(e) Do not ask for specific criticism, for of all people in the world vaudeville performers are the most good-hearted. They would rather please you than hurt you. They will evade the point nine times out of ten; so save them and yourself needless embarrassment. And thus you may also avoid a false valuation of your manuscript.

(f) If the performer cannot use the act himself, and if the act possesses merit, the chances are that he will suggest some other performer who might want it. If he does not suggest someone himself, ask him. Vaudeville performers know what other performers want, because they are continually discussing plans for "next season." You may thus pick up some valuable information, even if you do not dispose of the particular manuscript you have for sale.

3. Producing Your Act Yourself

While you are likely at many turns of the sales road to have offered you an opportunity to produce your own act, this method of finding a market is rarely advisable. You would not start a little magazine to get your short-story into print; your story could not possess that much value even if it were a marvel—how much less so if you were unable to find someone willing to buy it!

But there is a still more important reason why you should not rush into producing your act yourself. Producing is a specialized business, requiring wide experience and exact knowledge. Besides, it is one of the most expensive pastimes in the world. Without a most comprehensive experience and peculiar abilities, failure is sure. Do not attempt private production even if you are offered the services of a performer or a producer in whom you have absolute faith. Remember, if they thought your act was really worth while they would be anxious to reap the profits for themselves.

4. Selling an Act to a Producer

While any performer who owns his act is a producer in the sense that he "produces" his act, there are men who make a business of buying manuscripts, engaging people, and producing many acts in which they do not themselves play. Producers who may own a dozen acts of all different kinds would seem to offer to the writer for vaudeville an ideal market. How, then, is the writer to get in touch with them?

(a) Selling through a Play broker is a method that is precisely the same as though you consigned a bill of goods to a commission agent, and paid him for disposing of it. The play broker reads your manuscript and engages to try to dispose of it for you, or returns it as not likely to fit in with the particular line of business of which he makes a specialty. If your act is really good and yet the broker is able to make some suggestions that will improve it, he is likely to offer such suggestions, purely in the hope of earning a commission, and in this way he may prove of distinct value as a critic. In any event, if he accepts a manuscript to sell for you, he will offer it in the quarters he thinks most likely to produce it and will attend to all the business incidental to the making of the contract.

For this service the broker charges a ten per cent commission. This commission is paid either on the price of outright sale, or on the royalty account. If the act is sold on royalty, he will collect the customary advance and also the weekly payments. After deducting his commission, he will remit the balance to you.

On the last page of this chapter you will find a partial list of well-known play brokers. Although I do not know of any who deal exclusively in vaudeville material, any one of the agents who handles long plays is glad to handle an exceptionally fine playlet.

(b) Seeking a personal interview with a producer is usually productive of one result: The office-boy says, "Leave your manuscript, and he'll read it and let you know." Anxious as he is to secure good material, a man who is busily engaged in producing vaudeville acts has little time to spend on granting personal interviews. And there is another reason—he fears you will try to read your act to him. A personal reading by the author is either a most distressing affair, because the average writer cannot read stage material as it should be read, or else it is very dangerous to the listener's judgment. Many a producer has been tricked into producing an act whose merits a masterly reader has brought out so finely that its fatal faults were forgotten. And so the producer prefers to read a manuscript himself. Alone in his office he can concentrate on the act in hand, and give to it the benefit of his best judgment.

(c) Offering a manuscript by mail is perfectly safe. There has never come to my knowledge one clearly proved instance of where a producer has "stolen an idea."

(d) Send your manuscript by registered mail and demand a return receipt. Thus you will save losses in the mail and hold a check against the loss of your manuscript in the producer's office. And when you send your manuscript by mail, invariably enclose stamps to pay the return to you by registered delivery. Better still, enclose a self-addressed envelope with enough postage affixed to insure both return and registry.

(e) Three weeks for consideration is about the usual time the average producer requires to read a manuscript at his leisure. In times when a producer is actively engaged in putting on an act, he may not have an hour in the week he can call his own. Therefore have patience, and if you do not receive a reply from him in three weeks, write again and courteously remind him that you would like to have his decision at his earliest convenience. Impatient letters can only harm your chance.

5. Hints on Prices for Various Acts

What money can be made by writing vaudeville material? This is certainly the most interesting question the writer for vaudeville can ask. Like the prices of diamonds, the prices of vaudeville acts depend on quality. Every individual act, and each kind of act, commands its own special price. There are two big questions involved in the pricing of every vaudeville manuscript. First, of what value is the act itself? Second, what can the performer or the producer afford to payor be made to pay for the act?

The first question cannot be answered for even a class of acts. The value of each individual act determines its own price. And even here there enters the element inherent in all stage material— a doubt of value until performance before an audience proves the worth of the act. For this reason, it is customary for the purchaser of a vaudeville act to require that it first make good, before he pays for it. "Try and then buy," is the average vaudevillian's motto. If you are a good business man you will secure an advance against royalty of just as much as you can make the producer "give up." Precisely as in every other business, the price of service depends upon the individual's ability to "make a deal."

The answer to the second question likewise depends upon the vaudeville writer's individual ability as a business man. No hints can be given you other than those that you may glean from a consideration of average and record prices in the following paragraphs.

(a) The monologue is usually sold outright. The performer nearly always will tell you—with no small degree of truth—that the monologist makes the monologue, not the monologue the monologist. Many a monologue has sold for five dollars, and the purchaser been "stung" at that price. But very rarely is a monologue bought outright in manuscript—that is, before a try-out. A monologue must prove itself "there," before a monologist will pay any more than a small advance for the exclusive privilege of trying it out.

If the monologue proves itself, an outright offer will be made by the performer. While there are no "regular rates," from two hundred and fifty dollars to seven hundred dollars may be considered as suggestive of the market value of the average successful monologue.

In addition to this, the monologist usually retains the author to write new points and gags for him each week that he works. This, of course, increases the return from a monologue, and insures the writer a small weekly income.

In very rare cases monologues are so good and, therefore, so valuable that authors can retain the ownership and rent them out for a weekly royalty. In such a case, of course, the author engages himself to keep the material up to the minute without extra compensation. But such monologues are so rare they can be counted on the fingers of one hand. There is little doubt that "The German Senator" is one of the most valuable monologue properties—if it does not stand in a class by itself—that has ever been written. For many years it has returned to Aaron Hoffman a royalty of $100 a week, thirty and forty weeks in the year. This may be considered the record price for a monologue.

(b) The vaudeville two-act varies in price as greatly as the monologue. Like the monologue, it is usually sold outright. The performers use precisely the same argument about the two-act that is used about the monologue. It is maintained that the material itself is not to be compared with the importance of its presentation. When a two-act has been tried out and found "there," the performers or the producer will offer a price for it.

The same rule, that vaudeville material is worth only as much as it will bring, applies to the two-act. From two hundred and fifty dollars to whatever you can get, may be considered suggestive of two-act prices. Although more two-acts have sold outright for less than three hundred dollars than have sold above five hundred dollars, a successful two-act may be made to yield a far greater return if a royalty arrangement is secured.

Whether it is a two-act, or any other vaudeville act, the royalty asking price is ten per cent of the weekly salary. This rate is difficult to enforce, and while five per cent is nearer the average, the producer would rather pay a definite fixed figure each week, than a percentage that must be reckoned on what may be a varying salary. Usually a compromise of a flat amount per playing week is made when a royalty is agreed on.

(c) The playlet varies in returns amazingly. While one small-time producer pays no advance royalty and a flat weekly royalty of from ten dollars to fifteen dollars a week—making his stand on the fact that he gives a longer playing season than his average competitor—many a big-time producer pays a good round advance and as high as $100 a week royalty.

Edgar Allan Woolf has said: "The desire for the one-act comedy is so great that even an unknown writer can secure an advance royalty as great as is paid to the author of a three-act play, if he has written a playlet which seems to possess novelty of story and cleverness of dialogue."

George V. Hobart is reported to have had a variously-quoted number of playlets playing at the same time, each one of which returned him a weekly royalty of $100 a week. And half a dozen other one-act playwrights might be named who have had nearly equal success.

On the other hand, Porter Emerson Brown is quoted as saying: "The work of writing a playlet is nearly as great as writing a three-act play, and the returns cannot be compared."

One of the collaborators on a famous big-time success received forty dollars a week for three seasons as his share. Another playlet writer was paid one hundred dollars a week for one act, and only twenty dollars a week for another. And a third was content with a ten-dollars-a-week royalty on one act, at the same time that another act of his was bringing him in fifty dollars a week.

These examples I have cited to demonstrate that the return from the playlet is a most variable quantity. The small-time pays less than the big-time, and each individual act on both small- and big-time pays a different royalty.

When a playlet—either comedy or straight dramatic—is accepted for production, it is customary, although not an invariable rule, that an advance royalty be paid "down." When the act proves successful, one or more of three propositions may be offered the writer: outright sale at a price previously agreed upon; outright sale to be paid in weekly royalties until an agreed upon figure is reached, when ownership passes from the author to the producer; the more customary weekly royalty. As I have said before, what price you receive for your act finally depends upon your keenness in driving a bargain.

In nearly every case, outright sale has its advantage in the fact that the author need not then worry about collecting his royalty. Of course, when a recognized producer puts out the act there need be no concern about the royalty, so in such instances a royalty is preferable. But in some cases, as when the performer is making long jumps and has a hard time making railroad connections, a weekly royalty has its disadvantages in causing worry to the author.

(d) The one-act musical comedy is usually bought outright—after the act "gets over." While many a "book" is contracted for in advance at a small figure, to be doubled or trebled on success, it is also true that royalties are paid. In this case, the custom is to divide the royalty equally between the writer of the book and lyrics, and the composer of the music. When a third person writes the verses of the songs and ensemble numbers, the royalty is usually split three ways. It would be misleading to quote any figures on the musical comedy, for the reason that circumstances vary so greatly with each that there are no standards.

(e) The burlesque tab pays about the same rates as the one-act musical comedy, its kindred form.

(f) The popular song, unlike the other material treated in this volume, has a well established royalty price: one cent a copy is the standard. Of this, half a cent goes to the writer of the lyric, and half a cent to the composer of the music.

As a popular song, to be considered successful, must sell anywhere from half a million to a million copies, it is easy to estimate the song-writer's return. If the same man writes both the words and the music he will receive from five to ten thousand dollars—or twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars if he divides with another—for being able to make the nation whistle. Of course, many song-writers have two successful songs selling in a year— therefore you may double the figures above to estimate some successful song-writers' incomes. But it may safely be said that the song-writer who has an income of twelve thousand dollars a year is doing very well indeed! There are many more professional song-writers who work year after year for the salary of the average business man in every other line of endeavor. Don't count your royalty-chickens too soon.

6. Important Lists of Addresses

SOME OF THE MORE PROMINENT PLAY BROKERS

AMERICAN PLAY COMPANY, 33 W. 42d St., New York MARY ASQUITH, 145 W. 45th St, New York ALICE KAUSER, 1402 Broadway, New York DARCY AND WOLFORD, 114 W. 39th St., New York KIRKPATRICK, LTD., 101 Park Ave., New York MODERN PLAY CO., Columbus Circle, New York LAURA D. WILK, 1476 Broadway, New York GEORGE W. WINNIETT, 1402 Broadway, New York PAUL SCOTT, 1402 Broadway, New York SANGER AND JORDAN, 1430 Broadway, New York MRS. M. A. LEMBECK, 220 W. 42nd St., New York

A LIST OF WELL KNOWN VAUDEVILLE PRODUCERS

The producers given here offer a market which varies so widely in each instance that no attempt has been made to list their needs. Some are interested in other lines of the amusement business as well; and their activities elsewhere must be taken into consideration as determining factors in their special market needs. No division of these producers into big-time and small-time producers is made, because such a distinction would be likely to be misleading rather than helpful.

ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1493 Broadway, New York JOSEPH HART, 1520 Broadway, New York JESSE L. LASKY, 120 W. 41St St., New York PLAYLET PRODUCING COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York B. A. ROLFE, 1493 Broadway, New York JOE MAXWELL, INC., 360 W. 125th St., New York ROLAND WEST PRODUCING COMPANY, 260 W. 42d St., New York HARRY RAPF, 1564 Broadway, New York PAT CASEY, 1499 Broadway, New York BILLIE BURKE, 1495 Broadway, New York JOE PAIGE SMITH, 1493 Broadway, New York ALF. T. WILTON, 1564 Broadway, New York JOHN C. PEEBLES, 1564 Broadway, New York JAMES PLUNKETT, 1564 Broadway, New York C. M. BLANCHARD, 1579 Broadway, New York LEWIS AND GORDON, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th Ave. at 47th St., New York MAX HART, 1564 Broadway, New York JAMES J. ARMSTRONG, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th Ave. at 47th St., New York WILLIAM A. BRADY, The Playhouse, 137 W. 48th St., New York BART McHUGH, Land Title Building, Philadelphia MENLO E. MOORE, 22 W. Monroe St., Chicago MINNIE PALMER, 35 Dearborn St., Chicago

THE LARGER CIRCUITS AND BOOKING OFFICES

The following vaudeville circuits, while they may not maintain regular producing departments, produce acts every now and then.

THE UNITED BOOKING OFFICES OF AMERICA, 1564 Broadway, New York. This organization books the B. F. Keith Theatres and allied small- and big-time houses ORPHEUM CIRUIT COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York LOEW'S THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES, 1493 Broadway, New York POLI'S CIRCUIT, 1493 Broadway, New York THE WESTERN VAUDEVILLE MANAGERS' ASSOCIATION, Majestic Theatre Building, Chicago GUS SUN CIRCUIT, New Sun Theatre Building, Springfield, Ohio BERT LEVEY CIRCUIT, Alcazar Theatre Building, San Francisco PANTAGE'S CIRCUIT, Seattle SULLIVAN AND CONSIDINE, Seattle

To these markets nearly every booking agent and manager in the vaudeville business might be added. Each one has a list of acts he handles that need new material from time to time. And often the agent or manager will add to his list of clients by producing an exceptionally fine act himself.

The reason such a list is not given here is that it would require a small volume merely for the names and addresses. Consultation of "The Clipper Red Book"—a handy directory of theatrical agents, sold at ten cents—will supply this information. A knowledge of the special kinds of acts handled by each agent or manager, and the producers previously given as well, may be gathered by a careful reading of the various theatrical specialized journals. This knowledge can only be acquired a bit here and a little there through persistent attention to the notices of new acts and announcements of plans.



PUBLISHERS OF VAUDEVILLE MATERIAL

SAMUEL FRENCH, 28 W. 38th St., New York T. S. DENNISON, Chicago

PROMINENT THEATRICAL PAPERS

VARIETY, 1536 Broadway, New York THE DRAMATIC MIRROR, 1493 Broadway, New York THE NEW YORK MORNING TELEGRAPH, 50th St. & 8th Ave., New York THE NEW YORK STAR, 1499 Broadway, New York THE CLIPPER, 47 W. 28th St., New York THE BILLBOARD, 1465 Broadway, New York THE DRAMATIC NEWS, 17 W. 42d St., New York THE NEW YORK REVIEW, 121 W. 39th St., New York THE THEATRE MAGAZINE, 8 W. 38th St., New York THE GREEN BOOK MAGAZINE, North American Building, Chicago.



CHAPTER XXV

HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED

While an understanding of how a vaudeville act is transformed from a manuscript into a commercial success may not be necessary to the writing of a good act, such a knowledge is absolutely necessary to the writer who hopes to make money by his work. For this reason I shall devote this final chapter to a brief discussion of the subject.

Permit me, therefore, to take the manuscript of an act, assuming for my purpose that it represents a monologue or a two-act, a playlet or a musical comedy, and trace its commercial career from the author's hands, into a producer's, through a booking office, to success. Anyone of the famous examples printed in this volume could be so taken and its history told, but no one would combine in its experience all the points that should be given. So I shall ask you to imagine that the act whose commercial story I am about to tell represents in itself every kind of act to be seen in vaudeville. I shall call this act by the name of "Success."

When Mr. Author, the writer of "Success," received a letter from Mr. Producer accepting the act and requesting him to call at his office to discuss terms, Mr. Author was delighted and hurried there as fast as he could go.

The office boy ushered him into Mr. Producer's private office, and before the caller could get his breath Mr. Producer had made him an offer. He accepted the offer without haggling over the terms, which seemed to Mr. Author very satisfactory. To tell the truth, he would have accepted almost anything, so eager was he to get his first act on the stage, so it was lucky for him that the terms were really fair.

He had hardly folded up the contract and stowed it, with the advance royalty check, in his bosom pocket, before Mr. Producer plunged into business. He pressed a button for the office boy and told him to tell Mr. Scenic Artist to come in. Now Mr. Scenic Artist was the representative of a great scenic studio, and he sketched a design for a special set in a jiffy; then he thought of another, and then of a third. And Mr. Producer and he were so interested in combining all their good ideas into one admirable set that Mr. Author was startled when they shoved a sketch under his nose and asked for suggestions. He made two that were pertinent to the atmosphere he had imagined for his room, and when they were incorporated in the sketch, Mr. Producer O. K'd it and Mr. Scenic Artist bowed himself out, promising to have a model ready the next day.

Mr. Producer then rang for Miss Secretary, and told her to have Mr. Star, Miss Leading Lady and other performers in the office next morning at eleven o'clock, gave her a list of the characters he wished to cast, and handed her the manuscript with an order to get out parts, and to have them out that night. He turned to Mr. Author with a request for the incidental music for the act. Mr. Author told him he had none. Then Mr. Producer reached for the telephone, with the remark that the music could wait, and called up the United Booking Offices of America.

After a few minutes wait, Mr. Producer got the special Mr. Booking Manager for whom he had inquired, told him he had an act for which he wanted a break-in week, and as he hesitated and named a date three weeks later, Mr. Author was sure the act had been booked. Mr. Author marveled that the act should be contracted to appear when it was not even yet out of manuscript form, but when he mentioned this with a smile, Mr. Producer wanted to know how he ever would get "time" for an act if he didn't engage it ahead. He explained that he had a regular arrangement with Mr. House Manager to play new acts in his house at a small "break-in" salary. It was an arrangement convenient to him and gave Mr. House Manager fine acts at small cost.

After this, Mr. Producer rose from his desk and Mr. Author went out, promising to be on hand that evening at eight to go over the manuscript and make some changes that Mr. Producer promised to prove were necessary to the success of the act. And as he passed through the outer office, Mr. Author heard Miss Secretary explain over the telephone that Mr. Producer wished a hall at eleven o'clock two days later to rehearse a new act.

Promptly at eight o'clock that night Mr. Author presented himself at the office again, and found Mr. Producer busily engaged in reading the manuscript. A tiny paper model of the mimic room in which the act was to be played stood upon the desk. When he stooped he saw that the walls were roughly colored after the sketch they had discussed and that the whole scene bore an amazing likeness to the place of his imagination. Mr. Producer explained that he had had the model rushed through to make it possible for them to "get down to brass tacks" at once. The act needed so many little changes that they would have to get busy to have it ready for the morning.

When Mr. Producer began discussing various points about the act, Mr. Author could not for the life of him imagine what all these changes could be. But when Mr. Producer pointed out the first, Mr. Author wondered how he ever had imagined that the heroine could do the little thing he had made her do—it was physically impossible. Point after point Mr. Producer questioned, and point after point they changed, but there was only the one glaring error. A motive was added here, a bit of business was changed there, and as they worked they both grew so excited that they forget the time, forgot everything but that act. And when the manuscript at last dropped from their exhausted hands, it looked as if an army had invaded it.

Mr. Author glanced at the pile of nicely bound parts and sighed. All that work would have to be done over! "Only another one of my mistakes," smiled Mr. Producer as he scribbled an order to Miss Secretary, attached it to the manuscript, together with these now useless parts, and laid them on her desk, as he and Mr. Author went out into the cool night air. "See you tomorrow at eleven," said Mr. Producer as they parted. And Mr. Author looking at his watch wondered why he should take the trouble to go home at all.

At eleven Mr. Author found the little outer office crowded with actors and actresses. Miss Secretary was busily directing the typing of the new manuscript and parts. Mr. Producer was late. After Mr. Author had waited an hour in the private office, Miss Secretary came in and said he should wait no longer, because Mr. Producer had been called out of town to straighten out some trouble which had developed in one of his acts and had just telephoned that he would not be in until late that afternoon. Rehearsal would be as scheduled next morning, Miss Secretary explained. The performers would be on hand, and she hoped to goodness they would have some idea of their parts by then. Mr. Author wanted to know how the cast could be engaged when Mr. Producer was away, and Miss Secretary told him that Mr. Producer knew the capabilities of everyone who had called and had even directed her to engage the ones he named.

The following morning Mr. Author saw his characters for the first time in the flesh—and was disappointed. Also, the rehearsal was a sad awakening; it wasn't anything like he had imagined it would be. They all sat around on chairs and Mr. Producer told them what the act was all about. Then he suggested that they go through it once, at any rate. Chairs were placed to mark the footlights, chairs were used to indicate the doors and window, and chairs were made to do duty as a table, a piano and everything else.

Finally they got started and limped through the lines, reading their parts. Then Mr. Producer began to show them how he wanted it done, and before he had finished he had played every part in the act. They went through the act once more with a myriad of interruptions from Mr. Producer, who insisted on getting things right the very first time, and then he knocked off, calling it a day's work.

The next morning Mr. Author was on hand early with some suggestions: one Mr. Producer adopted, the others he explained into forgetfulness—and rehearsing began in earnest. They worked all morning on the first quarter of the act and went back at it late that afternoon. Miss Leading Lady unconsciously added one line and it was so good that it was kept in the act. Then Mr. Star did something that made them all laugh, and they put that in. Of course some pretty lines in the dialogue had to come out to make room, but they came out, and Mr. Author never regretted their loss. And the next day it was the same, and the day after that, and the seventh day, and the eighth day.

Then came a day when Mr. Author saw the act taking shape and form, and when he spoke to Mr. Producer about it, Mr. Producer said he thought that after all the act might whip around into something pretty good.

A few days later when Mr. Author arrived at the rehearsal hall, there were three strange men facing the company, who were going through the act for the first time without interruptions from Mr. Producer. Mr. Author wondered who they were, and watched their faces with interest to see how they liked his act. After a while he came to consider as great compliments the ghosts of smiles flickering across their jury-like faces. And when it was all over the performers gathered in one corner, and Mr. Producer came over to him, and the three men whispered among themselves. Mr. Producer explained that they were booking managers, and then Mr. Author sensed the psychological reason for the unconscious drawing together of the different clans.

His heart beat rather violently when the three men came across the room, and he felt a great wave of gladness sweep over him when the tallest of the three pulled out a little black book and said, "Mr. Producer, I'll pencil it in one of my houses for next week at this figure," and he showed Mr. Producer what he had written.

"And I'll take you for the second break-in, as we agreed when you 'phoned," said the shortest man. "And I'll take the third at that."

Then it was that Mr. Author felt a great admiration for Mr. Producer, because Mr. Producer dared assert his personality. Mr. Producer objected to the figure, talking of the "name" of Mr. Star.

"That's every penny he's worth," came the adamant answer.

Then Mr. Producer mentioned transportation costs, and the cost of hauling scenery, as additional arguments.

"Why didn't you say special set at first?" said the smallest man; "I'll give you this advance." Then all four looked, and they all agreed.

Then Mr. Author was introduced, quite casually. "Guess your act'll get by," conceded one of the jury generously, as they all left.

"So you're going to open a week earlier?" gasped Mr. Author to Mr. Producer, when they were alone in the interval between the exit of the three and the entrance upon the scene of the performers, who came swiftly across the room to learn their fate. "And you've booked three weeks more!"

"Well," said Mr. Producer, "you know the boys only pencilled those weeks in—pencil marks can be rubbed out."

The next day as they were on their way to the train to go up to the town where the act was to open, Mr. Producer suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to send Miss Secretary up to the Booking Offices for his contract. He wanted that contract particularly, for he had a feud of long standing with the manager of that particular house. So up he rushed to get that contract, with Mr. Author tagging at his heels.

It was the first time Mr. Author had seen even the waiting room of a booking office—it amazed him by its busy air. A score or more performers crowded its every inch of space. They were thickest around a little grilled window, behind which stood a boy who seemed to know them all. Some he dismissed with a "Come in tomorrow." Others he talked with at length, and took their cards. When he had a handful he disappeared from the window.

But Mr. Producer was calling Mr. Author. Mr. Producer stood holding open the inner door. So in Mr. Author went—to another surprise. Here there was no crush of people—here there was no rush, and little noise. Stenographers stood about, seemingly idle, and at a dozen little desks sat a dozen men quietly bending over rather odd-looking books, or talking with the few men who came in.

One of these men Mr. Author recognized as Mr. Booking Manager, for whom they were to play the second week. He was about to speak to him, when up came a bustling little man who said, "Do you want Miss Headliner for the week of the thirtieth? I can give her to you."

"Nope, all filled. Give you the week of the twenty-third."

"All right."

Mr. Booking Agent made a note in his little book, and Mr. Booking Manager bent over his desk and wrote Miss Headliner's name in his big book—and a business transaction was consummated.

Then Mr. Booking Agent hustled over to another desk and repeated his offer of the week of the thirtieth.

"Sorry, give you the week of the twenty-third," said this man.

"Just filled it," said Mr. Booking Agent. "Can't you give me the thirtieth? Who's got the thirtieth open?"

The man at the next desk heard him. "Who for? Miss Headliner? All right, I'll take her."

Just then Mr. Producer came out of a little room and Mr. Author followed him in a wild dash to catch the train. In the smoker he asked Mr. Producer to explain what he had seen in the Booking Offices. And Mr. Producer said: "Each one of those men you saw up there is in charge of the shows of one, or maybe three or four vaudeville theatres in different cities. It is their duty to make up the shows that appear in each of their houses. For instance, Mr. Booking Manager, whose house we are playing this week, books the shows in four other houses.

"The man you heard ask him if he would take Miss Headliner for the thirtieth, is Miss Headliner's business representative. His name is Mr. Booking Agent. Besides Miss Headliner, he is the representative for maybe fifty other acts. For this service he receives a commission of five per cent of Miss Headliner's salary and five per cent on the salaries of all the acts for whom he gets work. It is his business to keep Miss Headliner booked, and he is paid by her and his other clients for keeping them working.

"Mr. Booking Manager, on the other hand, is not paid a commission. He receives a flat salary for the work that he does for his houses. You remember you met him yesterday, when he pencilled 'Success' in for the house we are on our way to play. Well, that is also a part of his business. For some of his houses that like to make a big showing at little expense, he must dig up new big acts like ours, which are breaking-in.

"Now, the price I get for this act for the breaking-in weeks, is mighty low. But this is customary. That is the reason why the performers have to be content with half salaries, and you with half-royalty. But this price does not affect the future price I will receive. It is marked on the books as the 'show price.' That means that it is recorded in the book-keeping department by the cashier as the price for which I am showing this act to the managers. When the act has made good, a price is set on the act, and that is the standard price for the other houses that book through these offices. The book-keeper watches the prices like a hawk, and if I tried to 'sneak a raise over,' he would catch it, and both yours truly and Mr. Booking Manager would be called up on the carpet by the head of the Offices. The only increase that is permitted is when a new season rolls around, or two or three booking managers agree to an increase and consult the office head about boosting the salary on the books."

That night Mr. Author rather expected to see a dress rehearsal of the act; he was disappointed. But the next morning there was a full dress rehearsal, played in the brand new special set which had come up with them and that now shone like a pretty picture in the dingy theatre.

It rather amazed Mr. Author to note that the emphasis of this rehearsal was not put on the speeches, but upon the entrances and exits, and the precise use and disposal of the various properties employed. A glimmering of the reason came to him when Mr. Star promised to murder anyone who moved a book that he used in his "big" scene. "Unless it is here—right here—I'll never be able to reach it and get back for the next bit without running."

And so the rehearsal went on, with no effort to improve the lines, but only to blend the physical movements of everyone of the performers to make a perfect whole and to heighten the natural effect of even the most natural action. Then the dress rehearsal came to an end, and the entire party went out to see the town.

That night, after the performance, they worked again on the act, because Mr. Producer had been seized by an idea. And when they had gone through the act time and again to incorporate that idea, they all went wearily to bed, praying for success next day.

At ten o'clock in the morning Mr. Author was at the theatre. He found that other acts had preceded him. The stage was littered with trunks and scenery, trapeze bars, animal cages and the what-not of a vaudeville show. Each performer as he came in was greeted by the doorman with the gift of a brass check, on which there was stamped a number. This number told the performer in what order he was entitled to rehearse. Vaudeville is a democracy—first come, first rehearsed.

The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which express-men had dumped on the sidewalk, the electrician was busy mentally rehearsing light effects according to the formula on a printed light plot which was being explained to him by a performer. "Props" was busy trying to satisfy everyone with what he had on hand, or good-naturedly sending out for what had not been clearly specified on the property plot. The spot-light man in the gallery out front was busy getting his lamp ready for the matinee, and consulting his light plot. And the stage-manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shoving his scenery here and there to make room for the newly arrived sets, directing the flying of the hanging stuff, and settling questions with the directness of a czar.

Suddenly through the caverny house sounded the noise of the orchestra tuning up. The leader appeared and greeted the performers he knew like long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check Number One dropped into his hand, and the Monday morning rehearsal began. Then it was that Mr. Author learned that it is not the acts, which are rehearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville orchestra, and the light men and "Props."

This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer arrived with the performers and "Success" went into rehearsal. Although the entire staff of the theatre had been rehearsed the night before at the final dress rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some lights, to instruct "Props" more clearly, and to jack up the orchestra into perfection. Therefore they all went through the act once more. Then the scrub-women appeared and demanded the centre of the stage with great swishes of watery cloths. The curtain came down to hide the stage from the front of the house, and the first early comers of the audience filtered in.

Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how "Success" played that first performance. He has dim memories of a throbbing heart, fears that lines would be forgotten or the whole "big" scene fall to pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain came down, amid—applause. The curtain went up and came down a number of times, but Mr. Author was too busy pinching himself to make sure that he wasn't dreaming, to count how many curtains the act took.

It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr. Producer was in a rage. There were scores of points that had not "got over," half a dozen of his finest effects had been ruined, and he was bound those points should "get over," and those effects shine out clear and big.

Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it as a nightmare of changes. They cut out speeches, and changed speeches, and took out bits of business, and added new bits—they changed everything in the act, and some of the changes they changed back again, until by Saturday the act was hardly to be recognized. And then they played two more performances to crowded houses that applauded like madmen; and Mr. Producer smiled for the first time.

Then they moved to the next theatre, and the first performance showed even Mr. Author that all the work had been wise. Now he was even more anxious than Mr. Producer to make the many changes by which this week was marked. And by the end of the week "Success" looked like—success.

They were preparing for a week of great things in the next town, when Wednesday night a cancellation notice came for that precious week. Something had gone wrong, and the pencilled date had to be rubbed out. Of course, by all the laws of the legislatures that week should never have been rubbed out, because there was a contract fully binding on both the theatre and Mr. Producer. But the week was rubbed out of sight, nevertheless, and Mr. Producer—knowing vaudeville necessities and also knowing that only the most dire necessity made Mr. Booking Manager "do this thing to him"—forgave it all with a smile and was quite ready to get back to town when Monday morning rolled around.

But Monday morning there occurred a "disappointment" at another theatre in a town only a few miles away. The act that was to have played that date was wrecked, or had overslept itself. Anyway. the resident house manager telephoned to the Booking Offices that he was shy one act. Now it happened that the act that "disappointed," was of the same general character as "Success." The Booking Manager knew this, and remembered that "Success" was within a few miles and with an open week that ought to have been filled. Therefore, just as Mr. Producer and Mr. Author were leaving the hotel to join the other members of "Success" at the railroad station. Mr. Producer was called to the telephone—long distance.

In less time than it takes to recount it, the resident manager who was suffering from a disappointment, and Mr. Producer, suffering from the lack of a playing week, were both cured of their maladies at the same time. And so, instead of going back to town, "Success" rushed to the next city and played its week.

Now, in this last week of breaking-in, Mr. Author realized one fact that stands out rather prominently in his memory; it is a simple little fact, yet it sums up the entire problem of the show business. Perhaps the rush of events had made it impossible before for the truth to strike home as keenly as it did when there suddenly came to him a tiny little bit of business which made a very long speech unnecessary. He explained it to Mr. Producer, and Mr. Producer seized on it instantly and put it into the act. That night the act went better than it had ever gone before. This little bit of condensation, this illuminating flash which was responsible for it, "punched up" the big scene into a life it had never had before. Then it was that there also flashed upon Mr. Author's mind this truth:

A dramatic entertainment is not written on paper. It is written with characters of flesh and blood. Strive as hard as man may, he can never fully foretell how an ink-written act will play. There is an inexplicable something which playing before an audience develops. Both the audience and the actors on the stage are affected. A play—the monologue and every musical form as well—is one thing in manuscript, another thing in rehearsal, and quite a different thing before an audience. Playing before an audience alone shows what a play truly is. Therefore, a play can only be made—after it is produced. Even in the fourth week of playing—the first week of metropolitan playing—Mr. Author and Mr. Producer made many changes in "Success" that were responsible for the long popularity it enjoyed. Mr. Author had learned his lesson well. He approached his next work with clearer eyes.



APPENDIX

NINE FAMOUS VAUDEVILLE ACTS COMPLETE

"THE GERMAN SENATOR," A Monologue, by Aaron Hoffman.

"THE ART OF FLIRTATION," A Two-Act, by Aaron Hoffman.

"AFTER THE SHOWER," A Flirtation Two-Act, by Louis Weslyn.

"THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER," A Travesty Playlet, by Arthur Denvir.

"THE LOLLARD," A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan Woolf.

"BLACKMAIL," A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding Davis.

"THE SYSTEM," A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor Granville.

"A PERSIAN GARDEN," A One-Act Musical Comedy, by Edgar Allan Woolf.

"My OLD KENTUCKY HOME," A One-Act Burlesque, by James Madison.

A WORD ABOUT THE ACTS

The nine acts which are given, complete, in the following pages are representative of the very best in vaudeville. Naturally, they do not show every possible vaudeville variation—a series of volumes would be required for that—but, taken together, they represent all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are commonly seen.

THE MONOLOGUE

The German Senator

This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen as perhaps the best example of the pure monologue ever written. Originally used by Cliff Gordon—continually being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute—it has, since his death, been presented by numerous successors of the first "German Senator." It is doubtful if any other dramatic work—or any other writing—of equal length, and certainly no monologue, has returned to its author so much money as "The German Senator" has earned.

THE TWO-ACTS

The Art of Flirtation

For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville two-act, this exceptionally fine example of two-act form has been used by various famous German comedians. It may be considered to stand in much the same relation to the two-act that "The German Senator" does to the monologue. Its author, also Mr. Aaron Hoffman, holds a unique position among vaudeville and musical comedy writers.

After the Shower

This delightful little example of lover's nonsense was played for more than four years by Lola Merrill and Frank Otto. It has been instanced as one of the daintiest and finest flirtation-couple-acts that the two-a-day has seen. Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps more successful acts of this particular style than any other author.

THE PLAYLETS

The Villain Still Pursued Her

This travesty, one of the most successful on record, was used for years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan. Written by Mr. Arthur Denvir, whose specialty is travesties, it undoubtedly became the inspiration for the many similar acts that created the travesty-vogue of 1912-15.

The Lollard

Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical comedy, is perhaps the most successful writer of playlets in this country. For many years he has turned out success after success for famous legitimate stars, while still other performers have become vaudeville stars in his acts. Mr. Woolf himself chose "The Lollard" as representative of his best comedies. The star role, Angela Maxwell, was created in this country by Miss Regina Cornelli, and in England by Miss Hilda Trevelyan.

Blackmail

Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction. This remarkable little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum Circuit by Mr. Charles Feleky, who declares it to be "the best tragic playlet I have produced." From so eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed, high praise. The character of Richard Fallon was created by Mr. Walter Hampden.

The System

Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big productions with which Mr. Taylor Granville has supplied The United Booking Offices of America, during his many years as a producing star. Mr. Junie McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was once president of "The White Rats," the vaudeville actors' union, and is now a successful vaudeville writer. Mr. Edward Clark, the third collaborator, has written many successful vaudeville acts.

"The System" is said to have been characterized by Mr. George M. Cohan as the best one-act melodrama he ever saw. Its extraordinary popularity in this country and in England is but added proof of the tenseness of its scenes and its great ending.

THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY

A Persian Garden

Played by Louis Simons season after season, this real comedy set to music is without question Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf's best effort in this field. Unlike the usual musical comedy, this act possesses dialogue interest as well as pleasing brilliancy. It has won its many years of success not because of scenery, costumes and the chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent in the manuscript divorced from them.

THE BURLESQUE TAB

My Old Kentucky Home

Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts in vaudeville, this "Tab" has been played in various guises in the two-a-day and in burlesque for many seasons. It is the work of a writer who justly prides himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque form, and who possesses the most complete library of burlesque manuscripts in America. To the thousands of readers of "Madison's Budget," James Madison requires no introduction.

Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance, been personally granted to the author of this volume. This kind permission covers publication in this book only. Republication of these acts in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, is expressly prohibited.

Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise forbidden. A Special Warning has been inserted in the introductory page of every act, at the request of each author. The reason for such repetition is to be found in the commercial value of successful vaudeville material, and in the fact that the general public has never precisely understood the reservations permitted to the author of a dramatic work under the copyright law. Infringements of any sort are subject to severe penalties under United States law and will be rigidly prosecuted.

To the writers of these acts the author of this volume wishes to express his deep appreciation for the permissions that enable him to print as illustrations of his text some of the finest acts that vaudeville has ever seen.



The German Senator A Monologue

By Aaron Hoffman Author of "The Politicians," "The Belle of Avenue A," "The Newly-weds and their Baby", "Let George Do It," "School Days," Etc., Etc.

THE GERMAN SENATOR

My dear friends and falling citizens:

My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to come out here before such an intelligence massage of people and have the chance to undress such a large conglomerated aggravation.

I do not come before you like other political speakers, with false pride in one hand and the Star Strangled Banana in the other.

I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man who is for the public and against the people, and I want to tell you, my 'steemed friends, when I look back on the early hysterics of our country, and think how our forefathers strangled to make this country voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling of patriotic symptoms—we got to feel a patriotic symp—symps—you got to feel the patri—you can't help it, you got to feel it.

I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion when we look out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way she stands, all alone, dressed up in nothing, with a light in her hand, showing her freedom.

And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.

With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the other.

And when she stands there now, looking on the country the way it is and what she has to stand for, I tell you tears and tears must drop from her eyes. Well, to prove it—look at the ocean she filled up.

And no wonder she's crying. Read the nuisance papers. See what is going on.

Look what the country owes.

According to the last report of the Secretary of the Pleasury, the United States owes five billion dollars.

Nobody knows what we owe it for;

And nobody ever sees what we have got for it; [1]

[1] Here begins the "Panama Canal point," referred to in Chapter V. It continues until the "End of Panama Canal Point" footnote below.

First read the monologue including this point, then read it skipping the point—thus you will see, first, what a complete "point" is; second, what "blending" means; and third, how a monologist may shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a point. [end footnote]

And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the United States, and ask them, THEY don't even know THEMSELVES.

Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the Pay-no-more Canal.

It cost the Government nine thousand dollars an hour to dig the canal. THINK OF THAT!

Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the worst of it is, they ain't digging.

Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy million dollars to dig a hole—they've been at it for over nine years—and the only hole they've dug is in the United States Treasury.

Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up with a report;

He says: "Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better every day, a million dollars MORE please."

He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels, then sends back a telegram: HOORAY—The digging is very good, the two oceans will soon be one.

Can you beat that?

Before they started the canal it didn't cost us nothing, and we had two oceans.

And by the time they get through, it'll cost us three hundred million and we'll only have one.

And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks like it was going to get us into trouble.

Japan is against it on one side and England don't like it on the other.

And that's why we've got to have a navy. [1]

[1] End of "Panama Canal point." See footnote above, also Chapter V.

Of course, we've got a navy.

But everybody is kicking about it.

Why should they kick?

All we appropriated for the navy last year was four million dollars.

And there's eighty million people in this country.

And that figures a nickel apiece.

And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for a nickel?

Still they are crying that the country is in destitution circumstances. That is inconsis—inconsis—you can't deny it.

Our country has got a superabum, a superabum—a superabum—we've got a lot of money.

There's money lying in the treasury that never was touched. And the first fellow that will touch it will get six months.

The whole trouble is the trusts.

Look what the cold storage trust have done with the eggs. Sixty cents a dozen—for the good ones. And the good ones are rotten.

Then they say the reason prices are going up is because wages are getting higher.

But why should they raise the price of eggs?

The chickens ain't getting any more wages.

And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth more than money.

Then there won't be any money.

Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat around.

A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.

When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin steak.

If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny.

If they keep on, we won't be able to live at all.

Statistics prove that the average wages of the workingman is one dollar a day.

Out of that, he's got to spend fifty cents a day for food; fifty-five cents for rent; ten cents for car fare.

And at the end of a hard day's work—he owes himself fifteen cents.

Yet the rich people say that the poor people are getting prosperous.

They say, look at our streets. You see nothing but automobiles. You don't see half the poor people now that you used to.

Certainly you don't.

Half of them have already been run over and the other half is afraid to come out.

Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the poor man hasn't got a chance to live.

And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the price of gas will go up so high a poor man won't even be able to commit suicide.

They'll have him both ways. He can't live and he can't die.

And that's why I am with the socialists.

They say, "Down with the trusts! Do away with money. Make everything equal."

Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying:

"Give me a diamond ring, here's a lemon."

But the socialists have got some good ideas for the working people. And my heart and soul is with the labor class of people. I am for labor unions.

But what help are the labor unions to the working man?

Look at it in the right light.

A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union. He gets a job in a shop for two dollars a day, works two weeks, the union gets out on a strike and he owes himself a dollar.

The unions are crying the days are too long.

They want the days shorter. They want the days should be eight hours long.

But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where the days are six months long. That's the place for the poor man to live.

When the landlord comes around and says, "Rent," all you have to do is to tell him to come around the day after tomorrow.

Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us you should save money and put it in the bank.

What's the use of putting your money in the bank?

It's easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to get it out. When you want to take your money out, you got to give the cashier sixty days notice.

And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go in sixty days?

Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improving.

It's ridiculum.

We were better off years ago than we are now.

Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.

Life to him was a pleasure;

There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.

Anything he wanted he could get.

But the darn fool had to get lonesome.

And that's the guy that started all our troubles.

We would be all right today, if it wasn't for Adam and Evil.

Then they say that Adam fell for an apple.

It just shows how men have improved.

No man would fall for an apple today.

It would have to be a peach.

And I tell you, it's no wonder that women feel stuck up. They say they can do more than men can do.

That's very true, when you go back to the first woman, Eve.

She was only one little woman, all by herself, and she put the whole human race on the bum.

Could a man do that?

And yet she was only a rib out of Adam's side.

It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition woman was.

Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman, you got to buy a diamond ring, take her to the theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what's left of your wages you got to spend on candy and tango trots and turkey teas. There's where Adam had it on all of us.

All Eve cost him was one bone.

It all goes to show you how much better off man was in those days than today, and while John D. Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede, he comes out and says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says, anybody can live on eighteen dollars a week.

He don't have to tell us that.

Let him tell us how to get the eighteen.

And still that great statesment, William Chinning Bryan, he comes out and says, we are living in a great country. He says we are living in a country of excitement intelligence and education.

That's very true.

Look at our public school system.

A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be a man and he is thoroughly educated, he can go into the public school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.

And the janitor gets ninety-five.

That shows you how education is coming to the front. Wouldn't it better, instead of sending a child to school, to learn him to clean out a cellar?

And what's the cause of all the trouble?

The House of Representatives.

We send them to Washington to look out for the people and the only time they look out for the people is when they look out the window and see them coming.

Then they get $7,500 a year. They spend $10,000 a year, and at the end of the year they have $100,000 saved.

No wonder they are careless with our money.

That's all they got to do. Sit around Washington and touch the treasury.

Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress and says:

"Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,000."

That's all they do, is make touches for millions.

You never heard of those suckers making a touch for a quarter, or a half a dollar.

To show you what they do with our money, look at our Weather Bureau Department.

We pay a fellow $10,000 a year. For what?

To tell us when it's going to rain.

And he don't know himself.

But he don't want to know.

He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going to lose his job. But believe me, it's a soft job.

Nothing to do.

He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast, smokes a good fat cigar; then he looks out of the window and says, "Fine weather to-day."

Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk. I tell you, my dear friends, the way the country stands now, the country stands on the brink of a preci—the country stands on the brink of a precip—and if somebody shoves it, it is going over.

And the cause of all the trouble in the country is the crooked politics.

And that's why the women suffering gents have gotten together and are fighting for their rights.

And you can't blame them.

Now I see where one married woman has hit on a great idea.

She says there's only one protection for the wives.

And that's a wives' union.

Imagine a union for wives.

A couple gets married.

And as soon as they get settled, along comes the walking delegate and orders a strike.

Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives walking up and down the streets on strike, and scabs taking their places.



The Art of Flirtation A Two-Act for Two Men by Aaron Hoffman

Author of "Toblitz, or The End of the World," "The New Leader," "The Son of Solomon," "The Speaker of the House," Etc., Etc.

THE ART OF FLIRTATION

STRAIGHT: Say, whenever we go out together, you always got a kick coming. What's the matter with you?

COMEDIAN: Nothing is the matter with me.

STRAIGHT: With you always everything is the matter.

COMEDIAN: What's the trouble?

STRAIGHT: The trouble is you don't know nothing.

COMEDIAN: Yes, I do.

STRAIGHT: You know! If I only knew one-half of what you don't know, I would know twice as much as the smartest man in the world.

COMEDIAN: What you got against me?

STRAIGHT: You ain't a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: What is a gentlemen?

STRAIGHT: A gentlemen is a man who knows how to act senseless vit people no matter vat happens.

COMEDIAN: I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless.

STRAIGHT: You are a gentlemen! Look at you. How can a man be a gentlemen with such a face like that. There are two kinds of men—gentlemen and rummies. I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy.

COMEDIAN: I am a rummy? I know how to act vit people. Ven you met your friends down the street, vat did you say to them?

STRAIGHT: I said come on and have a drink. I spoke like a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: And ve all vent to have a drink.

STRAIGHT: Ve did.

COMEDIAN: Didn't I pay for it?

STRAIGHT: Sure—that shows you are a rummy.

COMEDIAN: No, that shows I was a gentlemen.

STRAIGHT: Dat's right. In a saloon you are a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: Sure I am. I act just a bartender.

STRAIGHT: But the trouble with you is you don't know how to mingle.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I can mingle.

STRAIGHT: You don't know the first thing about mingling. As a mingler you are a flivver. Among men you are all right, but as soon as I take you out to some parties and dinners and you see some women around, your brains get loose.

COMEDIAN: Why—what do I do?

STRAIGHT: It makes no resemblance what you do or what you say. No matter how you do it—no matter how you say it, the women get insulted. You ain't got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable to the ladies.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought to hear me talk to my wife.

STRAIGHT: To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. But tink of other women—the trouble with you is, you have no, as the French people say, you have no savoir faire.

COMEDIAN: No what?

STRAIGHT: I say that you ain't got no, what the French people call, savoir faire.

COMEDIAN: What's dot?

STRAIGHT: Savoir faire.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I can salve for fair.

STRAIGHT: You can salve for fair; yes, but you ain't got no savoir faire. You are not a mingler. You have no vit, no humor. You ain't got no esprit.

COMEDIAN: Vere do you get all dose words?

STRAIGHT: I get them because I am a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: Then I'm glad I am a rummy.

STRAIGHT: Sure you're a rummy. If you wasn't a rummy, you'd have esprit.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I had a spree lots of times.

STRAIGHT: Not a spree. I mean esprit. I mean you ain't got no refinement—like me. I got polish.

COMEDIAN: You're a shine.

STRAIGHT: No, I ain't a shine. I am a lady killer.

COMEDIAN: One look at you is enough to kill any lady.

STRAIGHT: I am a Beau Brummel. Ven I am with the ladies, I talk to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet nothings, but you, you rummy you, you don't know how to make the ladies feel unhappy.

COMEDIAN: How do you make them unhappy?

STRAIGHT: You got to be disagreeable to them.

COMEDIAN: And vat do you do to be disagreeable to ladies?

STRAIGHT: The only vay to be disagreeable to a lady, you got to flirt vit her.

COMEDIAN: Flirt. Vat does that mean flirt?

STRAIGHT: Flirting is a thing that begins in nothing. You say something, you talk like everything and you mean nothing, and it liable to end up in anything. A flirtation is a clan-destination meeting with a lady.

COMEDIAN: Vat kind of a meeting is dot?

STRAIGHT: Don't you know? Ven you flirt, you meet a pretty woman in a shady spot.

COMEDIAN: Oh, you meet a shady woman in a pretty spot.

STRAIGHT: Not a shady woman. A pretty woman in a shady spot.

COMEDIAN: How do you know so much about flirting?

STRAIGHT: Now you come to it. I got here a book on the art of flirtation. Here it is. (biz. shows book.)

COMEDIAN: What is the name of that book?

STRAIGHT: The art of flirtation. How to make a lady fall in love with you for ten cents.

COMEDIAN: A lady fell in love with me once and it cost me Five Hundred Dollars.

STRAIGHT: That's because you didn't have this book. This book tells you how to make love. This book is full of the finest kind of love.

COMEDIAN: For ten cents.

STRAIGHT: Yes, for ten cents.

COMEDIAN: Oh, it's ten cents love.

STRAIGHT: No, it ain't ten-cent love. It's fine love (opens book). See—here is the destructions. Right on the first page you learn something. See—how to flirt with a handkerchief.

COMEDIAN: Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with a woman.

STRAIGHT: Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things have got a language. According to this book, flirters can speak with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the handkerchief, with anything. This book tells you how to do it.

COMEDIAN: For ten cents.

STRAIGHT: Shut up. Now when you see a pretty woman coming along who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should do?

COMEDIAN: Run the other way.

STRAIGHT: No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your hands in your pockets.

COMEDIAN: And hold on to your money.

STRAIGHT: No, you take out your handkerchief. (biz.)

COMEDIAN: Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief?

STRAIGHT: Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in the book. Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.). Do you know what that means?

COMEDIAN: (Biz. of shaking head.)

STRAIGHT: That means you want her to give you—

COMEDIAN: Ten cents.

STRAIGHT: No. Dat means you want her to give you a smile. So you shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.), then you draw it across you mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean?

COMEDIAN: That means you just had a glass of beer.

STRAIGHT: No, dat means "I would like to speak with you."

COMEDIAN: And does she answer?

STRAIGHT: She got to, it says it in the book.

COMEDIAN: Does she answer you with a handkerchief?

STRAIGHT: Yes, or she might umbrella.

COMEDIAN: Over the head.

STRAIGHT: Sure. If she answers you with de umbrella over the head, that means something. Ven she holds the umbrella over her head, she means that she is a married woman.

COMEDIAN: Den you quit flirting.

STRAIGHT: No, den you commence. If she shakes it dis way (biz.), dat means—

COMEDIAN: Her husband is coming.

STRAIGHT: No. Dat means "You look good to me." Den you hold your handkerchief by the corner like dis (biz.).

COMEDIAN: Vat does that mean?

STRAIGHT: Meet me on the corner.

COMEDIAN: Och, dat's fine (takes handkerchief). Den if you hold it dis way, dat means (biz.) "Are you on the square?"

STRAIGHT: You are learning already. You will soon be a flirter. Now I vill show you how you flirt according to the book. You are a man flirter, and I am a beautiful female.

COMEDIAN: You are what?

STRAIGHT: A female. A female.

COMEDIAN: Vat's dat, a female?

STRAIGHT: A female. Don't you know what fee means? Fee, that means money. Male, that means man. Female. That means "Get money from a man." That's a female. I am a beautiful woman and just to teach you how to flirt, I am going to take a walk thro' the park.

COMEDIAN: I thought you were a gentlemen.

STRAIGHT: No. No. Just for an instance I am a lady. I will walk past in a reckless way, and I will make eyes at you.

COMEDIAN: If you do, I will smash my nose in your face.

STRAIGHT: No. No. When I make eyes at you, you must wave your handkerchief at me three times. Den you reproach me vit all the disrespect in the world and den you take off your hat and you say something. Vat do you say?

COMEDIAN: Ten cents.

STRAIGHT: No. No. You say something pleasant. You speak of the weather, for instance. You say "Good-evening, Madam, nice day."

COMEDIAN: Suppose it ain't a nice day?

STRAIGHT: No matter what kind of a day it is, you speak about it. Now I'm the lady and I am coming. Get ready.

(STRAIGHT does burlesque walk around COMEDIAN. . . . STRAIGHT stops and drops handkerchief.)

COMEDIAN: Say—you dropped something.

STRAIGHT: I know it. I know it. Flirt. Flirt.

(COMEDIAN biz. of pulling out red handkerchief.)

COMEDIAN: I am flirting. I am flirting.

STRAIGHT: What are you trying to do, flag a train? Why don't you pick up my handkerchief?

COMEDIAN: I don't need any, I got one.

STRAIGHT: (Picks up handkerchief and turns.) Oh, you rummy you. Why don't you reproach me and say something about the weather?

COMEDIAN: All right, you do it again.

STRAIGHT: Now don't be bashful! Don't be bashful! Here I come (biz. of walk).

COMEDIAN: (pose with hat.) Good evening. Are you a flirter?

STRAIGHT: Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push).

COMEDIAN: Oh, what a mean lady dat is.

STRAIGHT: You musn't ask her if she's a flirter. You must say something. De way it says in the book. You must speak of something. If you can't speak of anything else, speak of the weather.

COMEDIAN: All right, I'll do it again this time.

STRAIGHT: This is the last time I'll be a lady for you. Here I come (biz.).

COMEDIAN: Good evening, Mrs. Lady. Sloppy weather we're having.

STRAIGHT: Sloppy weather! It's no use; I can't teach you how to be a flirter, you got to learn it from the book. Listen. Here is what it says. "After you made the acquaintanceship of de lady, you should call at her house in the evening. As you open the gate you look up at the vindow and she will wave a handkerchief like this (biz.). That means, somebody is vaiting for you."

COMEDIAN: The bulldog.

STRAIGHT: No. The flirtess. "You valk quickly to the door."

COMEDIAN: The bulldog after you.

STRAIGHT: Dere is no bulldog in this. You don't flirt vith a bulldog.

COMEDIAN: But suppose the bulldog flirts with you?

STRAIGHT: Shut up. "She meets you at the door. You have your handkerchief on your arm" (biz.)

COMEDIAN: And the dog on my leg.

STRAIGHT: No, the handkerchief is on your arm. Dat means "Can I come in?"

COMEDIAN: And den what do you do?

STRAIGHT: If she says "Yes," you go in the parlor, you sit on the sofa, side by side, you take her hand.

COMEDIAN: And she takes your vatch.

STRAIGHT: No. You take her hand, den you say: "Whose goo-goo luvin' baby is oosum?"

COMEDIAN: Does it say that in the book?

STRAIGHT: Sure.

COMEDIAN: Let me see it. (COMEDIAN tears out page.) Den vat do you do?

STRAIGHT: You put her vaist around your arms—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: Den you squeeze it—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: She'll press her head upon your manly shoulder—

COMEDIAN: And den—

STRAIGHT: She looks up into your eyes—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You put the other arm around her—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You hold her tight—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You turn down the gas—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: She sighs—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You sigh—

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: Dat's the end of the book.

COMEDIAN: Is dat all?

STRAIGHT: Sure. What do you want for ten cents?

COMEDIAN: But vat do you do after you turn down the gas?

STRAIGHT: Do you expect the book to tell you everything?



AFTER THE SHOWER

A TWO-ACT FOR A MAN AND WOMAN

By Louis Weslyn

Author of "At the News Stand," "The Girl and the Pearl," "An Easy Mary," "A Campus Flirtation," Etc., Etc.



AFTER THE SHOWER

CHARACTERS

THE FELLOW THE GIRL

SCENE: A pretty country lane in One, (Special drop) supposed to be near Lake George. Rustic bench on R. of stage. When the orchestra begins the music for the act, the girl enters, dressed in a fashionable tailor-made gown, and carrying parasol. She comes on laughing, from L., and glancing back over her shoulder at THE FELLOW, who follows after her, a few paces behind. THE GIRL wears only one glove, and THE FELLOW is holding out the other one to her as he makes his entrance. He is dressed in a natty light summer suit and wears a neat straw hat.

THE GIRL: (As she comes on with a little run.) I don't see why on earth you insist upon following me.

THE FELLOW: (Lifting his hat.) I never knew why I was on earth until I met you. (Waving glove at her.) Say, this is your glove—you know it's your glove.

THE GIRL: (Laughingly.) It must belong to somebody else.

THE FELLOW: No, it doesn't. I saw you drop it. Besides, you are wearing only one glove, and this one matches it.

THE GIRL: (Stopping on right of stage near rustic bench and turning to face him, holding out her hand.) You are right. It is my glove. I'll take it, please.

THE FELLOW: (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.) No, on second thought, I'll keep it. (He folds it up tenderly, and places it in the upper left-hand pocket of his coat.) I'll keep it right here, too,—near my heart.

THE GIRL: Oh, what nonsense! You've never seen me but three times in your life.

THE FELLOW: (Coming nearer her.) Yes—that's true. And you look better every time I see you. Say, you do look awfully nice this morning. Nobody would think, from your appearance, that you belonged to a camping party here on the shore of Lake George. I guess that thunder storm last night didn't bother you a little bit. Why, you look as if you were out for a stroll on Fifth Avenue.

THE GIRL: (Aside.) Little does he know that I got caught in that shower and am now wearing my chum, Genevieve's, gown. (To him.) What a jollier you are! You look pretty natty yourself this morning, it seems to me.

THE FELLOW: (Aside.) This suit of clothes I got from Tommy Higgins has made a hit with her. I guess I'll just let her think they belong to me, and won't tell her that I got soaked in the rain last night. (To her, lifting his hat again.) I'm tickled nearly to death to have you say such complimentary things to me. It makes me glad I came on this camping trip.

THE GIRL: You belong to the camping party flying the flag of the skull and cross-bones, don't you?

THE FELLOW: Yes—all the boys are young doctors, except me.

THE GIRL: And what are you?

THE FELLOW: I'm the patient.

THE GIRL: Are you sick?

THE FELLOW: Love-sick.

THE GIRL: (Turning up her nose.) How ridiculous! What brought you to Lake George?

THE FELLOW: You.

THE GIRL: I! Oh, you are too absurd for anything. Give me my glove, please, and let me go.

THE FELLOW: (Coming still nearer.) Don't be rash. There's no place to go. All of your camping party have gone on a boating trip except yourself. You're surely not going back there and hang around the camp all alone?

THE GIRL: (In surprise.) How did YOU know that the rest of my party had gone away for the day?

THE FELLOW: I saw 'em start. Why didn't you go with 'em?

THE GIRL: I had nothing to wear but this tailor-made gown, and a girl can't go boating in a dress like this. I only intended to stay two days when I came up here from New York to join the camp, and was not prepared with enough clothes. I've sent home for clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp this morning— that's why I didn't go boating, since you are impertinent enough to ask. (She gives him an indignant look.)

THE FELLOW: I beg your pardon. Won't you sit down?

THE GIRL: No, I will not. (Still looking quite indignant, she sits down immediately on bench. He sits down beside her.)

THE FELLOW: Neither will I. (He looks at her out of the corners of his eyes, and she turns her face away, nervously tapping the stage with one foot.)

THE GIRL: You seem to know all that has been going on at our camp. I believe you have been spying on us.

THE FELLOW: Not at all. I know one of the girls in your camp.

THE GIRL: (Sarcastically.) Oh, you do! (She tosses her head.) So you have been following me up in order to send some message to another girl. Who is she?

THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.

THE GIRL: (Aside.) I'll never let him know now that I have on Genevieve's clothes.

THE FELLOW: But you're mistaken. I've already sent the message. It was about you.

THE GIRL: About me? What about me?

THE FELLOW: I wanted Genevieve to introduce us. Say—you haven't told me your name yet.

THE GIRL: I don't intend to. I think you are very forward.

THE FELLOW: Shall I tell you my name?

THE GIRL: By no means.

THE FELLOW: You're not interested?

THE GIRL: Not a bit.

(There is a pause. She keeps her head turned away. He looks upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.)

THE FELLOW: (Finally breaking the silence.) Are there any bugs in your camp?

THE GIRL: (Facing him angrily.) Sir!

THE FELLOW: I mean gnats, mosquitoes—things like that.

THE GIRL: Yes. I was badly bitten last night by a mosquito.

THE FELLOW: (Very much interested.) Where did he get you?

THE GIRL: (Laughing.) Well, you are so fresh that I can't be mad at you. You're too funny. Since you want to know so much, he got me on the knee. I wasn't far-seeing enough to bring mosquito netting. It's a bad bite.

THE FELLOW: Is it possible?

THE GIRL: Don't you believe it?

THE FELLOW: Well, I'm not far-seeing enough to know for sure. (With a sly glance at her knees.)

THE GIRL: How silly of you! But say—I know a joke on you. I saw you fall in the lake yesterday.

THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) While I was fishing?

THE GIRL: Yes; it was so amusing. I don't know when I've enjoyed such a hearty joke. How did you come to fall in?

THE FELLOW: I didn't come to fall in. I came to fish.

THE GIRL: I also saw that man with the camera over in your camp. What was he dojng?

THE FELLOW: Oh, he was a moving picture man from New York. He was taking moving pictures of our cheese.

THE GIRL: Preposterous! Have you caught any fish since you came?

THE FELLOW: Only a dog-fish, with a litter of puppies.

THE GIRL: (With wide-open eyes.) How interesting! What did you do with them?

THE FELLOW: We made frankfurter sausages out of the little ones, and we are using the big one to guard the camp.

THE GIRL: To guard the camp?

THE FELLOW: Yes—it's a watch-dog fish.

THE GIRL: Well, I've heard of sea-dogs, but I never knew before that—

THE FELLOW: Oh, yes—quite common. I suppose, of course, you heard the cat-fish having a concert last night.

THE GIRL: No—surely you are joking.

THE FELLOW: No, indeed—they were all tom-cats.

THE GIRL: Who ever heard of such a thing?

THE FELLOW: Well, you've heard of tom-cods, haven't you?

THE GIRL: Yes, of course, but—

THE FELLOW: Well, why not tom-cats then? Say, you must be sure to come over to our camp and see the collection in our private aquarium. We have two compartments, and keep the little daughter fish on one side, and—

THE GIRL: The daughter fish!

THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) Yes, and the son-fish on the other. (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.)

THE GIRL: You are simply guying me. I shan't listen to you another moment. Give me my glove, sir, I demand it.

THE FELLOW: (Also jumping to his feet and grasping her by the arm.) Oh, please don't get mad. We were getting along so nicely, too.

THE GIRL: (Sneeringly.) "WE" were getting along so nicely. You mean YOU were. I wasn't.

THE FELLOW: Yes, you were doing FINE. You were listening to me, and I can get along all right with anybody that will listen to me. Besides—ah-ah—fraulein—mam'selle—you know, I don't know your name—besides I—I—I like you. I—I think you're the sweetest girl I've ever seen.

THE GIRL: (Turning her head away, and releasing her arm from his grasp.) Oh, pshaw! You've said that to a hundred girls.

THE FELLOW: No—believe me, I have not. YOU'VE made a mighty big hit with me. I'm hard hit this time. I—

THE GIRL: (Laughing in spite of herself.) Oh, you foolish boy. How can you expect me to believe you? I'll bet anything that your coat pockets are filled with love letters from other girls this very minute.

THE FELLOW: You are wrong. You are unjust. Clementina, you are—

THE GIRL: (Indignant again.) Clementina! How dare you address me by such a ridiculous—

THE FELLOW: Oh, pardon me. I thought Clementina was quite poetic. Besides, I've got to call you something. You do me a terrible injustice. On my word of honor—as a—as a fisherman—I haven't a love letter in my coat pocket—or anywhere else. I am young, innocent, virtuous and—

THE GIRL: (Bursting into laughter again.) And utterly foolish, I should judge. You are afraid to let me search your pockets.

THE FELLOW: Afraid? Who's afraid? Me afraid! Well, I'd be tickled to death to have you search my pockets. I dare you to search my pockets. I dare you—understand? (He faces her and throws up his hands over his head.)

THE GIRL: You dare me, do you? Well, I just won't take a dare. I'll do it.

THE FELLOW: Go ahead and do it. I repeat, I dare you! If you doubt my word, prove to your satisfaction that I never lie. I dare you!

THE GIRL: (Leaning her parasol against bench, and stepping up to him in very business-like manner.) Very well, then. I accept your challenge. You can't bluff me out. I believe that ALL men lie when they talk to women, and I am under the impression that you are no exception. Keep your hands up in the air—promise?

THE FELLOW: I promise.

THE GIRL: This is the first time I've ever held up anybody, but here goes. (She searches his right-hand pocket.) I don't suppose you've ever been robbed before?

THE FELLOW: Oh, yes—I was once surrounded by a band of robbers.

THE GIRL: (Still searching.) Indeed! On a public highway?

THE FELLOW: (Still holding up his hands.) No, in a New York hotel cafe. They were the waiters.

THE GIRL: (Taking her hand out of right-hand pocket.) Well, there's nothing in that one but a box of matches. How about this one? (She thrusts her hand into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls out a letter, written on dainty writing paper.) Ah! this is what I expected to find. Perfumed note paper. (She looks at it critically.) Yes, this is the one—no need to search further.

THE FELLOW: What the devil!—(His hands drop to his sides, and he opens his eyes in amazement.)

THE GIRL: (Turning on him angrily.) Sir—such language!

THE FELLOW: Oh, I beg your pardon—but—but—(He points to letter.) I—I—that letter isn't mine. I can't understand how it got into my pocket. I—(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his face. Aside, he says.) By thunder!—I had forgotten all about it. This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy Higgins. Oh, what a mess I've made of it. She'll never believe me now if I tell her I am wearing another fellow's suit. (To her, excitedly.) Say—listen to me, honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy Higgins, you see—

THE GIRL: (Waving him aside.) No excuses. You probably thought you didn't have it with you. Falsehoods are always found out, you see. I was right. You are like all the rest of the men—a born liar—only with this difference—you are a bigger liar than the average. You are really in a class all by yourself. (With the letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.)

Oh, this is immense!—this is delicious!

THE FELLOW: (Making a grab for the letter.) Give that to me, please.

THE GIRL: Not on your life. It may not be proper to read other people's letters, but the present circumstances are unusual. I shall certainly read it—and read it aloud. I want to make you swallow every word and see how they agree with you. Listen to I this, you barbaric Ananias. (She reads aloud.) "My beloved Affinity—Come back to town next Saturday without fail. Just slip away from the other boys at the camp. Tell them that an important business matter demands your presence in the city. I am crazy to see you. Life without you is very stupid. Come to me, my dearest, without delay.

Always your own, Clementina."

THE FELLOW: (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.) CLEMENTINA!!

THE GIRL: (Folding up the letter and looking at him in utter scorn.) So that's where you got the name! So you were thinking of the writer of this letter when you addressed ME by the name of Clementina a while ago. Simply outrageous! (She stamps her feet.)

THE FELLOW: (With a groan.) Oh, Lord! I just happened to say "Clementina" because I thought it was a pretty name. Won't you believe me? I don't know who this Clementina is. I never saw the writer of that letter in all my life. That letter was meant for Tommy Higgins. This suit of clothes—

THE GIRL: (Interrupting.) Don't even attempt to make ridiculous explanations. Don't make yourself more of a liar than you have already proved. I won't listen to another word from you. I didn't want to listen to you in the first place. Here is your affinity's letter, sir. (She hands it to him. He takes it and stuffs it angrily into the coat pocket.) Now, let me have my parasol, please, and my glove. (She reaches for the parasol, but he catches it up and holds it behind his back, as he rises from the bench.)

THE FELLOW: You shall not go away until you hear what I want to say. Tommy Higgins—

THE GIRL: Oh, bother Tommy Higgins!

THE FELLOW: Yes. That's what I say—only stronger. But listen, please—

THE GIRL: Don't discuss the matter further. My parasol and glove; sir! (She is facing him angrily.)

THE FELLOW: Oh, come now. Don't be so hard on a fellow. I tell you that letter wasn't written to me. What if I should search your pockets and find a letter that belonged to somebody else? How would you feel about it?

THE GIRL: You would never find anything in MY pockets that I am ashamed of—that is, if I HAD any pockets. But I have no pockets.

THE FELLOW: (Pointing with one hand at the right side of her jacket.) I beg your pardon. It seems that you know how to tell 'em, too. What's that, if it isn't a pocket?

THE GIRL: (In embarrassment.) Oh—yes—so it is. (Aside.) I had forgotten that I was wearing Genevieve's suit.

THE FELLOW: Well, turn about is fair play, isn't it? I'm going to search your pocket now.

THE GIRL: You mean to insinuate that I have anything in my pocket of a compromising nature? How dare you!

THE FELLOW: You won't believe ME! Why should I believe you? For all I know, you may be a far different kind of girl than I took you to be.

THE GIRL: (Very angry.) You are insulting, sir. But since I stooped so low as to search your pockets, I will give you the satisfaction of searching mine—and then that will be an end of our acquaintance. You can then go your way—and I'll go my way.

THE FELLOW: We'll see about that. Hold up your hands.

THE GIRL: (Darting furious glances at him and holding her hands over her head.) Very well, sir. Hurry up, please, and have it over with. (THE FELLOW very deliberately goes to bench, leans the parasol up against it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and imitating the business-like way in which she had gone through his pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves, as if preparing for a serious piece of business.)

THE FELLOW: (Still mimicing her manner.) I don't suppose you've ever been held up before?

THE GIRL: (Icily.) No—you are the first burglar I have ever met.

THE FELLOW: Promise to hold your hands up until I have finished?

THE GIRL: (Scornfully.) Of course, I'm a girl of my word.

THE FELLOW: All right then. (He deliberately kisses her squarely on the lips, while her hands are held up over her head. She gives a cry and starts to drop her hands and push him away, but he catches her arms and gently holds them up over her head again.) No, no, I'm not through yet.

THE GIRL: You are a brute. You are not worthy to associate with a respectable girl. (THE FELLOW thrusts his hands into the pocket of her jacket and puns out a box of cigarettes and a letter. He holds them up before her horrified eyes.)

THE FELLOW: Well. I'll be—(He starts to say "damned," but stops just in time. THE GIRL'S arms drop limply to her sides, and with eyes staring in complete bewilderment she staggers to the bench and collapses down upon it.)

THE GIRL: Good heavens!

THE FELLOW: (Blinking his eyes at the articles which he holds before him.) What innocent playthings! A box of Pall Malls and a letter—no doubt, an affinity letter. (He shakes his head, soberly.) Well, well! And you just said I wasn't fit to associate with you.

THE GIRL: (Her breast heaving in great agitation.) Oh, this is a terrible mistake! What could Genevieve have been doing with those things?

THE FELLOW: (Turning on her, quickly.) Genevieve?

THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve.

THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.

THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve Patterson—the girl you know—my best friend. Oh, can't you understand? Those things don't belong to me. They are—(She stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her hands. Then says, aside.) Oh, what am I doing? I mustn't allow Genevieve's reputation to be ruined. I might as well take the blame and brave it out myself. This situation is frightful. (She turns to him again.) I can't explain, but don't—oh, please don't think that I—that I—(She stops, looking as if she is about to cry.)

THE FELLOW: (Again looking at the articles and shaking his head.) And you always looked like such a nice girl, too. Cigarettes—and— (He opens up the letter.)

THE GIRL: (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You must not read that letter. It does not belong to me. You have no right to read that letter.

THE FELLOW: But you read the letter that didn't belong to me.

THE GIRL: It did belong to you.

THE FELLOW: It didn't!

THE GIRL: DID!

THE FELLOW: Didn't!

THE GIRL: (Running forward and trying to grab the letter, which he holds out of her reach.) I forbid you to read that letter. I swear to you, it is not mine.

THE FELLOW: (Still holding it out of her reach and looking it over.) By George! You are right—it is NOT yours. It is MINE!

THE GIRL: YOURS?

THE FELLOW: Yes, mine. It's the very message I sent to Genevieve Patterson yesterday—the letter in which I asked for an introduction to you. (He hands it to her.) Here—read it yourself, if you don't believe me this time. (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter and reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide open in surprise.)

THE GIRL: (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at him.) Then you are NOT such a liar after all. You did tell me the truth.

THE FELLOW: Nothing but the truth.

THE GIRL: But what about that other letter?

THE FELLOW: (Taking her by the shoulder and speaking quickly.) Now, you've got to listen. That other letter was written to Tommy Higgins. I was caught in the shower last night, and had to borrow this suit of clothes from Tommy.

THE GIRL: (A glad smile gradually coming over her face.) O-h-h!

THE FELLOW: But how did you come to have my letter written to Genevieve?

THE GIRL: Oh, don't you understand? (She looks at him beseechingly.)

THE FELLOW: (The truth suddenly striking him.) Oh-h-h-! I see! You got caught in the shower, too. You borrowed that tailor-made suit from Genevieve.

THE GIRL: Can you doubt it?

THE FELLOW: But the cigarettes?

THE GIRL: I can't account for them. I only know—

THE FELLOW: Never mind. I don't care. (He stuffs the cigarettes into his own pocket and grasps both of her hands in his own.) Tell me—you don't think I'm the biggest liar in the world, do you?

THE GIRL: (Archly.) No—not quite.

THE FELLOW: (Slipping his arm around her.) And if you were married—to—to a fellow like me, you'd make him an awfully good wife, wouldn't you?

THE GIRL: (Laughing.). No—I'd try to make HIM a good husband. (He bends over and is just about to kiss her when a MAN'S VOICE is heard off stage to the Right.)

MAN'S VOICE: (Off stage.) Hey, there, Miss—your trunk has come. (THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring apart, guiltily.)

THE FELLOW: (Bitterly.) Just when I had it all cinched. (THE GIRL runs to the bench, picks up her parasol, still laughing.)

THE GIRL: It's the wagon from the railroad station, with my clothes from town. Good-bye. (She starts off, Right.)

THE FELLOW: But you're coming back again?

THE GIRL: Well—maybe—perhaps—If you're good. (She exits laughing.)

THE FELLOW: She's got me going. My head's in a muddle, and I feel like a sailor full of horn-pipes. And that reminds me of Tommy Higgins' latest song. It goes like this: (Here is introduced comic song. At finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed in a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty silk parasol. THE FELLOW takes his hat off and holding it high over his head, exclaims:) Here comes the rainbow after the shower!

THE GIRL: I must explain to you—I saw Genevieve—the cigarettes belong to her brother, Jack.

THE FELLOW: And I've just found out what belongs to me.

THE GIRL: What?

THE FELLOW: You! (He takes her parasol, opens it, and holds it in front of them for an instant so that their faces are hidden from audience. This is music cue for the Conversation Number which brings the sketch to a finish.)



THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER

A TRAVESTY

By Arthur Denvir Author of "Busy Isabel," "How Ignatius Got Pneumonia," "When Wit Won," "The War Correspondent," Etc., Etc.

THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER

CHARACTERS

GLADYS DRESSUITCASE . . . . . A Deserted Wife ALPHONSO DRESSUITCASE . . . . Her Dying Che-ild MOE REISS DRESSUITCASE. . . . Her Fugitive Husband BIRDIE BEDSLATZ . . . . . . . Her Doll-faced Rival ALGERNON O'FLAHERTY . . . . . The Villain Who Pursued Her

SCENE OF PROLOGUE

STREET IN ONE. . . LIGHTS OUT

Music: "Mendelssohn's Spring Song," Played in discords. Spot Light on L. I.

PROLOGUE

Enter GLADYS wearing linen duster and dragging a big rope to which is attached a case of beer with about eight empty bottles in it. She stops C.

GLADYS: (Tearfully.) At last I am almost home. Eleven miles walk from the sweat shop here, and that's some hoofing it, believe me. (Sways.) Oh, I am faint (Looks over shoulder at beer case.), faint for the want of my Coca-Cola. (Enter ALGERNON R. I—wears slouch hat, heavy moustache, red shirt and high boots. She is facing L.) Oh, I have a hunch I'm being shadowed—flagged by a track-walker! But I mustn't think of that. (Starts to drag case L.) I must get home to my dying child. He needs me—he needs me. (Exits L. I.)

ALGERNON: (Goes L. C. and looks after her.) It is Gladys—found at last! (Enter BIRDIE L. I. She is in bright red with white plumes and is a beautiful, radiant adventuress. )

BIRDIE: Did you get a good look at her?

ALGERNON: Yes—it's Gladys and she's down and out—(Both together:) Curse her!

ALGERNON: Now I can begin pursuing her again.

BIRDIE: Yes, and I can gloat over her misery—and gloating's the best thing I do.

ALGERNON: Come (fiercely!) We are wasting time.

BIRDIE: She'll never know me with this dark hair and no make-up on.

ALGERNON: (At L. I—still more fiercely.) Can that junk! Come! (Exits L. I.)

BIRDIE: (Going to L. I.) He has me in his power. I must follow him. Curse him! (Exits after ALGERNON. Enter MOE REISS in bum evening-clothes and opera hat. Carries cane.)

MOE REISS: (Reading from back of envelope.) Down this street and turn into the alley full of ash cans! I'm on the right track at last. Once more I shall see my wife and my little boy! Of course, she'll be sore because I ran away and deserted her, leaving her no alimony except the dying che-ild. But I must produce a real wife and child from somewhere or I'll lose the $9.75 my uncle left me. (Goes L. musingly.) Why do I love money so? Ay, that's the question. (Looking up at gallery.) And what's the answer? (Points off L. with cane—dramatically.) We shall see—we shall see. (Dashes off L.)

The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the time that the clock strikes sixteen or seventeen to go up, so it is timed very slowly.

FULL STAGE SCENE

THE WRETCHED HOME OF GLADYS

A Mott Street Garret—everything of the poorest description. Old table down stage R., with chair on either side and waste paper basket in front. Cot bed down stage L. Old cupboard up stage C. Small stand at head of cot.

PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up. He should weigh over two hundred pounds. He wears Buster Brown wig and nightie that buttons up the back. GLADYS is seated at table d. s. R., sewing on a tiny handkerchief. She is magnificently dressed and wears all the jewelry she can carry. Pile of handkerchiefs at back of table within reach and a waste basket in front of table where she can throw handkerchiefs when used.

As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes for the sixteenth or seventeenth time.

GLADYS: Five o'clock and my sewing still unfinished. Oh, it must be done to-night. There's the rent—six dollars. To-day is Friday—bargain day—I wonder if the landlord would take four ninety-eight.

(Business. PHONSIE snores.) And my child needs more medicine. The dog biscuits haven't helped him a bit, and his stomach is too weak to digest the skin foods. (Wood crash off stage.) How restless he is, poor little tot!!!! Fatherless and deserted, sick and emaciated—eight years have I passed in this wretched place, hopeless, hapless, hipless. At times the struggle seems more than I can bear, but I must be brave for my child, my little one. (Buries face in hands.) (Business. Sews.)

PHONSIE: (Business.) Mommer! Mommer! Are you there? (Blows pea blower at her.)

GLADYS: (Hand to cheek where he hit her.) Yes, dolling, mommer is here.

PHONSIE: Say, mommer, am I dying? (Loud and toughly.)

GLADYS: (Sadly.) I am afraid not, my treasure.

PHONSIE: Why not, mommer?

GLADYS: You are too great a pest to die, sweetheart.

PHONSIE: But the good always die young, don't they, mommer?

GLADYS: (Still sewing.) But you were not speaking about the good—you were speaking of yourself, my precious.

PHONSIE: Ain't I good, mommer, don't you think?

GLADYS: (Business.) Oh, I don't dare to think!!!! (Moves up stage.)

PHONSIE: Don't think if it hurts you, mommer.

GLADYS: (At dresser.) But come, it is time for your medicine. (Shows enormous pill.)

PHONSIE: (Scared.) What is that, mommer?

GLADYS: Just a horse pill, baby. (Puts it in his mouth.) There, that will help cure mother's little man. (At table.)