"Why, what in thunder is to hinder them? The whole town could walk in without paying one cent."
[Ill.u.s.tration: He Waved the Key]
"I"ll be durned if they could," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr. Hall-man, and he waved the key of the door triumphantly at Alfred. The man had actually locked the door. When opened, there were some dozen seeking admission. Many left in disgust.
There was a bill for lights of gla.s.s, and numerous drinks at the bar presented to Alfred. The gla.s.s he settled for, informing the hotel man he did not pay bar-bills. The barkeeper could not recognize any one of the performers in their street attire.
He a.s.sured Alfred "the hull pack of n.i.g.g.e.rs with you jus" drank and drank and only a few paid. The bill don"t amount to much, so far as enny one of the men is concerned; but one gal, one n.i.g.g.e.r gal, jus" treated right and left. If we could get what she owes, I"d let the rest go." The barkeeper referred to Harry Bulger.
Alfred"s great desire was to present his minstrel show in his old home town, Brownsville. The stage in Jeffries" Hall was too small to accommodate the minstrels. Therefore, one of Alfred"s boyhood friends, Levi Waggoner, arranged to play the minstrels in the skating rink. Levi was one of the boys who had stood by the old town through all its changes and become one of its substantial citizens. Awake to every business opportunity, he had not only seated the floor s.p.a.ce of the rink but builded circus seats against the rear wall.
Alfred was not in the old town an hour until it became imperative that he should seek protection from his friends. He delegated one of the company, one who was noted for his staying qualities, to represent him.
Every man met, no matter how old, claimed to be a schoolboy friend of Alfred"s. "There goes another old friend of Alf"s" became a by-word long before night.
"Spider" Pomeroy, six feet six then, when a boy, (he has grown some since), celebrated Alfred"s return more uproariously than any one person in the town. Alfred supplied him with a ticket early in the morning. By noon "Spider" had obtained six tickets, always claiming he had lost the other one. When the doors opened, "Spider" ran over the small boys in his way, brushed the ticket taker aside, entering without a ticket he perched himself on the top of Lee Wagoner"s improvised circus seats, his legs doubled up until his knees stuck up on either side above his head like a gra.s.shopper.
He sat through the first part. The minstrel with the staying qualities was laboring with a monologue. "Spider", after his strenuous day, was sleeping off his exuberance. At the dullest part in the monologist"s offering, "Spider" let go all holds. The skating rink was built on piles, over the river"s bank. One walking on the floor, their footsteps awakened echoes. When "Spider" hit that floor--and he hit it with all his frame--legs, arms, feet and head, all at one time, it sounded as if the building had collapsed. All were on their feet looking towards the back of the rink. As "Spider" lit, the monologist shouted: "There goes another old friend of Alf"s." It came in pat. The audience grasped it and the monologist established a reputation for originality. "There goes another old friend of Alf"s" is a common saying in Brownsville until this day.
The property man that first season was a German, new in the minstrel game. He is now a capitalist and probably would not relish the disclosing of his name.
Chas. Sweeny, the stage manager, was a stickler for realism. In the burlesque of "The Lime Kiln Club," one climax was the sound of a cat fight on the roof. The cats were supposed to fall through the skylight.
Every member of the lodge was supposed to have his dog with him--colored people are fond of dogs. When the cats fall into the lodge room, every dog goes after them. Fake, or dummy cats were prepared for the scene and used during rehearsals. The first night Sweeny ordered Gus, the property man, to procure two live cats. Gus, stationed on a very high step-ladder in the wings, at the cue was to throw the cats on the stage.
Gus was heard to remark: "You all better hurry or send some von to manage one of dese cats." The cat fight was heard on the roof. The gla.s.s in the skylight was heard to break. The cats were, with great difficulty, flung by Gus. They clawed and held onto him. The long step-ladder was rocking like a slender tree in a gale. One cat left the hands of Gus, alighting with all four feet on Sweeny"s neck, with a spring that sent it out over the heads of the orchestra to the fourth or fifth row in the parquet. The cat left its marks on Sweeny"s neck and the scars are there today as plain as twenty-seven years ago. As Gus flung the second cat the exertion was too much for him. He followed on the step-ladder, overturning Brother Gardner and the stove. Three dogs pounced upon Gus as he rolled over and over on the floor. Three of the largest dogs had followed the first cat over the heads of the orchestra, and a stampede of the audience was in progress, the dogs and cats under the feet of men and women, who were jumping on chairs or rushing towards the exits. The curtain went down without the humorous dialogue that usually terminated the scene.
"Mr. President: I moves you, sir, dat no member ob dis club hyaraftuh be admitted wid more"n three dogs."
Alfred put his shoulder to the wheel wherever and whenever a push or a pull was required. Night after night, he a.s.sisted the stage hands in hustling effects from the theatre to the train. On one occasion the train was scheduled to leave in a very short time after the curtain fell. Alfred, without changing his stage clothes, busied himself a.s.sisting the stage hands. Gus, the property man, flung Alfred"s clothing into his trunk, not observing they were his street apparel instead of stage costumes. The trunk was sent to the depot. When Alfred prepared to follow he was minus everything except a large pair of shoes, thin pants, long stockings and undershirt. There was no time to be lost; grabbing up a large piece of carpet, Alfred wound it around himself and started for the depot on a run.
Doc Quigley, Arthur Rigby and several of the company stationed themselves along his route to the depot, hiding in the shadows of doorways. One after another shouted: "Good-bye, Al, good-bye old boy.
You"ve got the best show ever. Come back again. Your show"s great."
[Ill.u.s.tration: "Good-bye Al, Old Boy"]
"All right boys, good-bye. I"ll be with you next season," shouted the hustling minstrel as he sped for the train. Alfred was completely deceived. He imagined the compliments were coming from the towns-people.
The German property man, whose mistake was responsible for Alfred"s grotesque appearance, was stationed by the jokers behind a fence near the depot. As Alfred hove in sight with the old rag carpet flapping around his form, Gus shouted: "Goot bye, Mr. Fieldt. Goot luck. Your show iz great. k.u.m unt see us agen. I hope your show will be here nexdt season."
"It will be, but you won"t be with it, you dutch son of a gun." Alfred had recognized the voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Into the city during the day, Back to the country at eventide, Courting the charm of the simple way, Casting the tumult of greed aside.
"He is the happiest man who best appreciates his happiness. Happiness comes to him who does not seek it."
"Well, you"ve got there. I was opposed to your goin" into the minstrel business. It"s not good to argue agin anything a young man sets his mind on. I figured if you got knocked out, you"d be able to come back agin.
I"d rather seed you in the circus business, but say, boy, if this show of yours ain"t a Jim Dandy. Are you making any money?"
"Well, I have made money, Uncle Henry, but I"m investing it in my business as fast as I earn it. You see the minstrel business is changing. The basis of minstrelsy will always be that which it is and has been, but you can"t hand them the same things they"ve been accepting the past forty years and expect them to enjoy and buy it. The farce comedy, the musical show are virtually minstrel shows. Based upon music and dancing, they produce about the same stuff the minstrels do."
"Well Alfred, we hear a great deal about the old black-face minstrels.
Some people say they like them best."
"That"s true, Uncle Henry. You can"t gainsay it. Some people like the old-fashioned cooking the best. But the public, the majority demand something different. Even if they eat the same sort of food they ate when younger, they demand it be served differently. Let me call your attention to this fact: Every manager that has endeavored to present an old-time, black-face minstrel show in late years has failed. The old-time minstrel show, like the one-ring circus, is pleasant to dream of, pleasant to talk of, but not profitable to present. Two friends were responsible for my decision to put on a simon-pure, old-time minstrel show. I engaged the best talent procurable, costumed the show in conformity with the ideas of my friends. It was the least profitable of any season since my first year; or it would have been had I continued. I changed my entire show in the middle of the season, going back to the black-face comedians, white-face singers.
"The minstrels in all climes have sung their songs of love and war. Even in the days of the ancients there were minstrels who sang the news of the times to the gaping mult.i.tudes in the streets and market places. In fact, David, with his harp of a thousand strings, whose voice charmed King Saul and his court, was the first minstrel. I can fully understand why a minstrel, an American minstrel, singing a plantation melody to his dusky dulcinea, should have a blackened face, but why a man blackened as a negro should sing of "My Sister"s Golden Hair," or "Mother"s Eyes of Blue," is too incongruous for even argument"s sake."
[Ill.u.s.tration: David, the First Minstrel]
"Well, Alfred, how is it the other managers do not adopt the style of your entertainment."
"Uncle Henry, I am not my brother"s keeper. I had opposition with one of those so-called old time minstrel shows a short time ago. Our company was making money every night. They were barely paying expenses. And yet the greater part of their press work was devoted to informing the public that we were not genuine minstrels, our singers wore white wigs, flesh colored stockings and satin suits. They were really advertising one of the attractions of our exhibition. We copied that notice and had it sent broadcast over the sections where the companies conflicted. I watched the press closely and but one paper that came under my observation endorsed their idea."
"Now, Alfred, let me tell you something. I"ve had all I wanted to eat and drink; I"ve worn good clothes; I"ve helped the poor; I"ve kept my family right; and I"ve seen enough of this world to convince me the only way to have money to burn is not to burn it. To have money to spend when you are old, is to save it while you"re young. I was so poor when I was young, I had my lesson. Say, son, it"s a sad thing to be poor when you"re young, not wanted in your brother"s home. But it"s dreadful to be poor when you are old and not wanted anywhere. You can"t make a living.
You are dependent upon charity. Now don"t fool yourself and say with your income you can"t save. If you can live you can save. George M.
Pullman, Marshall Field, John D. Rockefeller, and a thousand others began saving on less than your income. Now, Alfred, don"t think because the fool in your business has spent money recklessly, don"t think that"s an excuse for you to spend. I know minstrel people. I know them backwards. Don"t be like them. The only things to do in this world, day after day, are the things you ought to do. You can"t do too much for others, but don"t depend upon them to do for you. A poor, old man is the saddest sight on earth."
"It"s true I felt mighty sore that my folks threw me on the world so young. But you bet I am proud of the fact that I can buy and sell the whole kit of them. I help them, I give them, I don"t begrudge it to them; but, while I can"t entirely forget the bitterness of those boyhood days, I can"t help but feel a bit proud that I am independent of them in my old days. And to hear some of them talk, you"d think they made me.
Well, they did, but they didn"t intend to. While they were sitting around praying for prosperity, I was sweating. Sweating, it"s a good thing. It takes all the bad diseases out of you and a good deal of the cussedness. Say, Alfred, you never knowed a skin-flint that sweat.
Stingy men never sweat. I admire all good people but I would rather see a man give another a meal, than talk over his victuals and eat them alone when he knows there"s someone next door hungry. Did you ever notice when a man thinks he"s a genius he lets his hair grow long and when a woman gets out of her place, to be something she oughtn"t to be, she cuts her hair short. Every crank puts some kind of a brand on themselves. You don"t have to talk to them to find out what they are.
"I sold whiskey when I was in the wholesale grocery business. Everybody in my line sold it. You remember the best stores in Columbus sold it.
You couldn"t hold a first-cla.s.s trade if you didn"t sell it. I never sold it to people who had no shoes. I never sold it to young men nor to old men in their dotage. There was never preacher came to me to talk religion or anything else while I was selling whiskey. But as soon as I sold out the whiskey business, they began runnin" after me. One of them kept a-comin" and a-comin". He kept tellin" me how to live, how to spend the rest of my days. Get a library. A library was the greatest thing a man could have. It kept your mind at rest; you could seek refuge in your library at any time when in trouble. I promised him to get a library. I had one built expressly. I had two barrels of Old Crow whiskey that I kept when I sold the store. I filled a sufficient number of quart bottles to fill the shelves of the library, labeled the bottles, and waited for the next visit of the gentleman who induced me to invest in a library. He congratulated me on taking his advice. I told him I never had any learning to speak of; when I should have been at school I had to be at work; perhaps I should have consulted him about stocking the library. He expressed a desire to examine it. When I threw the doors open and the rows of bottles of Old Crow came into his view, he never flinched. I told Jim if he fainted to be handy with a pail of water. But he never backed off. He put his gla.s.ses on his nose, read the labels and "lowed while my library was large it was not greatly diversified.
Thereafter the good man was more deeply interested in me than ever before. At first he called once a day. It was not long until he called three times a day regularly."
[Ill.u.s.tration: Uncle Henry"s Library]
Jim describes the scene thusly: "Uncle Henry, lolling in the big, easy chair, sleepily. Enter the gentleman who recommended the library. "Good morning, Brother Hunt, I hope you are feeling well"; Uncle Henry, with eyes half-closed, never waited to hear more. He languidly motioned towards the sideboard, closed his eyes, looked the other way. Uncle Henry"s idea of a gentleman was one who turned his back while you were pouring out your liquor."
Uncle Henry was known to every showman in America. He maintained a field whereon the circuses pitched their tents. He owned the billboards. No circus visited Burlington that did not find him an interested friend.
I have heard that Uncle Henry could drive a good bargain in a trade. I never knew him as a buyer or a seller. I only knew him as one who knew how to give. I only knew him as one who found it more blessed to give than receive.
His qualities of good more than overbalanced his imperfections. His was a character that left its impress on the community in which he was known. He was loved by those who were welcomed in his hospitable home.
There have been men of more renown than the hardy old blacksmith, who, from a barefooted boy made his way without education or friends, and that he was influenced in his feelings by his early hardships was only the man that was in him, over-balancing the better nature of one who, when a friend was a friend, who, when against you, was always in the open. He was as honest in his dislikes as he was in his admirations.
When the sands of his life were ebbing fast on that Sunday afternoon in midsummer, the last of earth, the last sounds that fell upon the ears of Uncle Henry were the rumbling of the wheels of a circus moving over the paved streets from the train to the show grounds.
They have got a newspaper fixed and the worst roast ever read published today. Mailed copy. If you want a good lawyer, advise.
JOE KAINE.
Alfred read and re-read this telegram. He was having the most strenuous opposition of his business career, fighting one of the most unprincipled of men, the head of a company that had attained great popularity although on the decline at the time, and soon thereafter went the way of all such concerns--those of the minstrel kind at least. It was known to Alfred that the opposition had engaged a noted press agent and that this agent had been on the route of Alfred"s company. Alfred answered the telegram, requesting a synopsis of the article. It was at the time the notorious Hatfield gang of West Virginia, were the subjects of unusual newspaper exaggeration. The write-up that had stirred Kaine was in substance: