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SHOWMAN
Cisco's home-grown performers. He didn't know me from a hole in the ground, but I knew him because he'd been round the Press Club now and again. So I waylaid him on the way to the theater, made it clear that he ought to remember me even if he didn't and let him know that I was an actor— not too much of a lie under the circumstances. ' 'That's interesting," he said. "Come round to rehearsal tomorrow." And the next morning, with Campbell seated at a table on the stage and the New York principals lounging majestically round and a hoard of local professionals waiting for a chance at a job, the first name called was: "Mr. Brady." Much mystification among the local talent— who the devil was Brady? Brady? Never heard of him. I walked across the stage and got two parts— boy in the first act, aged tramp in the fourth. There were whispered consultations and a rebellious appeal to one of the New York stars. I knew what it was all about. Somebody had recognized me and there was trouble over seeing a newsboy easing his way into a job intended for a real actor. Presently Campbell crossed over to me and took the two parts from my hand: "Sorry, Brady," he said, "I hear you aren't quite what you represented yourself." Then, getting the full effect of my crestfallen look, "Wait until after rehearsal," he said.
I waited. After rehearsal I found he hadn't held it against me. My crust had probably amused him. At least I got a job— my first theatrical job— call-boy at
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