Evening Star Newspaper, March 2, 1930, Page 101

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MARCH 2, 1930. ‘From Street Car Conductor to Actor in One Lesson GREAT many street car conductors seem to be laboring under the de- lusion that acting is a very mys- terious profession and that actors are, in the words of the poet, a “race apart.” I have often had conductors say to me, “1 wish I was an actor,” as though they were expressing a desire for something abso- lutely beyond possibility. I am not sure how this feeling about the profession came to be so universally taken for granted, but I am sure that it is not true. Anybody can be an actor, and almost anybody can eventually realize that greatest of all ambitions, the seeing of one’s name in electric lights. For instance, suppose you are a street car conductor, and suppose further that at the end of 10 years you begin to become dissatisfied with your job. “I'm sick of all this,” you complain to the motorman, as you and he and an old lady pas- senger near the end of Jamaica avenue. “Whatta da mat’?” inquires the motorman. “Oh, I’'m sick of calling out the same streets all the time,” you reply. * ‘Elm street, Spruce street, Cecurtland street, Washington street.’” “Washington was ver’ great mana,” remon- strates the motorman. “Whatta you got against heem?” “I didn't mean any offense to he who was the father of our country,” you make haste to say, “but can’t you understand? Always the same streets——" “We gotta go where de tracks goes,” argues the motorman. “That’s just it,” you cry. “Always where the tracks go. Why can't we leave the tracks— just for once?” “Dat is practically bolshevism,” says the mo- torman. “And you in uniform too!™ “Sorry, old fellow,” you apologize, “I didn't realize what I was saying. I must have eaten something that did not agree with me.” And, with that, you come to the end of the line. “End of the line,” you call, “What?” asks the old lady passenger, cupping ' her hand over her ear. “I said, ‘End of the line,’” you reply. “Oh, goody,” says the old lady. “Can I help you change the trolley?” “If you wish,” you reply, with a bow, and, as soon as the trolley has been changed, you ring the bell and the car starts back toward town “Thank you,” smiles the old lady, settling once more down into her seat, and you go up forward with the motorman. “I been thinking over whatta you say,” he remarks, “and, if you doan lak thissa job, why doan: you get another?” “I've thought of that,” you admit. “By golly, I wish I was an actor.” By Donald Ogden Stewart. “A what?” inquires the other. “An actor,” you repeat, “like Booth. But I never can be one. I guess I'll be a street car conductor all my life,” and with that you go hopelessly back to the rear platform and mope. AND that is where you are wrong. You can be an actor. There is no great secret about acting. There is only one requirement—get a start. - Get some producer to give you a part in his next play. It doesn’t make any difference how small the part is, or how insignificant it may seem. Take it. But, you may ask, how can I get a producer to become interested in me? How can I get him to give me this part? Here I am, you say, a street car conductor with only Thursday nights off, and Thursday night I have to take care of the baby. How can I find time to take this decisive step? That is easy. Just keep your eyes open. Pro- How the Master Spy of the Continued jrom Third Page memorandum books to a small bag he carried. “I shall examine these,” he said, “at my leisure.” The Frenchman stepped forward. “Examine them here if you must,” he cried, “but you have no right to take them away.” Like a flash the visitor’s hand went to his coat pocket. “Ah, have I not?” mand in his voice. move.” Nimbly he stepped to and through the door, slammed it and shot the bolt. Came the sud- den drumming of a powerful motor. In another Swiss city, a prosperous Swiss merchant, perhaps a trifle pro-ally, received a call from a Swiss secret police agent who in- sisted on seeing reports of his traveling men in Germany. The Swiss agent showed a badge. A masterful man—yes; middle height, wiry, not quite 40, mustache, glasses, piercing black eyes. “.% is the same man,” said the French secret service. Next day came a code telegram from Zurich. The identical Swiss agent had called there upon a trusted allied agent, showing the badge, and asked questions that could be asked only by some one who had seen papers that might have been in the vice consulate safe. He seemed to be on a trail or two. “ITt becomes serious,” said the French. “What are the Swiss up to? Oh, is it, after all, the Swiss? But that badge—" There are French Swiss as well as German, and one of these reported next day: “A high police official of Zurich says this man is a bona fide Swiss agent.” . The Zurich official was a German Swiss, and had been long on the allied suspect list. They could prove nothing, but they could watch. Then came a report from Geneva: “The British aviator X——, here on leave, has bcen seen much with a man about whom we have been curious for some time. He passes as of the Swiss secret police, and speaks Eng- lish well. He seems not quite 40, middle slim but strong, brown mustache, glasses, black eyes, very keen and glittering.” Then like a thunderclap, word from the Deuxieme Bureau in Paris: “The British independent air force, who con- duct from airdromes in the American area in There was a ring of ;:am- “We shall see. Let no one of signaling by lights at night has to the Germans. dromes, destroying airplanes and killing and SEAMn @ they would, the British could find nowhere in the Royal Air Force an aviator named X—. But there was worse to come. All this time, the French gecret service in Switzerland had been congratulating itself on its success in getting men into Germany, and their reports out again. The great German Spring offensive of 1918, these reports said, would be a stupen- dous blow against the French in the Cham- pagne, possibly linked with a pincer attack on the new and small American force near Toul. So while other channels of information con- tradicted, steps were taken to be ready. On March 21 the first great blow fell—not at all on the French in Champagne or the Americans in Lotraine, but on the British on the Somme, a hundred miles and more away. The French could hardly believe this was the main at- tack, and their reinforcements were slow, all too slow, to aid the hardpressed British. Then suddenly the spy reports from Germany be- came queerly mixed. Expert checking showed them a combina- tion of truth and falsehood so ingenious that it was almost impossible to tell which was which. Much of the true information the allies already had—and the Deuxieme Bureau —found that the Germans must have known it. Horror-struck, they tested out their sup- posedly safe and sure information service working from within Germany via Switzerland. They ordered it to secure plans of the plant of the Badische Anilin Fabrik at Ludwigshafen, the great German gas factory—of which they had already plans they knew were accurate. By the underground railway, bearing the pro- per marks of the French secret service, came * back a set of plans labeled “Badische Anilin Fabrik”—but they were not the true plans. The Germans had been tricking the French secret service. How? For how long? Here was a task worthy the keen Latin mind, to be done in desperate haste, for other German drives were coming, even now were in preparation. Where? When? Not only had a trusted soyrce of in- formation dried up, it had been polluted by the enemy. And the trained agents who had cross- ed the German border so confidently, but who seemed to have sent back false reports—where were they? ] JKE eager hounds the Deuxieme Bureau beat the . cover of Switzerland and the German border, and soon found a scent . here, a trail there, small bits that, put together, revealed the dim outline of tragedy. Every one of the 21 skiiled agents who had gone into Germany to find out about the great drive had been doomed before he crossed the frontier. mommhsdmmmwmlnmthewbr, locked the door, watched from behind a cur- tain while they went about getting informa- tion, noted every move. With greatest pains they had found out how the French spies sent back their reports, by secret messengers, code telegrams, news- paper advertisements, whatever means. Then the Germans had pounced. One Prench spy after another had stood gray-faced before a gray-clad firing squad. One by one the Ger- mans had snuffed them out—and sent back in their npemes fo'sifled reports, It wae: 9= ducers are only human. What is more, they are democratic. They ride on street cars. All you have to do is wait until a producer gets on your car and then show him that you can act. The rest is inevitable. Let us suppose that the third passenger to . board your car on Saturday morning is David Belasco. Let us suppose, furthermore, that Mr. Belasco is about to produce a play about Oriental life, with the scenes laid in a sinister dive in Hengkong. Mr. Belasco enters the car and seats himself. Slowly, and with a shuffling gait, you approach him. When you are opposite his seat, you stop. He looks at you, and you put one finger to. your lips. “Kee Chang want fare,” you whisper. Allee same seven cents,” and you point upward. Mr. Belasco naturally looks in that direction, and, when his gaze returns to you, you have disappeared. deed for the French a terrible affair. And how many British lives had it cost? French secret service sought the creator of this masterplece of trickery, this work of art of the Master. But only gradually. For long he was a name, a phantom, and not even those who had seen him, like the staff of the vice consulate, knew just who or what he was. They cursed him as The Master—and then looked over their shoulders. TH.E French secret service chief continued: “Every vice consulate man we set looking for him, all over Switzerland. And viola! right here in Berne one comes to me greatly moved. “‘I have found him!" he cries. ‘In the office of the police!” “I assure you, I could hardly control myself. “‘But certainly,’ says my man. hall I saw him talking, laughing police officer. A typist told me he It was a Capt. von Einem, who voyaged often by government permission between Ger- many and Switzerland, to care for German soldiers interned here. For long we had sus- pected that under cover of this humane work he was part of their underground railway, a messenger for and probably a recruiter of spies. I ordered him watched day and night, and soon our agent reported: “ “This morning Capt. von Einem took the train for Zurich. I followed, at the station a limousine met him. He closed the curtains. The car drove slowly for a half-hour, an apartment house in a quiet street. opened, and out stepped another man. captain had vanished. This new man rather sportive civilian clothes, was stooping. I caught a glimpse of his face—) that of Capt. von Einem. Into the house my man. Around the corner I brought a of vegetables, turned up my coat collar went back. The conclerge was surely German, but a woman was sweeping and to her I said: “*“These are ordered by Herr Glauber, who “t“Get away!” she cried to me, “We knnw no F il 13ty gf This will interest the great producer some- what, but not nearly as much as your next move. Quickly and noiselessly you crawl to the rear of the car and climb snakily onto the roof. When you have wriggled forward until you are above the window at which he is sit- ting, you hang over the side of the car until your face suddenly appears opposite his. Again you put your finger to your lips. “Kee Chang want fare,” you say. When Mr. Belasco puts his hand in his pocket for the money you again disappear. These tactics should be kept up until the producer manifests sufficient interest to ask you for a transfer and what you are doing as a street car conductor when you ought to be on the stage in some Chinese play, and presto! the path is open for your first engagement. Of course, there is a chance that you will have no such good luck. You may wait for months before a producer boards your car, and = in that case I would advise that you take the wolf by the horns, give up your job, and secure a position as butler in Mr. Belasco’s home—or, say, the home of Arthur Hopkins. R. HOPKINS is known as the producer ef “society” plays—plays in which the actors present the wealthy residents of Park or Fifth avenue in New York. As soon as you have been engaged by Mr. Hopkins as a butler in his home, you should procure a copy of the Book of Etiquette and study it carefully. Then, some evening when Mr. Hopkins gives a dinner party, you will have your opportunity. Supposing that Mr. Hopkins has invited a Mr. and Mrs. Jones and a Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, As soon as they are seated and the first course has been served, you should touch Mrs. Ellis politely, but firmly, on the shoulder and say, ‘“I'm sorry, Mrs. Ellis, but I fear you are using the wrong fork.” Both Mr. Hopkins and Mrs. Ellis will be grateful to you for calling their attention to this breach of good manners, and, as the meal proceeds, there will, no doubt, be many other opportunities of a similar nature, such as: “What a pity that Mr. Jones wore black studs with full evening dress,” or: “Mrs, Jones, the napkin before your face when re« moving something from your tooth, please® After the guests have gone (which will quite possibly be before the dinner has ended) Mr. Hopkins will, without doubt, offer you a splen- did part in his next “society” play, and your worries will be over. And as for getting your name in lights, that is just a question of time, a few lights (which can be bought at any electrical store) and knowing how to spell your own name. (Copyright, 1830.) German Army Was Trapped Herr Glauber here. That was Herr Michaele sen, who has lived here this long time. You have the wrong house.” “‘And they told me at our. Zurich branch thag Michaelsen is on our suspect list. He is ate tached to the German vice-consulate, in the bureau for exchanging German coal for Swiss milk, cheese and other products. He speaks German, French, English and German-Swiss, That would make him a dangerous spy if he were discreet enough. But he lives a dissolute life, drinking and women. Every dive-keeper in Zurich must know him.” 'HE French chief leaned back and lighted & cigarette, “Whatmsfltk,myfrlend,"henld.wlfiu* expressive gesture. “Was the raider of the vicea © consulate, with his Swiss badge, also Capt. von Einem of Bern, and again Herr Michaelson Zurich? Which was his real identity? this elaborate deceit by a Swiss agent seeking neutrality violations? He could be one highest and lowest. In the same day he talks with Walther Rathenau, head of the commercial staff at the German legation which we have long suspected did legitimate business through the front door and secret service through the back, then with a bank teller accused of thef§ who then gets a first-class Swiss lawyer and provides high bail.” “We have heard something of it,” the Ameri« can said. more than one crooked bank teller in his power. He has bribed Swiss railroad conductors, hotel * Every day many French and British and Italian and American soldiers die because of him It is the affair of an of uve" victories of the allies. - will be told in the second ' inleresting -+ in TRe Sunday. The complete instn’Twant of TUyw e caning gegt