Amateur Night
The elevator boy smiled knowingly to him self. When he took her up, he hadnoted the sparkle in her eyes, the color in her cheeks. His little cage hadquite warmed with the glow of her repressed eagerness. And now, on the downtrip, it was glacier-like. The sparkle and the color were gone. She wasfrowning, and what little he could see of her eyes was cold and steel-gray.Oh, he knew the symptoms, he did. He was an observer, and he knew it, too, andsome day, when he was big enough, he was going to be a reporter, sure. And inthe meantime he studied the procession of life as it streamed up and downeighteen sky-scraper floors in his elevator car. He slid the door open for hersympathetically and watched her trip determinedly out into the street.There was a robustness in her carriage which came of the soil rather than ofthe city pavement. But it was a robustness in a finer than the wonted sense, avigorous daintiness, it might be called, which gave an impression of virilitywith none of the womanly left out. It told of a heredity of seekers andfighters, of people that worked stoutly with head and hand, of ghosts thatreached down out of the misty past and moulded and made her to be a doer ofthings.But she was a little angry, and a great deal hurt. "I can guess what you wouldtell me," the editor had kindly but firmly interrupted her lengthy preamble inthe long-looked-forward-to interview just ended. "And you have told meenough," he had gone on (heartlessly, she was sure, as she went over theconversation in its freshness). "You have done no newspaper work. You areundrilled, undisciplined, unhammered into shape. You have received ahigh-school education, and possibly topped it off with normal school orcollege. You have stood well in English. Your friends have all told you howcleverly you write, and how beautifully, and so forth and so forth. You thinkyou can do newspaper work, and you want me to put you on. Well, I am sorry,but there are no openings. If you knew how crowded--""But if there are no openings," she had interrupted, in turn, "how did thosewho are in, get in? How am I to show that I am eligible to get in?""They made themselves indispensable," was the terse response. "Make yourselfindispensable.""But how can I, if I do not get the chance?""Make your chance.""But how?" she had insisted, at the same time privately deeming him a mostunreasonable man."How? That is your business, not mine," he said conclusively, rising in tokenthat the interview was at an end. "I must inform you, my dear young lady, thatthere have been at least eighteen other aspiring young ladies here this week,and that I have not the time to tell each and every one of them how. Thefunction I perform on this paper is hardly that of instructor in a school ofjournalism."She caught an outbound car, and ere she descended from it she had conned theconversation over and over again. "But how?" she repeated to herself, as sheclimbed the three flights of stairs to the rooms where she and her sister"bach'ed." "But how?" And so she continued to put the interrogation, for thestubborn Scotch blood, though many times removed from Scottish soil, was stillstrong in her. And, further, there was need that she should learn how. Hersister Letty and she had come up from an interior town to the city to maketheir way in the world. John Wyman was land-poor. Disastrous businessenterprises had burdened his acres and forced his two girls, Edna and Letty,into doing something for themselves. A year of school-teaching and ofnight-study of shorthand and typewriting had capitalized their city projectand fitted them for the venture, which same venture was turning out anythingbut successful. The city seemed crowded with inexperienced stenographers andtypewriters, and they had nothing but their own inexperience to offer. Edna'ssecret ambition had been journalism; but she had planned a clerical positionfirst, so that she might have time and space in which to determine where andon what line of journalism she would embark. But the clerical position had notbeen forthcoming, either for Letty or her, and day by day their little hoarddwindled, though the room rent remained normal and the stove consumed coalwith undiminished voracity. And it was a slim little hoard by now."There's Max Irwin," Letty said, talking it over. "He's a journalist with anational reputation. Go and see him, Ed. He knows how, and he should be ableto tell you how.""But I don't know him," Edna objected."No more than you knew the editor you saw to-day.""Y-e-s," (long and judicially), "but that's different.""Not a bit different from the strange men and women you'll interview whenyou've learned how," Letty encouraged."I hadn't looked at it in that light," Edna conceded. "After all, where's thedifference between, interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for some paper, or interviewingMr. Max Irwin for myself? It will be practice, too. I'll go and look him up inthe directory.""Letty, I know I can write if I get the chance," she announced decisively amoment later. "I just feel that I have the feel of it, if you know what Imean."And Letty knew and nodded. "I wonder what he is like?" she asked softly."I'll make it my business to find out," Edna assured her; "and I'll let youknow inside forty-eight hours."Letty clapped her hands. "Good! That's the newspaper spirit! Make ittwenty-four hours and you are perfect!" "--and I am very sorry to trouble you," she concluded the statement of hercase to Max Irwin, famous war correspondent and veteran journalist."Not at all," he answered, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. "If you don'tdo your own talking, who's to do it for you? Now I understand your predicamentprecisely. You want to get on the Intelligencer, you want to get in at once,and you have had no previous experience. In the first place, then, have youany pull? There are a dozen men in the city, a line from whom would be anopen-sesame. After that you would stand or fall by your own ability. There'sSenator Longbridge, for instance, and Claus Inskeep the street-car magnate,and Lane, and McChesney--" He paused, with voice suspended."I am sure I know none of them," she answered despondently."It's not necessary. Do you know any one that knows them? or any one thatknows any one else that knows them?"Edna shook her head."Then we must think of something else," he went on, cheerfully. "You'll haveto do something yourself. Let me see."He stopped and thought for a moment, with closed eyes and wrinkled forehead.She was watching him, studying him intently, when his blue eyes opened with asnap and his face suddenly brightened."I have it! But no, wait a minute."And for a minute it was his turn to study her. And study her he did, till shecould feel her cheeks flushing under his gaze."You'll do, I think, though it remains to be seen," he said enigmatically. "Itwill show the stuff that's in you, besides, and it will be a better claim uponthe Intelligencer people than all the lines from all the senators and magnatesin the world. The thing for you is to do Amateur Night at the Loops.""I--I hardly understand," Edna said, for his suggestion conveyed no meaning toher. "What are the 'Loops'? and what is 'Amateur Night'?""I forgot you said you were from the interior. But so much the better, ifyou've only got the journalistic grip. It will be a first impression, andfirst impressions are always unbiased, unprejudiced, fresh, vivid. The Loopsare out on the rim of the city, near the Park,--a place of diversion. There'sa scenic railway, a water toboggan slide, a concert band, a theatre, wildanimals, moving pictures, and so forth and so forth. The common people gothere to look at the animals and enjoy themselves, and the other people gothere to enjoy themselves by watching the common people enjoy themselves. Ademocratic, fresh-air-breathing, frolicking affair, that's what the Loops are."But the theatre is what concerns you. It's vaudeville. One turn followsanother--jugglers, acrobats, rubber-jointed wonders, fire-dancers, coon-songartists, singers, players, female impersonators, sentimental soloists, and soforth and so forth. These people are professional vaudevillists. They maketheir living that way. Many are excellently paid. Some are free rovers, doinga turn wherever they can get an opening, at the Obermann, the Orpheus, theAlcatraz, the Louvre, and so forth and so forth. Others cover circuit prettywell all over the country. An interesting phase of life, and the pay is bigenough to attract many aspirants."Now the management of the Loops, in its bid for popularity, instituted whatis called 'Amateur Night'; that is to say, twice a week, after theprofessionals have done their turns, the stage is given over to the aspiringamateurs. The audience remains to criticise. The populace becomes the arbiterof art--or it thinks it does, which is the same thing; and it pays its moneyand is well pleased with itself, and Amateur Night is a paying proposition tothe management."But the point of Amateur Night, and it is well to note it, is that theseamateurs are not really amateurs. They are paid for doing their turn. At thebest, they may be termed 'professional amateurs.' It stands to reason that themanagement could not get people to face a rampant audience for nothing, and onsuch occasions the audience certainly goes mad. It's great fun--for theaudience. But the thing for you to do, and it requires nerve, I assure you, isto go out, make arrangements for two turns, (Wednesday and Saturday nights, Ibelieve), do your two turns, and write it up for the Sunday Intelligencer.""But--but," she quavered, "I--I--" and there was a suggestion ofdisappointment and tears in her voice."I see," he said kindly. "You were expecting something else, somethingdifferent, something better. We all do at first. But remember the admiral ofthe Queen's Na-vee, who swept the floor and polished up the handle of the bigfront door. You must face the drudgery of apprenticeship or quit right now.What do you say?"The abruptness with which he demanded her decision startled her. As shefaltered, she could see a shade of disappointment beginning to darken hisface."In a way it must be considered a test," he added encouragingly. "A severeone, but so much the better. Now is the time. Are you game?""I'll try," she said faintly, at the same time making a note of thedirectness, abruptness, and haste of these city men with whom she was comingin contact."Good! Why, when I started in, I had the dreariest, deadliest detailsimaginable. And after that, for a weary time, I did the police and divorcecourts. But it all came well in the end and did me good. You are luckier inmaking your start with Sunday work. It's not particularly great. What of it?Do it. Show the stuff you're made of, and you'll get a call for betterwork--better class and better pay. Now you go out this afternoon to the Loops,and engage to do two turns.""But what kind of turns can I do?" Edna asked dubiously."Do? That's easy. Can you sing? Never mind, don't need to sing. Screech, doanything--that's what you're paid for, to afford amusement, to give bad artfor the populace to howl down. And when you do your turn, take some one alongfor chaperon. Be afraid of no one. Talk up. Move about among the amateurswaiting their turn, pump them, study them, photograph them in your brain. Getthe atmosphere, the color, strong color, lots of it. Dig right in with bothhands, and get the essence of it, the spirit, the significance. What does itmean? Find out what it means. That's what you're there for. That's what thereaders of the Sunday Intelligencer want to know."Be terse in style, vigorous of phrase, apt, concretely apt, in similitude.Avoid platitudes and commonplaces. Exercise selection. Seize upon thingssalient, eliminate the rest, and you have pictures. Paint those pictures inwords and the Intelligencer will have you. Get hold of a few back numbers, andstudy the Sunday Intelligencer feature story. Tell it all in the openingparagraph as advertisement of contents, and in the contents tell it all overagain. Then put a snapper at the end, so if they're crowded for space they cancut off your contents anywhere, reattach the snapper, and the story will stillretain form. There, that's enough. Study the rest out for yourself."They both rose to their feet, Edna quite carried away by his enthusiasm andhis quick, jerky sentences, bristling with the things she wanted to know."And remember, Miss Wyman, if you're ambitious, that the aim and end ofjournalism is not the feature article. Avoid the rut. The feature is a trick.Master it, but don't let it master you. But master it you must; for if youcan't learn to do a feature well, you can never expect to do anything better.In short, put your whole self into it, and yet, outside of it, above it,remain yourself, if you follow me. And now good luck to you."They had reached the door and were shaking hands."And one thing more," he interrupted her thanks, "let me see your copy beforeyou turn it in. I may be able to put you straight here and there."Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowled man, bushy ofeyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with an absent-minded scowl onhis face and a black cigar stuck in the midst thereof. Symes was his name, shehad learned, Ernst Symes."Whatcher turn?" he demanded, ere half her brief application had left herlips."Sentimental soloist, soprano," she answered promptly, remembering Irwin'sadvice to talk up."Whatcher name?" Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her.She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure that she hadnot considered the question of a name at all."Any name? Stage name?" he bellowed impatiently."Nan Bellayne," she invented on the spur of the moment. "B-e-l-l-a-y-n-e. Yes,that's it."He scribbled it into a notebook. "All right. Take your turn Wednesday andSaturday.""How much do I get?" Edna demanded."Two-an'-a-half a turn. Two turns, five. Getcher pay first Monday after secondturn."And without the simple courtesy of "Good day," he turned his back on her andplunged into the newspaper he had been reading when she entered. Edna came early on Wednesday evening, Letty with her, and in a telescopebasket her costume--a simple affair. A plaid shawl borrowed from thewasherwoman, a ragged scrubbing skirt borrowed from the charwoman, and a graywig rented from a costumer for twenty-five cents a night, completed theoutfit; for Edna had elected to be an old Irishwoman singing broken-heartedlyafter her wandering boy.Though they had come early, she found everything in uproar. The mainperformance was under way, the orchestra was playing and the audienceintermittently applauding. The infusion of the amateurs clogged the working ofthings behind the stage, crowded the passages, dressing rooms, and wings, andforced everybody into everybody else's way. This was particularly distastefulto the professionals, who carried themselves as befitted those of a highercaste, and whose behavior toward the pariah amateurs was marked by hauteur andeven brutality. And Edna, bullied and elbowed and shoved about, clingingdesperately to her basket and seeking a dressing room, took note of it all.A dressing room she finally found, jammed with three other amateur "ladies,"who were "making up" with much noise, high-pitched voices, and squabbling overa lone mirror. Her own make-up was so simple that it was quickly accomplished,and she left the trio of ladies holding an armed truce while they passedjudgment upon her. Letty was close at her shoulder, and with patience andpersistence they managed to get a nook in one of the wings which commanded aview of the stage.A small, dark man, dapper and debonair, swallow-tailed and top-hatted, waswaltzing about the stage with dainty, mincing steps, and in a thin littlevoice singing something or other about somebody or something evidentlypathetic. As his waning voice neared the end of the lines, a large woman,crowned with an amazing wealth of blond hair, thrust rudely past Edna, trodheavily on her toes, and shoved her contemptuously to the side. "Bloomin'hamateur!" she hissed as she went past, and the next instant she was on thestage, graciously bowing to the audience, while the small, dark man twirledextravagantly about on his tiptoes."Hello, girls!"This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in every syllable,close in her ear, caused Edna to give a startled little jump. A smooth-faced,moon-faced young man was smiling at her good-naturedly. His "make-up" wasplainly that of the stock tramp of the stage, though the inevitable whiskerswere lacking."Oh, it don't take a minute to slap'm on," he explained, divining the searchin her eyes and waving in his hand the adornment in question. "They make afeller sweat," he explained further. And then, "What's yer turn?""Soprano--sentimental," she answered, trying to be offhand and at ease."Whata you doin' it for?" he demanded directly."For fun; what else?" she countered."I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You ain't graftin'for a paper, are you?""I never met but one editor in my life," she replied evasively, "and I,he--well, we didn't get on very well together.""Hittin' 'm for a job?"Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling her brains forsomething to turn the conversation."What'd he say?""That eighteen other girls had already been there that week.""Gave you the icy mit, eh?" The moon-faced young man laughed and slapped histhighs. "You see, we're kind of suspicious. The Sunday papers 'd like to getAmateur Night done up brown in a nice little package, and the manager don'tsee it that way. Gets wild-eyed at the thought of it.""And what's your turn?" she asked."Who? me? Oh, I'm doin' the tramp act tonight. I'm Charley Welsh, you know."She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to her completeenlightenment, but the best she could do was to say politely, "Oh, is thatso?"She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his face, butconcealed her amusement."Come, now," he said brusquely, "you can't stand there and tell me you'venever heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why, I'm an Only, theOnly amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me. I'm everywhere. I could bea professional, but I get more dough out of it by doin' the amateur.""But what's an 'Only'?" she queried. "I want to learn.""Sure," Charley Welsh said gallantly. "I'll put you wise. An 'Only' is anonpareil, the feller that does one kind of a turn better'n any other feller.He's the Only, see?"And Edna saw."To get a line on the biz," he continued, "throw yer lamps on me. I'm the Onlyall-round amateur. To-night I make a bluff at the tramp act. It's harder tobluff it than to really do it, but then it's acting, it's amateur, it's art.See? I do everything, from Sheeny monologue to team song and dance and Dutchcomedian. Sure, I'm Charley Welsh, the Only Charley Welsh."And in this fashion, while the thin, dark man and the large, blond womanwarbled dulcetly out on the stage and the other professionals followed intheir turns, did Charley Welsh put Edna wise, giving her much miscellaneousand superfluous information and much that she stored away for the SundayIntelligencer."Well, tra la loo," he said suddenly. "There's his highness chasin' you up.Yer first on the bill. Never mind the row when you go on. Just finish yer turnlike a lady."It was at that moment that Edna felt her journalistic ambition departing fromher, and was aware of an overmastering desire to be somewhere else. But thestage manager, like an ogre, barred her retreat. She could hear the openingbars of her song going up from the orchestra and the noises of the house dyingaway to the silence of anticipation."Go ahead," Letty whispered, pressing her hand; and from the other side camethe peremptory "Don't flunk!" of Charley Welsh.But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she leaned weakly against a shiftscene. The orchestra was beginning over again, and a lone voice from the housepiped with startling distinctness:"Puzzle picture! Find Nannie!"A roar of laughter greeted the sally, and Edna shrank back. But the stronghand of the manager descended on her shoulder, and with a quick, powerfulshove propelled her out on to the stage. His hand and arm had flashed intofull view, and the audience, grasping the situation, thundered itsappreciation. The orchestra was drowned out by the terrible din, and Ednacould see the bows scraping away across the violins, apparently without sound.It was impossible for her to begin in time, and as she patiently waited, armsakimbo and ears straining for the music, the house let loose again (a favoritetrick, she afterward learned, of confusing the amateur by preventing him orher from hearing the orchestra).But Edna was recovering her presence of mind. She became aware, pit to dome,of a vast sea of smiling and fun-distorted faces, of vast roars of laughter,rising wave on wave, and then her Scotch blood went cold and angry. Thehard-working but silent orchestra gave her the cue, and, without making asound, she began to move her lips, stretch forth her arms, and sway her body,as though she were really singing. The noise in the house redoubled in theattempt to drown her voice, but she serenely went on with her pantomime. Thisseemed to continue an interminable time, when the audience, tiring of itsprank and in order to hear, suddenly stilled its clamor, and discovered thedumb show she had been making. For a moment all was silent, save for theorchestra, her lips moving on without a sound, and then the audience realizedthat it had been sold, and broke out afresh, this time with genuine applausein acknowledgment of her victory. She chose this as the happy moment for herexit, and with a bow and a backward retreat, she was off the stage in Letty'sarms.The worst was past, and for the rest of the evening she moved about among theamateurs and professionals, talking, listening, observing, finding out what itmeant and taking mental notes of it all. Charley Welsh constituted himself herpreceptor and guardian angel, and so well did he perform the self-allottedtask that when it was all over she felt fully prepared to write her article.But the proposition had been to do two turns, and her native pluck forced herto live up to it. Also, in the course of the intervening days, she discoveredfleeting impressions that required verification; so, on Saturday, she was backagain, with her telescope basket and Letty.The manager seemed looking for her, and she caught an expression of relief inhis eyes when he first saw her. He hurried up, greeted her, and bowed with arespect ludicrously at variance with his previous ogre-like behavior. And ashe bowed, across his shoulders she saw Charley Welsh deliberately wink.But the surprise had just begun. The manager begged to be introduced to hersister, chatted entertainingly with the pair of them, and strove greatly andanxiously to be agreeable. He even went so far as to give Edna a dressing roomto herself, to the unspeakable envy of the three other amateur ladies ofprevious acquaintance. Edna was nonplussed, and it was not till she metCharley Welsh in the passage that light was thrown on the mystery."Hello!" he greeted her. "On Easy Street, eh? Everything slidin' your way."She smiled brightly."Thinks yer a female reporter, sure. I almost split when I saw'm layin'himself out sweet an' pleasin'. Honest, now, that ain't yer graft, is it?""I told you my experience with editors," she parried. "And honest now, it washonest, too."But the Only Charley Welsh shook his head dubiously. "Not that I care a rap,"he declared. "And if you are, just gimme a couple of lines of notice, theright kind, good ad, you know. And if yer not, why yer all right anyway. Yernot our class, that's straight."After her turn, which she did this time with the nerve of an old campaigner,the manager returned to the charge; and after saying nice things and beinggenerally nice himself, he came to the point."You'll treat us well, I hope," he said insinuatingly. "Do the right thing byus, and all that?""Oh," she answered innocently, "you couldn't persuade me to do another turn; Iknow I seemed to take and that you'd like to have me, but I really, reallycan't.""You know what I mean," he said, with a touch of his old bulldozing manner."No, I really won't," she persisted. "Vaudeville's too--too wearing on thenerves, my nerves, at any rate."Whereat he looked puzzled and doubtful, and forbore to press the pointfurther.But on Monday morning, when she came to his office to get her pay for the twoturns, it was he who puzzled her."You surely must have mistaken me," he lied glibly. "I remember sayingsomething about paying your car fare. We always do this, you know, but wenever, never pay amateurs. That would take the life and sparkle out of thewhole thing. No, Charley Welsh was stringing you. He gets paid nothing for histurns. No amateur gets paid. The idea is ridiculous. However, here's fiftycents. It will pay your sister's car fare also. And,"--verysuavely,--"speaking for the Loops, permit me to thank you for the kind andsuccessful contribution of your services."That afternoon, true to her promise to Max Irwin, she placed her typewrittencopy into his hands. And while he ran over it, he nodded his head from time totime, and maintained a running fire of commendatory remarks: "Good!--that'sitpsychology's all rightyou've caughtitmissed it a bit here, but it'll go--that's vigorous!--strongpictures! picturesmost excellent!"And when he had run down to the bottom of the last page, holding out his hand:"My dear Miss Wyman, I congratulate you. I must say you have exceeded myexpectations, which, to say the least, were large. You are a journalist, anatural journalist. You've got the grip, and you're sure to get on. TheIntelligencer will take it, without doubt, and take you too. They'll have totake you. If they don't, some of the other papers will get you.""But what's this?" he queried, the next instant, his face going serious."You've said nothing about receiving the pay for your turns, and that's one ofthe points of the feature. I expressly mentioned it, if you'll remember.""It will never do," he said, shaking his head ominously, when she hadexplained. "You simply must collect that money somehow. Let me see. Let methink a moment.""Never mind, Mr. Irwin," she said. "I've bothered you enough. Let me use your'phone, please, and I'll try Mr. Ernst Symes again."He vacated his chair by the desk, and Edna took down the receiver."Charley Welsh is sick," she began, when the connection had been made. "What?No I'm not Charley Welsh. Charley Welsh is sick, and his sister wants to knowif she can come out this afternoon and draw his pay for him?""Tell Charley Welsh's sister that Charley Welsh was out this morning, and drewhis own pay," came back the manager's familiar tones, crisp with asperity."All right," Edna went on. "And now Nan Bellayne wants to know if she and hersister can come out this afternoon and draw Nan Bellayne's pay?""What'd he say? What'd he say?" Max Irwin cried excitedly, as she hung up."That Nan Bellayne was too much for him, and that she and her sister couldcome out and get her pay and the freedom of the Loops, to boot.""One thing, more," he interrupted her thanks at the door, as on her previousvisit. "Now that you've shown the stuff you're made of, I should esteem it,ahem, a privilege to give you a line myself to the Intelligencer people."
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