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SHOWMAN
man armed with a long bamboo to whack the obstreperous with. But he never got to first base. The proudest moment of my early life was the time I hit the bassdrum with a marble from the top gallery of Booth's Theater on 23rd Street during the sleep-walking scene in "Macbeth." The gallery-patrons had a grudge against the swells down in the orchestra who'd paid as much as seventy cents to get in. If they decided to treat the plutocrats to a shower of marbles or peanuts or programs—a snow-storm of programs like a New York welcome home in the bull-market days— no single human being with a bamboo persuader could do very much about it.
You got your money's worth, whatever you paid. Even after sixty years I felt kind of homeless when the Old Bowery finally burned down. The ordinary bill was a one-act farce— "Box and Cox" or "His Last Legs" —followed by a four or five-act heavy piece— "Camille" or "Fazio" or "The Lady of Lyons," say— followed by a three-act hair raiser and another farce to wind up with. On manager's benefit nights— a thoughtful custom which I wish was still in vogue— the show was so rich with varied items that it began at 4 p.m. and ran right through to 5 a.m. The acting was pretty free and easy, but expert— rich and juicy, and don't you forget it. And the audience took it just as big as the actors, sobbing in a swelling chorus while Camille was dying and laughing itself into stiches when the comic tried to pull off the old man's whiskers and found they were
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