Полная версия
Continuous Vaudeville
There is a sign over in Newark that somehow doesn't just strike my fancy; it reads —
P. Flem. DelicatessenA couple of young country chaps wandered into the lobby of Shea's Theater in Toronto and stood watching the people go up to the ticket-office window and purchase tickets; finally they got into the line, worked their way up to the window, then one of them laid down a two-dollar bill and said,
"Give me two tickets to Hamilton, Ontario."
"Irish Billie Carrol" was standing in the wings at the old Olympic Theater in Chicago, watching the show. There was a chap on who was one of those men who can never let well enough alone; if he said or did anything that the audience laughed at, he would immediately say or do it right over again. Billie watched him awhile, then turned to his friend and said,
"All the trouble with him is, he always takes three bases on a single."
Barney Reiley, then with the Old Homestead Company, now the manager of a theater in Indianapolis, and I were walking down the street in Baltimore, when the sun, shining through a magnifying glass, set fire to an oculist's show window.
"By Golly," said Barney, "it's a lucky thing that didn't happen in the night, when there was nobody around."
Boston newspapers one week contained the following interesting announcement:
"At Keith's; Cressy and Dayne; Don't fail to bring the children to see the Trained Dogs."
At the Majestic Theater in Chicago they have a big, two-sided, electric sign upon which are displayed the names of the acts playing there. They place the names of two acts on each side and use no periods. One week the two sides read —
"CRESSY & DAYNE THE VAGRANTS."and"ELBERT HUBBARD NIGHT BIRDS."Said the Actress to the Landlord,"Want to see 'The Billboard,' Mister?"Said the Landlord to the Actress,"I'd rather see the board bill, Sister."An English actor, just over, was playing at the Fifth Avenue Theater in New York City. He was in love with America and wanted to see it all – quick. One night he came to me and said,
"I think I will take a run over to Buffalo Bill's place in the morning, before the matinée."
I told him I would; it would be a good run for him.
Buffalo Bill lives in North Platte, Nebraska.
One of the provincial music halls in England has the roof arranged like a roll-top desk, so that in hot weather it can be rolled back, thus making a sort of roof garden out of it. An American Song and Dance Team was making their first European appearance there; their act was a much bigger hit than they had anticipated; and when they came off at the end of their act one of them said delightedly to the other,
"Say, we just kicked the roof off of them, didn't we?"
"I beg pawdon, old chap," said the stage manager, overhearing him; "it rolls off, you know."
James Thornton and Fred Hallen were coming out of the Haymarket Theater in Chicago; Jim, who was ahead, let the door slam back against Fred.
"Oh, Good Lord," howled Fred, hanging on to his elbow; "right on the funny bone."
Jim looked at him, and in that ministerial way of his said,
"You haven't a funny bone in your body."
A young man asked me recently what spelled success on the stage. I told him the only way I had ever found of spelling it was W-O-R-K.
SOME HOTEL WHYS
Why are porters and bellboys always so much more anxious to help you out than in?
Why do so many hotel bathrooms have warm cold water and cold hot water?
Why is it that on the morning you are expecting company you can never find the chambermaid? And every other morning she tries your door every fifteen minutes regularly.
Why does a hotel clerk always try to give you some room different from the one you ask for?
Why does a hotel cashier always look at you pityingly?
Why does a bellboy always try to get two quarts of water into a quart pitcher?
Why do hotels feed actors cheaper than they do folks?
Why is a mistake in the bill always in the hotel's favor?
Why does the landlord's wife always have theatrical trunks?
Why do drummers always leave their doors open?
Why does my wife always try to get a corner table, and then put me in the chair facing the wall?
Why do "American" hotels always have French and Italian cooks?
Why does the fellow in the next room always get up earlier than I do?
Why does the elevator boy always go clear to the top floor and back when the man on the second floor rings for him?
Why is the news stand girl always so haughty?
Why does the night clerk always dress so much better than the day clerks?
Why do I think I know so much about running a hotel?
IT ISN'T THE COAT THAT MAKES THE MAN
A seedy-looking chap came up to Roy Barnes in Toronto and said in an ingratiating way:
"I don't know as you will remember me, Mr. Barnes, but I met you down at Coney Island last summer."
"Yes, sure, I remember you easy," said Barnes, grasping his hand in both his own. "I remember that overcoat you have on."
"I hardly think so," said the seedy party, trying to draw his hand away; "I did not own this overcoat then."
"No," said Barnes, "I know you didn't; but I did."
Grace Hazard has a washlady. Washlady has a thirteen-year-old son. Son became infected with the acting germ and ran away to go with Gertrude Hoffman's Company. His mother was telling Miss Hazard about it.
"'Deed, Mis' Hazard, yo' know 'tain't right for dat po' li'le innocent child to be pesterin' roun' dem theater houses dat er way. 'Twas jes' dis ver' mo'nin' dat he's Sunday-school teacher wuz sayin' to me: 'Dat boy has got too much – too much – intelligence to be in dat stage bus'ness nohow.'"
Hanging in each room of the Great Southern Hotel at Gulfport, Miss., is a small sign stating —
GUESTS CAN HAVE BATHS PREPAREDON THEIR FLOOR BY APPLYINGTO THE MAID ON THEIR FLOORA friend of mine in St. Louis is a Police Captain. One day he went into a bank to get a check cashed. He was in citizen's clothes and the paying teller did not know him anyway; so he said,
"You will have to be identified, sir. Do you know anybody here in the bank?"
"I presume so," said the Captain cheerfully; "line 'em up and I'll look 'em over."
Seen from the car window: "Shuttz Hotel. Now open."
On Elmwood Avenue, Buffalo: "Organs and Sewing Machines tuned and repaired."
At the St. James Hotel, Philadelphia:
Mrs. Cressy. "Waiter, have you any snails today?"
Waiter. "No, mam."
Mrs. C. "What's the matter? Can't you catch them over here?"
ONE-NIGHT-STAND ORCHESTRAS
My idea of what not to be is Musical Director of a Musical Comedy playing one-night stands. This is the real thing in the Trouble line.
Max Faetkenheuer was musical director with an opera company that was playing through the South. They arrived in one town at four in the afternoon, and Max found the orchestra waiting at the theater. They looked doubtful; they sounded dreadful. Individually they were bad; collectively they were worse. During the first number the cornet only struck the right note once and that frightened him so he stopped playing. The clarinet player had been taking lessons from a banjo teacher for three years and had never made the same noise twice. There were six French horns, all Dutch. The trap drummer was blind and played by guess and by gorry.
Max labored and perspired and swore until 7:15; then he had to stop because the audience wanted to come in and didn't dare to while the riot was on.
"Now look, Mister Cornet Player," Max said; "I'll tell you what you do; you keep your mute in all through the show."
"Yes, well, I shan't be here myself, but I will speak to my 'sub' about it."
"What's the reason you won't be here?" asked Max.
"I play for a dance over to Masonic Hall."
"So do I," said the bass fiddler.
"We all do, but the drummer," said the flute player.
"You do? Then what the devil have you kept me here rehearsing you for three hours for?" demanded Max.
"Well," said the cornet player, "we knew this was a big show, and we presumed you would be a good director, and we thought the practice would do us good."
"It will," said Max.
On another occasion he struggled all the afternoon with a "Glee Club and Mandolin Serenaders'" orchestra. Finally, by cutting out all solos, playing all the accompaniments himself, and confining the "Glee Club" to "um-pahs," he got everything figured out except the cornet player; he was beyond pardon; so Max said to him,
"I am awful sorry, old man, but you won't do; so you just sit and watch the show to-night."
"Oh," said the Not-Jule-Levy, "then I don't play, eh?"
"You do not play," said Max.
"All right then; then there'll be no show."
"Why won't there be a show?" asked Max.
"Because I am the Mayor, and I will revoke your license."
He played.
At some Southern town we played once with "The Old Homestead"; the rehearsal was called for 4:30. At 4:30 all the musicians were there but the bass fiddler.
"Where is your bass fiddler?" asked our director.
"Well, he can't get here just yet," replied one of the other players.
"When will he be here?"
"Well, if it rains he is liable to be in any minute now; if it don't rain he can't get here until six o'clock."
"What has the rain got to do with it?"
"He drives the sprinkling cart."
The worst orchestra I ever heard was with an Uncle Tom's Cabin show playing East St. Louis. It consisted of two pieces; a clarinet and a bass fiddle, each worse than the other.
At North Goram, Maine, I once hired an entire brass band of twenty-two pieces to play for an entire evening of roller skating in the town hall, for three dollars. They were worth every dollar of it.
In one of my plays I issue a newspaper called The Wyoming Whoop. At the top of the first column are the words – "In Hoc Signo Vinces." One day one of the stage hands came to me with a copy of the paper in his hands, and pointing to this line, said,
"That means 'We Shoot to Kill,' don't it?"
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.