New Britain Herald Newspaper, April 10, 1929, Page 19

&o—— Fly-by-Nights ~ by Jack Lait g% HEY call them “turkeys” in the- trical slang, those qne-night mu- sical comedies always billed as “direct” from some imposing city or theatre. When they do two perform- ances a night they are further classi- fied as “tabs,” meaning tabloid shows. Tab turkeys earry four chorus girls, spread well about the stage to convey the illusion of a great many. The “Whizzbang Widow” troupe was strictly a Thanksgiving Day dainty. Its scenery collapsed into a trunk, its costumes were shabby and frayed, its principal players were hardened old fly-by-nights who had done their bits in tents and rickety opera houses for many seasons. The “book’” was & con- glomeration of aged surefire hokum, gags from the funny papers and wcenes stolen from forgotten Broad- way Tevues. The performers worked like laborers, cursed their calling, and were grateful for steady engagements. They trave eled their “jumps” in dusty coaches, habitated in tanktown rookery hotels, dressed in smelly and damp rooms, played on shaky and footworn stages to men with round haircuts and won with cotton underwear. They hated all “locals” with lofty contempt. They fraternized and econtempt. They frater- nized and huddled to keep spiritual warmth {n their beings, and they talked shop in one-armed cafeterias after the second grind. The “Whizzbang Widow” company was booked in a burg which, while it had the same chainstore Main street, the same paint-yearning depot, the same flivver taxis and the same carbon-copy faces that every other bush-league town of its size displayed, was near lake, and on that lake several city mil- lionaires had built Summer mansions, where they spent week-ends and the hot months. On the particular night that this particular troupe made that particular spot, Julius Feilchenmuller, who had grown rich and stout making little toothpicks out of big trees, was throw- ing & frolic-—maybe it was an anni- versary of his marriage to the fat frau, maybe the birthday of one of his beefy kids—anyway, there was occa- sion for festive rejoicing and the slay- ing of the calf, also fatted. Junior, the-firstborn, a city-bred and city-broke collegian, conceived the hot idea of bringing the “Whizzbang Widow” outfit to the mansion that night after the regular shows down- town, to give the full routine in the ballroom, on an impromptu stage, ac- eompanied by the dance orchestra al- ready engaged for the party. The old man asked first how much it would cost and, second, whether it was such » worthwhile stunt at all. But Junior asked nothing—he went. Edgar Birrell, comedian and mana- ger of the “Whizzbang Widow,” heard him out. He haggled s while, men- daciously saying his company had to hop s rattler immediately after the final curtain. When Junior ran the figure up to $200, more than Birrell made some months, the train time was changed to next morning and the deal was closed. Birrell informed his players. He promised 8 pro rata bonus—one twelfth, since salaries were based on twelve appearances weekly. There was murmuring and demurrence. That wasmn't enough, counting the coming and going. So he finally settled on an extra one-tenth. Since the rest of the trowpe drew gross $320 per week, that left Birrell, the crafty showman, a neat profit of $118. The four chorines, whose salaries were $25 per week, thus would be rewarded with & tithe of that munificence. The high- est paid of, the lot, Connie Connors, soubrette-prima-diva-danseuse, st $50 8 week, doubled that honorarium. Junior, sent for the heavy props and costumes, the scenery trunk and the music. The company left the theatre by foot-ferry, and trailed up the path of the imposing gates of the Feilchenmuller vills, tastily named “Lumber Lodge.” Beside Connie, the troupe beaut, vamp snd star, strode Dick Fyffer, the juvenile, who signified by carrying her bag that he was in love with her and hoped the world would know it. Connie had been giving him the merry runaround since the first hour of rehearsal in a walk-up hall nesr Bryant Park in New York. There they had met, and there he had fallen. Whenever his unrequited passion became too much to bear, Connie let up & bit for & few days or a few hours and again ghot him to the eighth heaven, the descent from which was by slow balloon, the gas gradually be- ing let out until he was again almost on the hard rock of misery, whereupon she inflated him again, and so on ad lib and ad infinitum. "At the moment, Dick was very clese to the ground. Connie had been treat- ing him with disdainful snd open meanness. She walked slightly ahead of her adorer and gave him the back of her head to look at longingly. His heart was not in his work that night, despite the $4 lagniappe it showered. A butler let the troupers in at the servants’ entrance and showed them where they might dress, in the linen room and the boiler room. A man was stationed with the men and a maid with the women, to see that they didn’t steal any of the Feilchenmuller treas- ure or art works contained in these chambers. “This gives me 8 toothache in my swanlike neck,” equawked Connie. “These rich eggs treat artists like they were bozos or semething.” The four chorus girls, stripped and squirming inte their sciled wardrobe wherein to reveal the feminine allure that gave “Whizzbang Widow” its sex sppeal—that is, after the well dis- played and acknowledged “It” of the title-role player, Conmie—gave the maid sour looks. “Can't even smoke in this dump,” complained ene. “An’ Birrell books us in this for chickenfeed.” Beside Connie, the Troupe Beaut, Vamp and Star, Strode Dick, the Juvenile. “I'd like to know what the old safe- blower is holdin' out on us” said another. “I bet he's pickin' up a cute piece o' change an’ givin' us the lepv- in's” A third laughed. “What d'you ex- pect in show business? A square shake? You're kiddin' yourself, Miss Barry- more.” In the man’s room Dick was silent and scowling. Birrell was hurrying thgn along. “Come on—step on it,” he growled. “We don’ wanna be in this car all night. We got an early jump. Hus- tle, you, Dick.” “Aw, go stick your head in the furnace. Yourbrain * is cold,” retorted Dick. “I'll be ready when I'm ready. What'd you wanna haul us all out to this shanty for in the firs’ place?” “So you hams can pick up a little dough__you're always hollerin’ an’ makin’ touches.” “Don’ do me no favors,” shot back Dick. “You ain’ no actors’ refuge.” Presently they were ready. The or- chestra hit up the overture, the com- pany assembled ‘‘backstage” behind floor-toceiling draperies hung at each side of the makeshift stage, and the show was on. Crowding the Feilchenmuller ball- room were sbout a hundred men and o women. The Feilchenmullers crowded it the most. The banal opening chorus by the tawdry quartette elicited howls of ap- proval. Then came the entrance of the comedian, Birrell himself, and his crude witticisms and his manhandling of the girls shook Lumber Lodge with laughter. But the Big Shot, Connie, the whizzbang widow, brought ohs and ahs of delight, appreciation and palpi- tation from the men and sniffs from the women. In the front row sat Junior. Metro- politan youth that he was, with a col- lege career of chorus girls and village waitresses behind him, having seen every show in the city with all the stars and famous beauties, when he saw Connie breeze on, threw her wicked eyes at him (every man out front always thinks every woman on the stage is gazing at him) and kick up one little foot at the end of a shapely calf, something happened to him. Under the layers of superfluous flesh his heart missed a beat. He felt \ Furs! Diamonds! gooseflesh all over. The cold perspiration spurted out on his forehead. The music he heard was not of the orchestra. It was the singing of strange birds in melodies that were new to him. No use keeping in sus- pense—it was love at first sight. Junior was in a daze through the fifty minutes of performance. Whenever Connie was offstage, te change ward- robe, he sank into a lethargic semi- coma. He shook himself, pinched him self, coughed, wet his lips. He shifted in his chair until his fond and devoted mamma whispe‘ed to ask him what was WTONng. There was plenty wrong. Before the last brasscrash of the finals, Junior knew that he was hooked—and he wasn't a bit sorry or worried. He panted for Connie. He was wild, deli- rious over her. Connie was suprised to get & note in the linen room. It read: “Wondergirl— “I must—MUST—see you for one moment before you leave thedir 1 am the oldest son of the owner. Slip through the door to your right as you enter the corridor. I will be waiting and will see you. o B Connie, who always had her good- looking weather eye open for the main chance, hurried with her dressing and, despite an extra careful makeup. beat the rest out of the room. saying she was warm and wanted a few minutes in the ajr. Juliu®awaited her. He wasn't a bad- looking chap. He was overfed and by nature a kit elephantine. but he was @wyright, 1029, Internations) Peature Bersice, ine. Grest Mritain Kigii Keseied i Limousines! Yachts! and a Dag- Coach! well dressed and evidenced prosperity in every thread and fiber. He told her witheut much prelimi- nary what impression she had made on him. He rushed her, in truth, knowing she was to leave the burg so soon. Connie had been against every man- ner of touch-and-go, hit-and-run and take-and-make. She was s hard-to-get baby, and, like all her kind, had little use for laymen and merry villagers. But when Junior breathed the words “I want to marry you,” he used a word she rarely heard—except from Dick. In the show, when Birrell proposed to the whizzbang widow, her answer, coyly and jauntily delivered, was: “Don’t crowd me—don’t crowd me. Remember—I've BEEN married. So I know my greengoods.” But she was too flustered now to be clever. She stumbled through an an- swer somewhat like this: “Think it over over-night. That's heavy artillery you're shooting at me, Big Boy. If you feel that way in the morning, phone me at the hotel.” He begged her for a kiss, assuring her that by morning he’d be more anxious yet. She yielded him the kise, which he took greedily as he pressed her in his powerful arms. Connie tripped away, down the side passage, which led back to the tower- ing gates of Lumber Lodge. The rest Sulkily he stood, scraping the gravel of the company had grown impatient and had walked on—all but Dick. with one foot waiting. “Where've you been?” he yammered.- “Wouldn't you leve to know?” she wisecracked. “You'll find eut soon enough.” “You've been with a man—a local!” “A local, but no yokel. I'm in the big money. It was nobody but the sen of the bankrolll that ewns this hut — Feilchenmuller —big toothpick and tim- ber man — millionaire —" “Oh, Lord,” groaned Dick. “You ain't fallin’ for that kind o' cattle, Connie—you with your character en’ your fu- birea® Connie waived at the massive entrance to Lum- ber Lodge. “How’s THAT for a fu- ture?” she laughed. “He {sn’t—he ain’t talk- in'—oh, no!” “Oh, yes. Church bells, orchids, flower girls—an’ s honeymoon in Europe.” “An you're gonna?” “A fool 1 should be; yeh? If he don't slip eut of the noose by morning, handsome, Birrelll’s going to lose the sweetest soub- rette in the world, and you're in for some deep weeps, sonny boy—'cause your 1i’l Eva, here, is keen for that impertant busi- ness — because she loves nice things!” Dick sat (n & lunch room, pleading, protesting to Connie until three in ing. She was in hi rits %Nh';e;“lr:;nfumed him dolvn‘hlt:rfi the final time, she sought her room, but not yet her bed. Visions of yachts, seagoing, and of diamonds and of ermines and of man- sions and of limousines kept her awake. Sunrise. And a ring on the ‘phone. “]—1 just knew you'd call,” she cooed. It was a deep, agitated voice on the qther end. “Sweetheart, mine,” it said, “T love you all that I said last night—twenty times as much.” “And 1—I—love you. closed my eyes—" “But I must tell you something, honey . . . I confessed it to father.. . he blew up—said if I married you he’d throw me out and cut me off without & nickel, and—" “D-does he m-mean it?” “He does. When father threatens he never gives in. He—" But a click in his ear shut him off and cut him off. The “Whizzbang Widow” company was making the 10:19. Birrell looked through the car and checked up—yes, all present and accounted for. Dick slumped into & faded velvet seat. He raised his head. Connie glided in be- sldeshir;‘. “So I gave you a rough night, eh?" He dropped his head. i “Silly kid—where's your sense of humor? Did you really lap up that tripe 7" “You mean—it doesn’t go?” “Cert. Do you think l’gogi\-e up my p'fession, my career, to marry that clumsy swine? Cheer up—Connie must have her little joke.” “M-marry me, then. littJe joke.” She smiled at her little joke. ¢ 1 haven't I'll be your b g o~