The Moving picture world (November 1926-December 1926)

December 18, 1926 MOVING PICTURE WORLD 481 S'^LUriGr S^ATJS TO J'IGrMAh/. ERHAPS it was not altogether Ben jbi Jigman's fault that he was what his most charitable neighbors called "thrifty." The less tolerant had other and less printable names. It was not altogether his fault. Born on a farm barely fertile enough to supply the modest necessities of the numerous Jigman family, Ben's boyhood had felt the nip of poverty that bit like a cancer at every generous impulse. He was eighteen years old before he owned the first suit that was not handed down from some larger brother, and he was well past thirty before he had his first "store" shoe shine. His eldest brother had the farm by that time and Ben was working for about half of what he could get as a hired man elsewhere when he suddenly cut the traces and came into town to open the Amity Picture Palace. An itinerant exhibitor, falling into the hands of the sheriff, Ben bought his projector and screen, and a small stock of films for $83, which left him $29.47 with which to carry on his venture. The first few years the patrons sat on board benches three times a week, but they willingly endured the discomfort for the sake of the romance and the plank seats became magic carpets to transport them from the sordid grind of everyday to the four corners of the world. It was not until a theatre in a nearby town failed that Ben felt able to replace the planks with real theatre seats. He bought 693 seats at the sale for $49.00. He needed only 473. but he figured that the rest of the stock would come in handy for replacements. They did. Ben's first job every morning was to go over the seats and make repairs with odd parts and bale wire, and when the spare chair stock was exhausted, he trusted to the bale wire alone. Business prospered until he was abundantly able to buy new equipment, but he turned a deaf ear to all seat salesmen until to sell Ben Jigman became the ambition of every equipment man east of the Rockies. And the harder they tried to sell the more stubborn Ben became. That was the way matters stood when Ernie Franklin, just out of college, got a job with the Union Seating Co. because the president was distinctly related to Ernie's mother. Just by way of giving him his initiation they sent him up to Amity to sell Jigman some seats, telling him not to come back until he had landed the order. Ernie was fuming over his rebuff in what had once been the bar of the Amity House when he encountered Bill Henson, who had been the football star the year Ernie entered college, and who belonged to the same fraternity. Into Bill's sympathetic ear Ernie poured his tale of woe, and Henson laughed. "You're not the only one who's failed to sell Jigman," he said consolingly. "The old man didn't mean it when he told you not to come back. He just wanted to break you in. Sit down and write him that no one can sell Jigman. Why I offered him our program at just about half price and he would not even listen." "You selling films?" Ernie brightened up. "What company?" Henson named his connection and Ernie's satisfaction grew. "Help a brother in distress," he demanded. "I want you to go back and tell Jigman you'll give him 'Rocked to Rest' free as a sort of sample." "You're crazy with the heat," expostulated Henson. "Why boy, that's the super comedy of the season. It's knocking 'em off their seats everywhere. Want me to go and give Jigman the pick of the season? I wouldn't let him have it a penny under $50 a day even in this joint." "I'll pay the fifty," promised Ernie, producing a checkbook. "Go back and land him now. I want to sleep easy tonight." Henson found it much easier to give Ben a picture than to sell it. Jigman accepted the picture with the distinct understanding that it committed him to nothing, and Henson went on to the next stand wondering whether he should drop a line to Ernie's parents warning them to watch the boy. Two weeks later Amity blazed with posters announcing the comedy treat of the season. Getting the picture for nothing, Jigman felt he could afford to spend a couple of dollars to advertise, and the night the picture showed the house was packed. Sitting in his office where he could watch the screen and his ticket seller at the same time, Jigman smiled contentedly at the packed house. There was quiet during the scenic and the news reel, but the comedy opened to a delighted roar as the first gag went over. A moment later a second gale of laughter swept over the house, stilled as a tremendous crash overrode even the laughter. The lights flashed on and Jigman, to whom the noise was a familiar one, dashed into the auditorium. There was no trouble in locating the seat of the excitement. Aunt 'Liza Bregg, who could barely ease her 260 pounds into one of Ben's chairs, had virtually laughed her seat apart. Going down, she had caught at the seat in front of her, and that row, too, had collapsed. Eighteen uprights were smashed beyond the aid of bale wire, and sixteen chair backs were fit only for kindling wood. Ben got a chair for Aunt 'Liza, added the rest to the standees and signaled the projectionist to start up again. This time the picture safely ran through three gags, but the third was a corker and five different crashes in different parts of the house attested its laugh-provoking qualities. Ben was for stopping the picture right there, but he quickly realized that if he turned the crowd out before the picture was ended there would be a riot, so he draped the spares along the side aisles and once more gave the signal to start the picture. At ten p'clock the audience filed out of the theatre, still laughing, and a new crowd stormed in despite Ben's assurance there w'ould be no second show./ They would stand if necessary — and it was. It was after midnight before the last house filed out and Ben surveyed the wreckage. Only one spectator remained; a stranger, and Ben turned angrily upon him with a curt, "Well, what do you want?" "Let's go into your office," suggested our hero. "I want you to decide what style of seats you want. I can phone the office to rush them up by truck, and you'll lose only a couple of days. Get some good sound seats, book this comedy back for a two-day run and you'll pay for the outfit." Half an hour later Ben's trembly signature had been aflixed the dotted line, and a happy seat salesman was headed for the midnight train to headquarters. He had won his spurs and they were well worth the $50 they had cost.