The Argosy, Vol. 76, No. 3 — page 220: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

690 ‘Miss Trainor go?” Charlie asked casually of the crooked-backed stage- door guard. ‘““Shoppin’, she said,” growled- the guard around the stem of his black- clay pipe. And he added with a touch of friendliness that stage-door guards have been known to show toward Sir Henry Irving, Jim Jeffries, Edwin Booth, and Christie Mathewson, but never to lesser of their craft: “ Why didn’t chu poke that wop in the slats?” “No chance,” grunted Charlie with- out interest. Nature was presenting a curious phenomenon to Charlie Jayson just then—that of a dark and dismal day under a cloudless sky with a bright, burning sun. “Fool stage-manager!”’ growled the guard again. ‘“‘ Wop’s yeller as a gold four-sheet. He has to lap up booze between every act so’s he'll have nerve enough to do his own stunt. Puts a red tag on his room key so’s he kin pick it out when his eyes is whoozy!”’ He added a snort of disgust at such subterfuge. Another absent grunt from Charlie as he pulled his hat down over his eyes and started out. Somehow the stage entrance seemed to have taken on the stifling atmosphere of his cell of a room in the loft. But though he walked until danger- ously near his cue-time, the so-called beneficent Providence had failed to live up to the reputation. He caught no glimpse of Molly Trainor. He saw an irate stage-manager, though. “‘ Stick to the house between shows!” growled that autocrat. “On’y got twenty minutes; an’ I don’t want to hold no curtain for you. Done enough; crabbed that strong-arm act last night and the Thompson patter- sketch, too.” Charlie was hurt at the unfairness, but he had learned his little lesson of silence several years before. He for- got it, however, when he got under stage and found the monkey chatter- ing in his cage. Socks—Jayson still called him that THE ARGOSY. in his mind—acted mighty strange and clung desperately to Charlie’s arm on the journey up the iron stairs. “Smatter boy? ”’ soothed his owner. “ New stunt to leave you alone in the afternoon, eh? ”’ That was the way Charlie sized it up. He didn’t know that surreptitious cans of beer occupied all the scene- shifter’s attention that afternoon, and that the strong juggler, with all the mean viciousness of his kind, had re- duced the Pink Prune to a pitiful state of fright with the great iron cannon- balls rolling around the cage. He’d been careful not to hurt the monkey, for there was the inborn fear of the stage-manager and detection— also that look he had seen in Charlie Jayson’s eyes. And the next performance, despite the presence of the white-frocked Mol- ly, was a nightmare. The Pink Prune did nothing right and _ everything wrong. Charlie, with the blindness of love, took all the blame. He had left wocrates alone in the afternoon for the first time in years. Even the stage- manager, almost frothing at the mouth as he delivered his scathing call-down, failed to arouse him. “He isn’t fair!” whispered Molly, and her honest eyes crackled as she caught a glimpse of the sneering strong man on the other side of the stage awaiting the finish of the Thompson sidewalk sketch. | Molly had a shrewd suspicion of what was the trouble, but that look in Charlie’s eyes had frightened her a bit, too, and she dared say nothing. “Can’t blame him.” Charlie Jayson was honest enough. “ His acts are being crabbed, and he’s a_ house- manager that only sees the box-office slips. And the Prune was awful!” A note of anxiety came to his voice as the animal snuggled under his_arm. “I wonder if he’s sick? ” ‘Let me take him?” Molly asked, holding out her arms. “T’ll keep him in my dressing-room until the next COMicdoo S CO@