We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
p-D-Doing
H-H-His S-S-Stuff
B y
HERBERT CRUIKSHANK
IT was that eerie, weary, after midnight hour when Broadway wipes out its ghttering make-up in the darkness of hefore-dawn. That time of murk and mystery when the back-fire of a motor may be the chop-chop of a machine-gun. When Times Square roustabout-towns are taken for rides." Unless the bandits are Scotch. In which case the victims go for a walk, instead.
Scouting strange shadows, the hospitable lights of "Dave's Blue Room" finally glimmered through the gray gloom like a spot on a dark, deserted stage. Before the door, standing patiently at the curb, was one of those strange combinations of horse-and-wagon which rumble with muffled rattle through New York's night like some nocturnal creature of another age.
And before the horse stood a dapper figure, one eye darkened by a cocked derby — the other brightened by the reflected illumination of a huge cigar. It was Frisco. If you don't know him you will soon. He was feedmg the horse crullers out of a paper bag. A cop paused on his speakeasy route and grinned:
"Hey, there, Joe, get away from that horse's head." "J-j-just seein' how m-m-many cr-cr-crullers he'll eat b-b-before he wants a cup o' c-c-cofFee," responded Frisco, from that corner of his mouth unoccupied by the cigar.
And perhaps this little incident serves as well as any as an introduction to Joe Frisco, the Broadway buffoon who has stuttered his way into a ten-grand-a-week movie contract w\th Warner Brothers. So, folks, meet F^risco. And
Frisco, meet folks.
Maybe you've seen his imitation of Helen Morgan's piano-sitting act in that two-reeler called "The Benefit." No? Well, well, well. You must come over. It had bankers and bootleggers rolling in the aisles. Helen herself went to Europe to keep from getting hysteriral. These talkies are taking the talent right off Broadway and throwing it from Hollywood to the screens of Sauk Center.
Top-Piece and Mouthpiece
FRISCO has done more for the derby manufacturers than anyone except "Our Al." The old iron hat is standard equipment, on or off. He's saved his fellow men from tobacco heart by smoking all the world's worst cigars himself. And he's demonstrated that a tripping tongue has more commercial value than a hare-lip. Or even Ben Turpin's eyes.
For F risco stutters like a Ford on a Hollywood hill. "W-W-Warner Brothers s-s-sent for m-m-me," stammers Joe, "and offered t-t-to pay eight gr-gr-grand a w-w-week if I'd g-g-go to Hollywood. I t-t-tried to s-s-say 's-s-sure.' B-b-but they thought I was h-h-hesitating. And b-b-before I c-c-could s-s-say 'yes' they r-r-raised the ante to t-t-ten thousand!"
He was first heard of as the inventor of a dance called "Walking the Dog." With the iron hat and the Camera Corona he featured it, one night about fifteen years hack, at a Coney Island jernt called "College Inn." He mav {Continued on page Q4)
6.^