew a good deal more about painting than he did about automobiles. There isn't the slightest symptom of any steering gear on it; the front axle is a straight iron rod without a sign of any joint in it.

One of the passengers is either sitting exactly on the top of the steering bar, or else there isn't any; and with all four wheels set rigidly so it can't turn, the car is just leaving the roadway and plunging into a flower bed.

* * * * *

There is one theater in Chicago that is going to have an awful time enforcing that "no tipping allowed" rule. The Illinois Theater has a stage manager by the name of Frank Tipping.

* * * * *

My wife says that all the Mormons are not in Utah: only their wives are not on.

* * * * *

Jim Morton says Duluth is a nice little "Street in One."

* * * * *

Fred Wyckoff says the two worst weeks in show business are Holy Week and Milwaukee.

* * * * *

"Tommie" Ryan has got the right idea. He has had himself appointed as a special police officer over at his home in Hohokus, N. J. (Think of any one's having a bright idea in a town with a name like that.) Now when he gets lonesome he runs his automobile up Main Street at full speed (13 miles an hour), arrests himself for overspeeding, collects two dollars for making the arrest, then fails to appear against himself and the case is dismissed.

* * * * *

There is no disputing the fact that education is a great help to a young man starting out in the world. Said bright thought being prompted by the following ad, clipped from a Buffalo, N. Y., paper:

"Help Wanted: Automobile washer, $18.00. Stenographer and book keeper, $12.00."

* * * * *

I attended a newspaper men's banquet in Rochester, N. Y. One of the speakers, a quaint, funny appearing little old chap, was introduced as a man who lived in a town of six thousand population, but had a circulation of thirty thousand for his paper.

"And," said the toastmaster, as he introduced him, "I would like to have him tell us where those thirty thousand papers go to."

The little old chap arose, scratched his bushy head and said,

"Well—it goes all over. Of course most of 'em go 'round through New York state. But some of 'em go down to Massachusetts, Maine and New Hampshire. Then a few go down South. I have a few subscribers out through California and Oregon and Washington. Some go to Honolulu; the Philippines and two or three go as far as Australia.

"And," he continued, with a sigh, "along in the earlier days I used to have considerable trouble to keep it from going to Hell."

* * * * *



A young fellow up in New Hampshire has written a Vaudeville playlet and sent it on for my approval. If he could have kept up the gait he struck on the first page I should have bought it:

Maid: A lady waits without.

Master: Without what?

Maid: Without food or raiment.

Master: Give her food and bring her hither.

* * * * *

The cost of high living has evidently not struck Philadelphia yet; for in the window of a little store on North Ninth Street there is a sign—"A glass bowl—a goldfish—a tadpole and one seaweed—all for 8 cents."

* * * * *

There must have been a crook around New York this winter, for hanging up over the workmen's lockers in the garage where I keep my car is a sign saying—

"Keep Out. We Mourn Our Loss."



THE PERILS OF A GREAT CITY

At the corner of 44th Street and Broadway, New York, the street car tracks, in making the turn, swing in quite near to the curb; in fact, there is just room enough for a single vehicle to drive between them.

One night as my wife and I were driving down in our automobile we reached this corner just as an uptown car and a downtown car were meeting there. The uptown car stopped to let off a passenger. The downtown car slowed down, so as not to run down anyone coming around the back of the uptown car. And, not to be outdone in caution, we slowed down also.

An old Irish lady got off the uptown car. She had an armful of bundles, and had on a sailor hat, with no hat pins in it; so that she had to keep tossing her head to keep it balanced and straight. She walked around the back of the uptown car—just in season to walk in front of the downtown car. The motorman sounded his bell, "Bang! Bang!" The old lady gave a yell and a jump—and landed right in front of our car. I sounded the horn, "Squawk! Squawk!" and she gave another yell and another jump, off to the side, and the sailor hat fell off, right in front of our car.

The old lady started to go back for the hat; I slammed on the brakes and threw out the clutch. When I threw out the clutch the engine raced for a moment—"W-h-i-r-r-r-r!" Again the old lady yelled and jumped back. And standing in the gutter, she shook her fist at me and screamed—

"—— —— you, don't you boomp me!"

"Go on and get your hat," I said, "I won't bump you."

Cautiously she stooped over and reached for the hat. And at that moment a messenger boy on a bicycle came tearing around the corner out of 44th Street, and struck the old lady where she was, at that moment, the most prominent. In an instant boy—old lady—bicycle—bundles and sailor hat were all mussed up together in the gutter. She had dodged two trolley cars and an automobile, only to be run down by a boy on a bicycle.

As I drove on, I gave one glance back; and the bundles, hat and bicycle lay in the gutter, while the boy was on the dead run up Broadway with the old lady after him.



DO YOU BELIEVE IN SIGNS?

(These are all actual signs that I have come across in my travels.)

Paterson, N. J. "Henry Worms. Vegetables."

Chicago. "I. D. Kay. Fresh Vegetables."

Brooklyn, N. Y. "Kick, the Printer."

Pittsburg, Pa. "Daub, the Painter."

Dalton, Ga. "Tapp, the Jeweler."

Washington, D. C. "Shake, the Grocer."

Oakland, Cal. "Fake, Jeweler."

Philadelphia. "Dr. Aker, Dentist."

Oakland, Cal. "Dr. Muchmore, Dentist."

New York, N. Y. "Mr. Champoo, Dentist."

Chicago. "Artificial Eyes. Open all Night."

Seattle, Wash. "Artificial Limbs. Walk In."

Buffalo, N. Y. "English & Irish. Furniture."

Denver, Colo. "Painless Dyeing."

Salt Lake City. "Come In: The Soda Water's Fine."

Oakland, Cal. "Letts-Love, Florists."

Seattle, Wash. "Dr. Fixott, Dentist."

Boston. "B. Stiller, Photographer."

Boston. "Dr. Capwell, Dentist."

Hartford, Conn. "Best & Smart, Dry Goods."

Boston. "Neal & Pray, Religious Publications."

Newark, N. J. A millinery store announces—"We Trim Free of Charge."

San Francisco. "Coats, Pants & Vests, one half off."

Denver. "The Rothchild Cigar. Ten cents or two for a quarter."

Paterson, N. J. "Coffins made and repaired."

Portland, Ore. "Neer & Farr, Coal Dealers."

Paris, Ky. "Ice Cream & Washing Done Here."

Spokane, Wash. "Bed Bath & Booze 15c. All Nations welcome but Carrie."

Louisville, Ky. "Beds 15cts. Hot cat fish all night."

Atlantic City. "Shoes Shined Inside. Also Ladies."

Spokane, Wash. "Ole Johnson Him Harness Maker."

Brownsville, Ark. "H. Robinson, Tacks Collector."

Chicago. "Precious Stones Setted."

Milwaukee. "Sweet Pickles and N. Y. Sunday papers for sale here."

Denver, Colo. "Hot Roast Chicken served from 11-30 until gone."

Buffalo, N. Y. "Shoes Repaired; neat; Quick & Well."

Chicago (in the Ionia Cafe). "No meals exchanged."

Philadelphia (in a Japanese cafe). "No suiciding Allowed Here."

Chicago. "Broken lenses duplicated."

Platte Canyon, Neb. "Private Grounds. You must not shoot or pick the flowers without permission."



CLOSING NUMBER

As I don't know whether this effort is going to get applause enough to take a bow, I am going to finish with a story that has got two bows in it.

There was an old English actor who had struggled all his life for recognition; and never got it. He had never been in a decent company—never had a decent part in his life. And for years he had been reading of the wonderful success many of the English players were meeting with in America, so at last he sailed for that Land of Promise.

But it was the same sad story it had been at home. And dollar by dollar, and penny by penny his money went until at last he was penniless. And then came that longing for HOME that cannot be resisted. And one dark night he went down and stowed away on a steamer bound for Liverpool.

The next morning he was discovered, and put to work helping in the kitchen. This was the last straw; there he sat, in his fur lined overcoat and silk hat, peeling potatoes. That night he decided to end it all. So at midnight he said "Farewell vain world" and went over the rail.

"Man overboard!" cried the Lookout.

The life belts were thrown over. The powerful electric search lights were thrown upon the waters. These life belts as soon as they strike the water begin to burn a bright red light.

The poor old actor came up for the last time—and just between the two life belts with their red fires burning. At the same moment the dazzling stream of light from the search light fell full upon him. The old man opened his eyes; and a look of ineffable joy came over his face. For the first time in his life he was in the spot light.

So he took two bows—and went down—forever.

* * * * *

CURTAIN

* * * * *

Transcriber's note

The following changes have been made to the text:

Page 37: "is the old family burying" changed to "in the old family burying".

Page 37: "V. M. Waetherholtz" changed to "V. M. Weatherholtz".

Page 166: "Doland" changed to "Dolan".

Page 174: "the down car slowed down" changed to "the downtown car slowed down".

THE END