The Auction Block | Page 5

shake of a bald
head.
"I'm a sick man, Mr. Pope. Same old trouble."
"M-m-m. Kidneys, isn't it?"
"No. Rheumatism. I'm a beehive swarmin' with pains."
"To be sure. It's Hemphill, the door-man at the Columbus, who has the
floating kidney. I paid for his operation."
"Hemphill. Operation! Ha!" The Judge cackled in a voice hoarse from
alcoholic excesses. "He bilked you, Mr. Pope. He's the guy that put the
kid in kidney. There's nothing wrong with him. He could do his old
acrobatic turn if he wanted to."
"I remember the act."
"Me an' Greenberg played the same bill with him twenty years ago."

The Judge leaned forward, and a strong odor of whisky enveloped the
caller. "Could you slip me four bits for some liniment?"
The critic smiled. "There's a dollar, Regan. Try Scotch for a change. It's
better for you than these cheap blends. And don't breathe toward a lamp,
or you'll ignite."
The Judge laughed wheezingly. "I do take a drop now and then."
"A drop? You'd better take a tumble, or Bergman will let you out."
"See here, you know all the managers, Mr. Pope. Can't you find a job
for a swell dame?" the Judge inquired, anxiously.
"Who is she?"
"Lottie Devine. She's out with the 'Peach Blossom Girls.'"
"Lottie Devine. Why, she's your wife, isn't she?"
"Sure, and playing the 'Wheel' when she belongs in musical comedy.
She dances as good as she did when we worked together--after she gets
warmed up--and she looks great in tights--swellest legs in burlesque,
Mr. Pope. Can't you place her?"
"She's a trifle old, I'm afraid."
"Huh! She wigs up a lot better'n some of the squabs in this troupe.
Believe me, she'd fit any chorus."
"Why don't you ask Bergman?"
Mr. Regan shook his hairless head. "He's dippy on 'types.' This show's
full of 'em: real blondes, real brunettes, bold and dashin' ones, tall and
statelies, blushers, shrinkers, laughers, and sadlings. He won't stand for
make-up; he wants 'em with the dew on. They've got to look natural for
Bergman. That's some of 'em now." He nodded toward a group of
young, fresh-cheeked girls who had entered the stage door and were
hurrying down the hall. "There ain't a Hepnerized ensemble in the

whole first act, and they wear talcum powder instead of tights. It's
dimples he wants, not 'fats.' How them girls stand the draught I don't
know. It would kill an old-timer."
"I've come to interview one of Bergman's 'types'; that new beauty, Miss
Knight. Is she here yet?"
"Sure; her and the back-drop, too. She carries the old woman for
scenery." Mr. Regan took the caller's card and shuffled away, leaving
Pope to watch the stream of performers as they entered and made for
their quarters. There were many women in the number, and all of them
were pretty. Most of them were overdressed in the extremes of fashion;
a few quietly garbed ladies and gentlemen entered the lower
dressing-rooms reserved for the principals.
It was no novel sight to the reviewer, whose theatrical apprenticeship
had been thorough, yet it never failed to awaken his deepest cynicism.
Somewhere within him was a puritanical streak, and he still cherished
youthful memories. He reflected now that it was he who had laid the
foundation for the popularity of the girl he had come to interview; for
he had picked her out of the chorus of the preceding Revue and
commented so enthusiastically upon her beauty that this season had
witnessed her advancement to a speaking part. Through Pope's column
attention had been focused upon Bergman's latest acquisition; and once
New York had paused to look carefully at this fresh young new-comer,
her fame had spread. But he had never met the girl herself, and he
wondered idly what effect success had had upon her. A total absence of
scandal had argued against any previous theatrical experience.
Meanwhile he exchanged greetings with the star--a clear-eyed man
with the face of a scholar and the limbs of an athlete. The latter had
studied for the law; he had the drollest legs in the business, and his
salary exceeded that of Supreme Court Justice. They were talking when
Mr. Regan returned to tell the interviewer that he would be received.
Pope followed to the next floor and entered a brightly lighted,
overheated dressing-room, where Lorelei and her mother were waiting.
It was a glaring, stuffy cubbyhole ventilated by means of the hall door

and a tiny window opening from the lavatory at the rear. Along the
sides ran mirrors, beneath which was fixed a wide make-up shelf. From
the ceiling depended several unshaded incandescent globes which
flooded the place with a desert heat and radiance. An attempt had been
made to give the room at least a semblance of coolness by