The Billboard 1913-03-22: Vol 25 Iss 12 (1913-03-22)

MARCH 22, 1913, The Billboard THEZSHELL-WORKER A CIRCUS STORY OF cWORD—In this amusing satire, written especially for The rae of The Billboard, Mr. McCardell humorously cites eerie cing of an ancient evil and the attainment of higher ideals in the circus business—the extinction of the grafter. The moral the author draws is that the show business is now conducted with strictest integrity—but it is apparent that Mr. McCardell is still pessimistic as regards the retail coal trade.) CHAPTER I. When Grafting Was in Flower. It was a bright spring day, just twenty years ago, and Slocum’s Strongarm Circus had raised its big tops at early morn on the outskirts of New York City in that fair region now known as the Bronx. Since early dawn Sam Simpson, a sunny-faced lad of 7, had been carrying water for the elefants and now his little hands were red and blistered, his little aching back was bent, and, Oh! his poor feet! He had askt the head elefant keeper why the elefants were so dreadfully thirsty. “I dunno, ‘son,” replied the head bull man, “but I suspect they was out drinking last night.” “Well, then,” replied the innocent-minded lad, “it's wonderful how they keep it up this morning.” But now the hour of the first show was nearing. The simps were buying their broads, the shillabars were boosting at every side show and concession, the door talkers were-grinding away, the boobs were falling for every strongarm privilege the show carried with it, bands were playing, flags were flying, the scene was bright and gay and little Samuel Simpson's heart beat hight with joy and happiness. The boy’s father, Samuel Simpson, Sr., was Harlem's leading coal dealer at the time we write. Rich beyond the dreams of avarice and swollen with pride in their prosperity, little Samuel's parents had decreed that he should succeed his father in the coal business. Already they had taught him the tenets of the trade—that fifteen hundred weight of slack and slate and a fat wagon driver make a ton! Gifted with a shrinking esthetic disposition, the lad’s ambition had always been directed toward the plastic arts, yet he had been content with his fate that destined him for the coal business until this bright spring day in 1893, on which our story opens. Here while loitering on the lot just before the big show, directed, it seemed to him by fate, he had paused to watch a dexterous and industrious shellworker, who, with the simple parafernalia of three nutshells, a small ball of rubber the size of a pea, and a board on a tripod, with merry quips of gayest badinage, pitted his skill in manipulation against the judgment of all comers. It was a revelation to Samuel. _ There was no deception. The ball deftly rolled 'n plain sight. Which shell was it under? The blithe and bustling operator offered alluring odds. F'very man had a shéw for his money, not to mention the ecireus performance in the background. \ll was open and above board. It was art. manual art—the art of the craftsman, if you will but art for all that. And with a shudder Samuel realized the difference between this Pohemian way of gaining a. livelihood and the _ petty. bourgeois subterfuges of the retail coal trade. liere was no advantage taken. One did not dirty merchandise as tho it were nuggets of The sunny-faced shellworker never parted the instruments of his art. They were dear to him. even if dearer to others. Tere were no prevarications. No one was told gel! wit} by ‘he shellworker!that he had no peas save for his “regular customers,” but that he could ‘hem for you from a speculator at $20 a quart. ofistries about the scarcity of peas, or sen Sational statements regarding strikes by pea growers, MPa No Here were three nutshells! Here was one me Under which shell was the pea? “Make your bets, gentlemen, no advantage taken. Three 0 one If you locate the little joker!” es, that was the whole thing in a nutshell! go], OTHER YEARS AND NOW And from that day Samuel Simpson had resolved he would be a shellworker, and give people a show for their money, and not a grasping coal merchant, lying in weight for his prey! CHAPTER II. The Casting of the Die. “Boy, it can never be! You MUST succeed your father in the coal business!” On the ears of little Samuel Simpson his mother’s words fell like a knell of doom. “Now run down to the coal yard and enjoy yourself by seeing how much you can lift up on the scare-bar while your father is weighing coal,” added his mother not unkindly. ‘Mamma is very busy, as you know, for tonight she is giving a progressiv euchre party to raise funds for the Reformers’ League!” As little Samuel slunk away abasht, his mother’s words rang still upon his ears, “a progressiv euchre party to raise funds for the Reformers’ League!” Child tho he was, Samuel Simpson had a keen insight into human nature. A reform administration was harassing New York City with its pernicious activities, a reform district attorney was on the job. The boy’s ambitions to become a shellworker might be yet realized, for Samuel Simpson, Jr., had been struck with a bright idea, and to think with him was to act! CHAPTER III. The Guilty Mother. “I must see the District Attorney!” As Samuel Simpson spoke the words the members of the brass band and the fife and drum corps in the District Attorney’s office stopt practising The Raider’s Quickstep, and regarded him with amused contempt. ? Samuel was tall for his age, and they thought him a citizen who had called on important business. Rut Samuel was a lad of fertile resources, for as a squad of detectivs, disquised as Chinese laundrymen, approacht him with sandbags, the boy exclaimed, “I have a pack of cigaretts for him!” Instantly the musicians, torch bearers, members of the ax and crowbar brigades, and the swarms of detectivs. in and out of disquise, bowed obsequious!y to the quick-witted lad. “This way.” said a voice. and heralded by a sleuth. who was disguised as a Punch and Judy show. Samuel was led into the presence of the District Attorney. In another moment our hero was whispering into the District Attorney’s ample wealth of ear. The District Attorney rubbed his hands in ecstacy at the import of Samuel's communications. “Poy, you are sure of this?” he askt. “T am sure,” replied Samuel. “When will the game begin?” “At eight o’clock, sharp!” “Who will be there?” “Some of the leading citizens of New York.” “Good! T will order out another band and have more red fire ready! We raid tonight!” CHAPTER IV. The Smashing in of Simpson’s. “Crash!” “Crash!” “Crash!” No, this is not an advertisement for toweling. The District Attorney is raiding the residence of Samuel! Simpson. Sr., the coal baron. {|| Tonight Mrs. Simpson is giving a progressiv euchre party and the District Attorney has caught her with the goods! * The doors and windows have been smasht. The red fire is glaring! The bands are playing “Everybody’s Doing It Now!” The detectivs are changing their disquises, the police ambulances are at the door to take away the guests, the hostess and the progressiv euchre parafernalia. Standing beside the District Attorney, disquised as the Mexican army and personally directing the raid on his mother’s home, is Samuel Simpson, Jr. CHAPTER V. The fron Will. “We are ruined!” Out on bail at last, Samuel Simpson, Sr., and his wife stand with anguisht faces regarding the debris of what was once their home. “Why, father, the profit on one ton of coal will build you a better house!” The speaker is their unsuspected son. But his words bring no comfort. “How can I sell coal when your mother and I are in prison and you would take advantage of the fact to close up the coal yard?” said his father sadly. “Yes!” replied Samuel Simpson, Jr., firmly, “T will never dirty my hand with such ill-gotten gains. But, in spite of all that, I will save you. Promise me that you will no longer refuse me in my desire to become an honest artisan, that you will apprentice em to Snifty Sol, the shellworker, and I will see that the only witness who can convict you, will disappear. As for mother, yourself and the guests, you may all refuse to testify, on the ground that it would incriminate and degrade . you, and the indictment will be dismist!” “Oh, Samuel, we promise!” And Samuel Simpson, Jr., kept his word. The vital witness did not appear. HE was that witness! CHAPTER VI. The Return of the Retired Shellworker. Twenty years have passed. Again the scene is the PRronx, but, ah, how changed! Where the mansion of Samuel Simpson, Sr., had stood, overlooking the extensiv coal yards, tall apartment houses towered and broad boulevards met the eye on every hand. At night the scene was a giant’s fairy land. Flaring arc lamps and great winking electric-light signs flasht their multicolored and gorgeous designs against the night. For the scene is the Bronx as it is now, and Marcus Loew and William Fox have family theaters on every block! Thry the onyx entrance of the palatial apartment house, The Highcosta Arms, owned and occupied by Samuel Simpson, Sr., a young man enters. He is somewhat shabbily attired in a plaid suit and a noisy shirt that are evidently the remains of former grandeur. He is apathetic and dull-eyed, and his whole appearance is a recital of adversity. It is Samuel Simpson, Jr., the ex-shellworker, a boy no more, but a disappointed, disillusioned man in the prime of life. And yet, despite the changes that time and adversity has wrought, 2 mother’s eye lights up with happiness, and Samuel! Simpson’s mother folds in her arm the prodigal returned. “Yes, mother, I have come home to eat,’” he mutters hoarsely. ‘‘The show business has so reformed that the shell game has gone to the discard. “T remember the time when you could start out with four cents’ worth of soap and two cents’ worth of tinfoil and five bucks in your bankroll, and make all sorts of money, red, white and blue. Put now, if a guy follows a ten-cent circus with anything heavier than a caneboard, (Continued on page 144.)