ahead, let the door slam back against Fred.
"Oh, Good Lord," howled Fred, hanging on to his elbow; "right on the funny bone."
Jim looked at him, and in that ministerial way of his said,
"You haven't a funny bone in your body."
A young man asked me recently what spelled success on the stage. I told him the only way I had ever found of spelling it was W-O-R-K.
SOME HOTEL WHYS
Why are porters and bellboys always so much more anxious to help you out than in?
Why do so many hotel bathrooms have warm cold water and cold hot water?
Why is it that on the morning you are expecting company you can never find the chambermaid? And every other morning she tries your door every fifteen minutes regularly.
Why does a hotel clerk always try to give you some room different from the one you ask for?
Why does a hotel cashier always look at you pityingly?
Why does a bellboy always try to get two quarts of water into a quart pitcher?
Why do hotels feed actors cheaper than they do folks?
Why is a mistake in the bill always in the hotel's favor?
Why does the landlord's wife always have theatrical trunks?
Why do drummers always leave their doors open?
Why does my wife always try to get a corner table, and then put me in the chair facing the wall?
Why do "American" hotels always have French and Italian cooks?
Why does the fellow in the next room always get up earlier than I do?
Why does the elevator boy always go clear to the top floor and back when the man on the second floor rings for him?
Why is the news stand girl always so haughty?
Why does the night clerk always dress so much better than the day clerks?
Why do I think I know so much about running a hotel?
IT ISN'T THE COAT THAT MAKES THE MAN
A seedy-looking chap came up to Roy Barnes in Toronto and said in an ingratiating way:
"I don't know as you will remember me, Mr. Barnes, but I met you down at Coney Island last summer."
"Yes, sure, I remember you easy," said Barnes, grasping his hand in both his own. "I remember that overcoat you have on."
"I hardly think so," said the seedy party, trying to draw his hand away; "I did not own this overcoat then."
"No," said Barnes, "I know you didn't; but I did."
Grace Hazard has a washlady. Washlady has a thirteen-year-old son. Son became infected with the acting germ and ran away to go with Gertrude Hoffman's Company. His mother was telling Miss Hazard about it.
"'Deed, Mis' Hazard, yo' know 'tain't right for dat po' li'le innocent child to be pesterin' roun' dem theater houses dat er way. 'Twas jes' dis ver' mo'nin' dat he's Sunday-school teacher wuz sayin' to me: 'Dat boy has got too much – too much – intelligence to be in dat stage bus'ness nohow.'"
Hanging in each room of the Great Southern Hotel at Gulfport, Miss., is a small sign stating —
A friend of mine in St. Louis is a Police Captain. One day he went into a bank to get a check cashed. He was in citizen's clothes and the paying teller did not know him anyway; so he said,
"You will have to be identified, sir. Do you know anybody here in the bank?"
"I presume so," said the Captain cheerfully; "line 'em up and I'll look 'em over."
Seen from the car window: "Shuttz Hotel. Now open."
On Elmwood Avenue, Buffalo: "Organs and Sewing Machines tuned and repaired."
At the St. James Hotel, Philadelphia:
Mrs. Cressy. "Waiter, have you any snails today?"
Waiter. "No, mam."
Mrs. C. "What's the matter? Can't you catch them over here?"
ONE-NIGHT-STAND ORCHESTRAS
My idea of what not to be is Musical Director of a Musical Comedy playing one-night stands. This is the real thing in the Trouble line.
Max Faetkenheuer was musical director with an opera company that was playing through the South. They arrived in one town at four in the afternoon, and Max found the orchestra waiting at the theater. They looked doubtful; they sounded dreadful. Individually they were bad; collectively they were worse. During the first number the cornet only struck the right note once and that frightened him so he stopped playing. The clarinet player had been taking lessons from a banjo teacher for three years and had never made the same noise twice. There were six French horns, all Dutch. The trap drummer was blind and played by guess and by gorry.
Max labored and perspired and swore until 7:15; then he had to stop because the audience wanted to come in and didn't dare to while the riot was on.
"Now look, Mister Cornet Player," Max said; "I'll tell you what you do; you keep your mute in all through the show."
"Yes, well, I shan't be here myself, but I will speak to my 'sub' about it."
"What's the reason you won't be here?" asked Max.
"I play for a dance over to Masonic Hall."
"So do I," said the bass fiddler.
"We all do, but the drummer," said the flute player.
"You do? Then what the devil have you kept me here rehearsing you for three hours for?" demanded Max.
"Well," said the cornet player, "we knew this was a big show, and we presumed you would be a good director, and we thought the practice would do us good."
"It will," said Max.
On another occasion he struggled all the afternoon with a "Glee Club and Mandolin Serenaders'" orchestra. Finally, by cutting out all solos, playing all the accompaniments himself, and confining the "Glee Club" to "um-pahs," he got everything figured out except the cornet player; he was beyond pardon; so Max said to him,
"I am awful sorry, old man, but you won't do; so you just sit and watch the show to-night."
"Oh," said the Not-Jule-Levy, "then I don't play, eh?"
"You do not play," said Max.
"All right then; then there'll be no show."
"Why won't there be a show?" asked Max.
"Because I am the Mayor, and I will revoke your license."
He played.
