You Can Search Me | Page 8

Greenwich, and that's where Charlie gave us the bum deal. This gag of chasing us back over the same route is rotten, because somebody may be sitting up for us with a rock. But Charlie says Greenwich has developed into a great show town since five new families' moved there last summer. Wednesday we get into Stamford for a run--two performances. Friday we are booked at South Norwalk and Saturday we play matinee and night at Saugatuck Junction. Charlie says Saugatuck is a cinch money-maker because it's a Junction. When I asked him what there is about a Junction that makes it a safe play Charlie excused himself and went to lunch. After Saugatuck we are not booked, because Charlie says something may fall down in New York and he may want to yank us right in. And, say, if Signor Petroskinski, the Illusionist and Worker of Mystical Magic, ever gets a crack at a Broadway audience it'll be a case of us matching John D. Rockefeller to see who has the most money."
"No, we better not bring Skinski into New York," Bunch advised. "I'm afraid of the critics."
"What critics?" I inquired. "There are only four people in New York city who can write criticisms--the rest of the bunch are slush-dealers, and a knock from any one of them is a boost."
"I mean Mr. Stale," Bunch put in. "If he were to roast our Skinski it might hurt our business."
"It would--among the Swedes and Hungarians," I cross-countered. "I'm wise to Mr. Stale, nee Cohenheimer, the Human Harpoon! Say, Bunch! he's a joke. I caught him the day he first left the blacksmith shop, some ten years ago, with a boathook in each hand and a toasting fork between his teeth. That duck isn't a critic, he's only a Foofoo."
"What the devil is a Foofoo?" Bunch asked.
"A Foofoo is something that tried to happen and then lost the address," I explained. "Did you ever pipe Stale's cheery bits of humor as exemplified in one of his burning criticisms? Well, I'll put you wise, Bunch:
"I went to the Kookoo theatre last night, I and myself. _Voila! tout bien_! I have seen lots of shows before, I have, but I have never, I solemnly declare, seen any show so utterly banal as this. The libretto was written by some obscure person who never reads my criticisms for if he did he would know that I abhor Dutch dialect. One reason I hate it so much is that some people can write it so well that they make more money than I do writing English undefiled--oh! the shame of it! _Voila! tout suite_! But to return to our muttons, as we say in Paris whenever I go there. Tottie Coughdrop played the principal part but a merciful Providence gave me a cold in the head so I couldn't hear what she said! _Voila! tout fromage de Brie_! To my mind Tottie looked like one of yesterday's ham sandwiches, and a 'gent' sitting near me said she was all to the mustard, so you see great minds run in the same channel--oh! la, la, la! But to return to our muttons. The show is said to have cost $25,000, but what care I? _Voila! tout coalscuttle_! I'd roast it if it cost $50,000, otherwise how could I make good? _Voila! tout blatherskite_! But to return to our muttons. I went out after the first act and never did go back--great joke on the show, wasn't it? Oh! la, la, la! Still I insist that Tottie Coughdrop looked like a ham sandwich. _Voila! tout fudge_!"
"So that's the kind of piffle that managers and actors have to go up against," laughed Bunch.
"They don't go up against it any more, Bunch," I said. "They are shifty young guys in the theatrical business nowadays, and they sidestep the hammer-throwers. Mr. Stale is a back number, and his harpoon can't stop a dollar bill from flutering into any man's box office."
"He thinks he can, all right," Bunch muttered.
"Well, there are two thinks and a half still due him," I said. "Who ever gave that guy a license to splash ink all over a production and hold actors, authors and managers up to ridicule? Did you ever hear of an actor or an author or a manager getting out a three-sheet which held a newspaper up to ridicule?"
"Not on your endowment policy," Bunch chimed in.
"Well, isn't a newspaper just as much of a public institution as a theatre? Suppose a manager were to call in a rubberneck, hand him a tool box and send him to a newspaper office to look for a splashy production on a busy night. Suppose, further, that after the paper went to press Mr. Rubberneck opened up his tool box and began to pound on the