Part 3

“Next you will find the ostrich farm. This strange bird that furnishes plumage for me ladies’ bonnet, and that comes from the sunny sands of Africa. And remember the cool of the evening is the best time to see the ostriches, for it is then you may notice their marked pe-cu-li-ar-i-ties. Listen, good people, reindeer and ostriches--reindeer from the frozen north--ostriches from torrid Africa--specimens from each zone, the most astounding representation of nature’s wonderland ever shown. Reindeer and ostriches--as the poet says:

“From Greenland’s icy mountains From Afric’s coral strand Where them crystal waters Run down the heathen land.

“And all for a dime, ten cents, will you hesitate? but wait, good people, that is not all. The wonder of wonders is yet to come--Bobo--he eats ’em alive, he eats ’em alive. You must see Bobo. This strange and curious specimen of humanity who exists upon poisonous reptiles, captured in the jungles of the Tasmanian blue gum tree and brought to civilized America, he still lives on snakes--Bobo, the snake eater--Bobo, he eats ’em alive, he eats ’em alive.

“One moment, good people, one moment--this is not all. Listen--Wild Rose--the half girl and half dog. This remarkable freak of nature that has puzzled the scientists of two continents. Queen Mary, the largest fat woman ever shown under canvas or in hall of curios, the marvelous Samson, the giant of today, who bears upon his breast great rocks to be broken with a sledge, and last but not least--Professor Corello and his troupe of performing roaches, the only attempt ever made to develop the hitherto unknown powers of these insects. The greatest, most interesting and educating avalanche of remarkable freaks and strange and curious people ever shown. And all for a dime, two nickels, good people--a dime, but a dime. The performance is about to begin--one dime--the sight of an invested fortune, the greatest stroke of genius of the modern showman--yours for a dime.”

The Spieler took a long breath and then looked at his audience.

“How’s that,” he asked, “how’s that for a furnace talk?”

“It’s all right, Cap,” said the Concert Manager; “it’ll bring ’em.”

“Say,” said the Boss Canvasman, “how do you keep that voice of yours shoutin’ all the time?”

“Boozin’, boozin’ up,” said the Spieler, “boozin’ up.”

THE BAND MASTER’S SOLO

The leader of the Big Show’s band wasn’t much on technique, but if there were any notes coming to an E-flat cornet that he had overlooked something was wrong with the whole theory of music.

The way he could blow melody out of that piece of polished brass was something that the rest of the outfit never understood. He was a little fellow with a very small moustache that ran largely to waxed ends. He always wore a blue uniform and a cap, and he looked like a messenger boy. The twenty-eight “star soloists” that he directed possessed more wind than a Western cyclone and an Eastern typhoon blown into one, for twice a day they played from one-thirty until the last race in the hippodrome was off, and this was no five finger exercise.

The gang was rather talkative when the leader came across from the band stand, so he sat down on the corner of the elevated stage and hummed to himself. Presently the chorus cut out and he soloed thusly:

“I ain’t no Sousa, boys, an’ there ain’t no brass hangin’ to my pea jacket, but say, if there’s any leader that can get more noise out of them 28 than I can, I’ll eat every bit of sawdust under the tent an’ say thankee when I’m done.”

Nobody disputed this distinction and the leader continued to cadenza:

“It ain’t no snap tossin’ off melody for a show like this. When I’m out with the minstrels in the winter the game’s easy, but the snap is nothin’ but blow, an’ you’ve got a lot of crazy ones in the ring here to take cues from. An’ talkin’ about them 28 of mine, there ain’t no show band in the country that can beat ’em switchin’.”

“Say, you know the night we opened in the Garden? Well, we was playin’ ‘The Holy City’ for the guy in spangles what rolls hissef up the spiral. The music plot was ‘Holy City’ to the top, a little of the shiver while he was makin’ the last turn, an’ then a lot of brass an’ bing-bing when he makes the rush to the ring. Well, the boys were playin’ the ‘Holy City’ fine and daisy when the equestrian director comes across the track an’ whispers:

“‘Here’s Dewey comin’ up by the reserved section.’

“So I knows he wants somethin’ appropriate, an’ I gives the signal for ‘Here Comes a Sailor.’ Well, them twenty-eight switches like a limited on a clear track an’ the crowd on the boards goes wild. But the guy in the tin ball, he’s been kneelin’ it up to ‘The Holy City,’ an’ when the music changes to swift he can’t work his knees fas’ enough an’ he lets go an’ nearly breaks his back. He calls me a Dutch somethin’, I didn’t jes’ catch, an’ it costs him 25 fine off the pay sheet.

“An’ speakin’ about noise, fifteen year ago I leaves home, where I was workin’ in a harness factory and leadin’ the Silver Cornet Band in the evenin’, an’ goes on the road with a medicine show. We has one of them long-haired boys doin’ the fake dentist an’ pullin’ teeth without pain while his wife does the female doctor an’ sells pills. We six brass has to play when Doc an’ his wife is workin’, an’ in the mornin’ go back of the stage an’ roll pills an’ put ’em in fancy boxes what Doc sells with the packages of Australian gold pens, the little joker transparent cards an’ the South American Cyroola Corn Cure what he gives away to each an’ every purchaser of Dr. Sorino’s Death Delayin’ Pellets.

“Well, the game was to git some coon in the crowd to come up on the stage an’ have his tooth pulled for nothin’ an’ without pain. Doc gets the moke in the chair an’ makes his spiel ’bout the great pain killer he has an’ says it won’t hurt the boy on the velvet. The band was all brass except Cooney Watson, who was playin’ a kettle drum an’ workin’ the bass and cymbals with a pedal. While Doc was gittin’ the forceps on the tooth we played soft an’ quiet like an’ as soon as he gives the jerk we lets loose with a march an’ you can’t hear nigger man holler to save your life. It was great, an’ it worked the countries all the times. Cooney would make you think there was a thunder storm comin’ up the way he beat them drums.

“But poor Cooney. Doc picks up six Indians to make the show stronger an’ introduce his famous Indian bitters. The red boys had a new moon an’ asks Cooney to loan ’em the drum to do the Tom Tom. Cooney says no an’ the Big Chief gets good an’ sore, but says nothin’. The next day we has a parade an’ we brass is on top of a wagon with Doc’s ads, painted on the side. The Indians is ridin’ along behind us. Well, say, we had hardly hit the main street when the Indian what was sore on the drummer throws his lariat and lassos poor Cooney off the wagon, drums an’ all, into the middle of a bunch of cows what was gettin’ weighed. He was pretty bad, so we shipped him home.”

“That ain’t Cooney beatin’ the drum with us, is it?” asks the Boss Canvasman as he tied a long running knot in the guy rope to the net under the swings for the brother act.

“No indeed,” says the Leader, “Cooney never joins out again. The las’ I seen of him he was workin’ at his trade out in Indianny--he was paintin’ the roof of the courthouse when we had the parade.”

THE CANDY BUTCHER TALKS ABOUT A LOVE AFFAIR AND HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE BUCKWHEAT MAN.

The Candy Butcher of the Big Show looked like a cut-out in a Sunday supplement. He was the best dressed man in the outfit, and no matter what he was doing and where he was doing it he always looked fixed up, and he felt it.

His pants were always creased whether the show was doing a run in the large city or playing the one-nighters on a single-track jerk-water beyond the Wabash. He never wore his coat when working, and his loud linen would have stopped a limited with one flash from the tower. He was there with the pink underwear, and his stockings had more kinds of color in them than the side of the band wagon when the season was new. The Candy Butcher was always dressed, and when he got behind the counter to pull off the “Five tonight, good people!” gag he would have made the window of an East Side gents’ furnishing store drop the curtain. The Candy Butcher didn’t mix in much with the men in the outfit. He had a chemical moustache that he zephyred with a velvet voice, and he was always aces with the ladies. When Section One was pulling out for a long Sunday jump, be sure of Him for the day coach with the girls. He was good at that, and, while he didn’t always make a landing, he managed generally to get his bowline fast to the pier before the current caught him.

He always wore his coat in the meal tent, but he took it off right after supper and carried it on his arm. The make-up didn’t miss the ulster much, for he had on a vest that was three strikes and out for rainbow colors--one of those rum omelette tinted things that a Philadelphia button buyer puts on for Saturday night when he’s waiting at the stage door for some spotlight Sadie. He was there with the cheap tailors, all right.

The squatters on the ring bank were just settling for the afternoon gab while the equestrian director, sore because he couldn’t get away to keep a date, was rearranging the horse acts with a piece of a pencil on the back of the night’s card. The Candy Butcher came through a crevice in the tent and stopped to talk to the Saw Dust Spreader, who was standing behind the wardrobe basket pulling on his plush pants.

“What you dressin’ for?” said the Candy Butcher.

“Oh, they’re gettin’ cheap,” said the Saw Dust Spreader. “I’ve got to double for an object holder, an’ I’m up for the leaps right after the entree.”

“What do you care,” said the Candy Butcher, “long as peppermint is striped?”

Then he laughed at his own little trade journal joke. He was full of those. He was always reading song books and joke budgets when waiting to get up on the blue boards to sell tickets for the concert after the show. He came across the track and joined the gang.

“Gee!” said the Side Show Spieler, who was always good on the opening line, “youse dressed up for fair tonight! Looks like youse goin’ to a birthday party.”

“Not for me,” replied the Candy Butcher, as he put another piece of gum under the mustache. “Cut out the parties for Willie in the Summer an’ after this in the winter no more front parlor talks for me after ma is in bed an’ the old man is out in the cold switchin’ down in the railroad yard.”

“Sore again,” said the Concert Manager; “you’ve always got your kick comin’ on sumthin’.”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” said the Candy Butcher, “but you fellows is allus runnin’ me in when it comes to any girl talk. Say, I ain’t the masher of this outfit, take it from me. If I could do the look killin’ an’ have ’em runnin’ me like the boy what does the principal bareback--the popcorn and the soft drinks--well, no more for Jamesie.”

The gang sort of warmed up to this talk, so he let her out another notch and began.

“Say,” he continued, “youse fellows is allus lookin’ for sumthin’ soft. Well, say, I’ve got a game for this season that will kill ’em. No more kicks over the lemonade tub for me. I’ve got ’em all skinned on the sour juice game. Say, you may not know it, but it’s a losin’ game when you’r runnin’ to one-nighters and sellin’ lemon juice. It looks good to see me hollerin’ over the chunk of ice an’ takin’ in the half dimes while I’m passin’ out the cold drink an’ the peanuts; but, say, you never thought how many of them nicks it takes to buy a box of lemons. All right, all right in the city, bo’, for the yellow boys, but when you are run out in the meadows it’s diff’rent, diff’rent.

“So, says I, during the winter when I’m managin’ me penny arcade wid the talkin’ machines, says, ’ll get up a scheme that will make the lemons back to the shady groves for you, no more fore me. An’, say, I gits me think tank on it and I invents sumthin’. Say, you’ll laugh, but I pulled it off this afternoon, an’, say, they all fell for once.”

“What is it, Bill?” asked the Old Grafter, always ready for a new shot at the purse.

“‘What is it?’ Well, say! You know how them guys is stringin’ you about fake lemonade, ’cause you ain’t got no yellow slices floatin’ on the top of the tub. Well, what is you goin’ to do when lemons is 45 per, an’ even the barkeeps is usin’ the acid for the sour. Well, me, I just has a dozen lemon slices made out of celluloid, an’, say, Bill, you can’t tell ’em from the real, ’pon my word, boy, when they is floatin’ aroun’ in the tub after I has poured in me water, me citric acid and me sugar. Why, say, it looks like one of them things at a Fresh Air give-out, where everything is dun on the level, ’cause the reporters is watchin’. I jes’ works me celluloid slices on the stan’, an’ when biz is dun wipes ’em off, puts ’em in the box, an’ theyse jes’ as good as new, an’ there’s more comin’ to the Dime Savin’ for Will, an’ that’s no song book wit.”

The crowd eyed him in silence with that awe that meets a pack of undergraduates when they first gaze upon the man who discovered some new chemical analysis they never expect to understand.

The Saw Dust Spreader joined the crowd just then looking like a cheap leading man in a ten and twenty “Carmen,” with the red pants and the little coat. It was he for gossip, so he broke in.

“Yes, you’re pretty good,” he said to the Candy Butcher, remembering the laugh he got when he came across the tan bark. “But, say, where was you all last week? No lyin’ now, Willie, ’cause I’m on, dead on.”

“Well, I dunno that it’s any secret,” said the Candy Butcher. “I dun me duty an’ I suffered for it.”

The gang looked like a listening party, so he began to reel:

“Say, it’s pretty tough when a fellow starts out to do the right thing by a little lady and gets the flag. It jes’ shows that whenever you gits to dreamin’ good somebody is goin’ to give you an alarm clock finish an’ let you wake up with a shriek. Remember two seasons ago, when we was workin’ the Congress of Nations gag in the manager’s tent? Well, me it is who meets a little lady who is doin’ the bead stitchin’ in the gypsy village. She’s a pretty little thing an’ quietlike. Well, she seems lonesome like an’ one wet night I carries her across the lot when the mud is up to your knees. She seems to like it an’ we has a long talk in the car.

“It seems that she used to work in a bean place where she is called Number 8. I thinks that is funny, so I allus calls her Number 8.

“Seems like her folks was sore on her for troopin’, an’ she comes to me for sympathy. Well, she had me stoppin’ the booze before we was two weeks out, an’ I was gettin’ quiet in me gab and cuttin’ down on the swear talk. She tells me the way she gets into the circus is that a big guy what was engagin’ people for the Congress used to eat his butter cakes at her table, an’ he keeps on tellin’ her what a fine life it is to be an actress, an’, as he has been readin’ about it in books, she throws up the waitin’ job and joins out. The big guy gets half of her first week for the gettin’ her the job.

“But it seems that when Number 8 pulls out of the bean place that she breaks the heart of the guy with the white cap that cooks the buckwheats in the window. He’s been sweet on her from the first day she hollered the hot cakes an’ he pulls ’em off the griddle an’ looks into her eyes. Well, this guy takes a solemn oath that he’ll kill the bloke that makes his Mamie give up waitin’ an’ go troopin’. He never gets next to the big jay what gave her the job, but when he was doin’ the big city he sees me chasin’ her home every night. He gives me a look I don’t like, an’ I asks Number 8 what it means.

“‘Oh, don’t mind him’ she says, ‘he used to belong to my euchre.’

“Now, if I’d been wise I’d a-known Number 8 was connin’, for what did that little fairy know about euchre parties? I knows now that she was pullin’ off some speech she heard in the theatre where the lady shoots the dook across the card table because he brings the coachman into the parlor to get a drink while the other dook is sayin’ his good-by speech. I is too sweet on the fairy then to know that she’s connin’ me.

“Well, jes’ the last week we was playin’ New York, who does I meet in the park lookin’ at the fish but Number 8. She looks so sweet an’ nice that it all comes back, an’ me up an’ speaks. She says sorter haughty:

“‘Who are you, sir? Whom are you addressin’?

“Say, that hit me like a blast, when all of a sudden I get a welt across the head wid sumthin’ that is iron. Say, I falls, but is up, and though the knock has given me the blood, I see that it’s the guy what cooks the buckwheats in the window who was tryin’ to do the killin’. An’ say, he has run out of his bean place an’ hit me wid the cake turner. I grasps him, an’ it’s catch-as-catch-can, an’ Number 8 screamin’ on the bench. I gives him a couple of good ones when in a jiffy it’s rainin’ plates an’ coffee cups, an’ I’m gettin, ’em on the face. Say, his whole gang from the bean shop was out in their white coats, throwin’ the crockery an’ me gettin’ it.

“I knows the show is shut up an’ help is a long way off. Somebody yells, ‘Lick the brute,’ an’ I gets another pie plate in the eye.

“‘What’s he done?’ says a cab driver.

“‘He insulted me wife,’ said the buckwheat cake man.

“I tried to explain, but he gives me another one with the cake-turner an’ I’m on the asphalt.

“I’se gettin’ it good, an’ I sees I must get help or cut the season for the city ward. So I yells ‘Hey, Rube!’

“Well, what do you think? There was a couple of old tramps a-sleepin’ on a bench, an’ when they hears me scream, me on me back wid the buckwheat man sittin’ on me, I sees ’em move, I yells it again, an’ one of them wearies says:

“‘That sounds familiar-like to me.’

“‘Hey, Rube!’ I gives it again, an’, say, they gets in, an’ they put that waiter gang into a pile that looks like a hash brown in a spill.”

“Well, what happened to you?” said the Canvasman, who was always there for the battle tales.

“Me, say, I gets it all. A couple of dinnys pulls me to a box, an’ in the cell all night for me. An’, say, if it hadn’t been for James A., Lord bless his soul, me to the island for winter quarters an’ in stripes.”

“But what becomes of the fairy?” says the Saw Dust Spreader, who always likes to know the finish.

“What becomes of her?” says the Candy Butcher, feeling a couple of scars. “I hears it all later. She had married the guy an’ moves over to Jersey. He’s keepin’ a saloon, an’ she’s cookin’ the oysters. He gives one with every drink.”

THE CONCERT MANAGER GETS REMINISCENT.

The manager of the concert company looked like a Methodist minister going to see the bishop. He wore a high silk hat and a last-winter’s double-breasted coat. Whenever he talked he held the hat in one hand and rubbed it with the other so that it looked like a clipped yearling at a country run off. His voice was a deep bass, and when he did the “remember good people the Big Show is not yet ’arf over” from the elevated stage you could gamble on the words hitting every ear.

He was sitting on the ring bank looking over his touch list when the conversation grew wavy and then dropped to a hush.

“This here tent business is pullin’ down to a theatrical man,” he said as he lighted a choked stogie. “Give me the hall show every time for the cush and comfort an’ I’ll be easy an’ shippin’ in money to the backer if the bookin’s is good. The rep shows is the thing me boys if you can deliver, an’ you can strike territory that ain’t been ploughed to death by a lot of yellows.

“Had out a rep company that was a winner. We was playin’ ‘East Lynne’ and doin’ it good with six people and a band on the balcony at 7 to 8. The way we threw them dramatic chunks into the ten, twenty and thirts was sumthin’ remark’ble. We wasn’t connin’ neither, but givin’ ’em a show that had ’em weepin’ from ring up to las’ curt’n. Say, I had a leadin’ lady that was the genuine. She had been up three times before the school commissioners for declaimin’ an’ her old man thought she was a Mary Anderson. We joshed him along on the Mary Anderson gag an’ the old guy checked in with a five hundred for a starter to get the fit up and the gal’s costumes. Say, she was a blonde with a figure that set the town hall tonight people on the road to ruin with all brakes off. The leadin’ man was a cuff juggler and he wouldn’t settle down, but he doubled in props an’ was all right. The heavy was one of those chesty boys who was alles givin’ me the jab ‘when I was with Booth.’ He started out all right, all right in the first act, but he died out before the curt’n got down; the old man was pretty rotten, thank you, but the way he could play an E flat cornet on the balcony was sumthin’ strictly proper. I’m jes’ tellin’ youse what you can do with a lot of bum players, if you’ve got the goods, an’ youse gets the bookin’s. I was workin’ the crowd on a $300 salary an’ playin’ up into the gross on $750 a week an’ livin’ like the man what owns his lay out. But I let go.

“You see some of the managers down on the coal oil circuit in Central Pennsylvania got the vaudeville bug and was yellin’ for specialties. So I gets the soubrette to do a rag time stunt between the second an’ third, an’ the first night the gal’ry window jumps nine and a half to the good. I says that’s what they wants an’ I keeps the specialty in for good. But the Lady Isabel of the push was getting artistic an’ she says no to the specialty. I says yes, an’ her old man comes on an’ says Mary Anderson didn’t have no gal singin’ and showin’ her legs in her show, so me an’ the old guy plays quits. Well, it was gettin’ warm, so I picks up me little soubrette, gets a privilege at a fair an’ starts in to do the black tent. We had a little round top, blacker on the inside than a Bow’ry alley. The game was to get the yaps inside, all lights out, flash the calcium, an’ then do the floatin’ illusion. The little gal would float roun’ the tent an’ hand me out roses, and the gang would go daffy. You see she was rigged up in one of these white gowns an’ was chasin’ round in a back flap stickin’ her head and body through wherever I had a slit. But I has a good lime light man an’ the payin’s never coupled to the con.

“It was good for thirty a day and the privilege was cheap, but say, the finish was tragic. You see the gal had run off from home, where she was makin’ three dollars spinnin’ yarn in a mill an’ payin’ her people two fifty board. She gets stuck on the show business an’ goes out with a rep, where I picks her up. Well, it seems that her old man gets sort o’ dippy ’cause he didn’ do the right thing by the little one an’ started out to fin’ her. Somebody tells the old boy she is dead an’ he falls down for a while. But he gets up and goes wanderin’ ’bout to all the shows lookin’ for the gal. Well, he gets into my show one day an’ when we flashes the illusion there’s a yell an’ the old one says, ‘me daughter, me daughter,’ and the gal flops an’ breaks up the show. She gets sorry an’ goes home with the gray hair an’ I loses the graft and strikes this.”

The Boss Canvasman started in to do a little cussin’ because the round top over the stage was sagging and he broke up the talk.

But the Press Agent wants the finish of the yarn, and he speaks up:

“Well, Pop, what became of the gal?”

“Oh,” says Pop, “the old man goes under the ground an’ the jig stepper goes back to the business. Last season she was doublin’ with the iron chested man doin’ a singin’ specialty in the side show. But they’s both out now. The iron chested man is yellin’ the stations on the Ninth Avenue L, and the Mamie girl is makin’ ten a week posin’ for chromos that you wouldn’t hang over the thermometer, s’ help me.”

THE HANDS AT THE WINDOW.