Continuous Vaudeville by Will M. Cressy (best thriller novels to read txt) 📖

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a great help to a young man starting out in the world. Said bright thought being prompted by the following ad, clipped from a Buffalo, N. Y., paper:

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

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

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

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

"Well—it goes all over. Of course most of 'em go 'round through New York state. But some of 'em go down to Massachusetts, Maine[172] and New Hampshire. Then a few go down South. I have a few subscribers out through California and Oregon and Washington. Some go to Honolulu; the Philippines and two or three go as far as Australia.

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

"Bring her Hither."

A young fellow up in New Hampshire has written a Vaudeville playlet and sent it on for my approval. If he could have kept up the gait he[173] struck on the first page I should have bought it:

Maid: A lady waits without.

Master: Without what?

Maid: Without food or raiment.

Master: Give her food and bring her hither.

The cost of high living has evidently not struck Philadelphia yet; for in the window of a little store on North Ninth Street there is a sign—

"A glass bowl—a goldfish—a tadpole and one seaweed—all for 8 cents."

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

"Keep Out. We Mourn Our Loss."

[174]

THE PERILS OF A GREAT CITY

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

One night as my wife and I were driving down in our automobile we reached this corner just as an uptown car and a downtown car were meeting there. The uptown car stopped to let off a passenger. The downtown car slowed down, so as[175] not to run down anyone coming around the back of the uptown car. And, not to be outdone in caution, we slowed down also.

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

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

"—— —— you, don't you boomp me!"

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

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

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

[177]

DO YOU BELIEVE IN SIGNS?

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

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

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

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

Pittsburg, Pa. "Daub, the Painter."

Dalton, Ga. "Tapp, the Jeweler."

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

Oakland, Cal. "Fake, Jeweler."

Philadelphia. "Dr. Aker, Dentist."

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

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

Chicago. "Artificial Eyes. Open all Night."

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

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

Denver, Colo. "Painless Dyeing."

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

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

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

[178]Boston. "B. Stiller, Photographer."

Boston. "Dr. Capwell, Dentist."

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

Boston. "Neal & Pray, Religious Publications."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[179]Brownsville, Ark. "H. Robinson, Tacks Collector."

Chicago. "Precious Stones Setted."

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

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

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

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

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

Chicago. "Broken lenses duplicated."

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

[180]

CLOSING NUMBER

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

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

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

The next morning he was discovered, and put to[181] work helping in the kitchen. This was the last straw; there he sat, in his fur lined overcoat and silk hat, peeling potatoes. That night he decided to end it all. So at midnight he said "Farewell vain world" and went over the rail.

"Man overboard!" cried the Lookout.

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

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

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

CURTAIN