The Sorrows of a Show Girl: A Story of the Great "White Way"McGaffey, Kenneth
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The Sorrows of a Show Girl: A Story of the Great "White Way"
McGaffey, Kenneth
Theater -- Fiction
"Oh, heavings! No! For if we did his third wife would hear about it and
then she would knock me to my husband, for you know they are engaged, so
if she hears anything about me you can bet she plays it up strong."
"Well, can't you think of some one else?"
"No, I don't know a soul that is any good but us four. My goodness, I've
got to roll my hoop and do a shopping number, get my hair gargled--I
slept in it last night--and see a sick friend.
"Fate sure does sic tribulations on me at every turn of the road. This
business of hunting employment has got to be so balmy that I snort and
jump sideways every time anybody says 'job.'
"Now that the first of the year has kicked in, I thought everything
would be as merry as a marriage bell, but as yet there hasn't been a
ripple on the water. The only thing that acts as a star of hope to my
miserable existence is a date with a Summer stock that opens the first
of June, and there is a heap of smoke around that. I wish some one would
tip me off to some way of earning an honest living without having to
resort to a sock full of sand or a strong arm. But why be downhearted? I
haven't drunk up all my Christmas presents yet. As a last hope I can
load upon them and get some kind ambulance to drag me up to the dippy
department of some nice hospital. Honest, I am getting so thin that
before long I won't be able to understudy a drop of water in Mr. Hawk's
Hippodrome.
"A nice gentleman presented himself to me on Broadway the other evening
and, after passing the compliments of the season, invited me out to
inhale a young table d'hote. The way I sprang to his side made a leap
for life seem like sinful idleness. And where do you think he took me? I
ask as a friend, Where do you think he took me? To one of those joints
where you get everything from soup to nuts, including a scuttle full of
red ink for thirty-five scudi. I was going to balk and rear in the
harness when he started to lead me up the steps of the foundry, but as I
always maintained discretion is the better part of valor, I'm two-bits
ahead anyway you play it. So I climb into the nosebag without a peep.
Yet--would you believe it?--when that wop came to cash in he shook the
mothballs out of a roll of bills that looked like nine miles' worth of
hall carpet. I had been acting very reserved heretofore, but when he
made this flash he commenced to look like a very dear friend of mine who
had been very kind to me in moments of adversity. I apprised him of the
fact, and the dog had the temerity to pin his pocket shut with a safety
pin right before my eyes. I come to find out later that he was a press
agent. Ain't it scandalous the way the Friars wine and dine the
dramatists every few weeks? I tried to agitate a bunch for the chorus
girls to give a dinner to Ben Teal or William Seymour, but while they
were all willing to be in on the big eat the way they ducked the
financial responsibilities would have made you think it was a
half-salary clause.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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