Judge — October 2, 1915 — page 19: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BE T WEEN By C. confessed her past and the question was—would the estimable Mr. Lake forgive her? We were all quite enthralled. The débutante and the critic were arguing in excited whispers about Mrs. Lake’s right to sympathy, when Mr. Lake settled the question by marching out of the house and slamming the door behind him. And, as it slammed, the curtain fell on the third act of “The House of Glass.” “Great act!” said the tired-business-man, with the enthusiasm he would have accorded a first-rate chorus. “Great punch to it!” “Bully!” agreed the suburbanite. Even the critic seemed impressed. Or per- haps he was trying to think of a logical objection. “I'm not usually very strong for this heavy stuff,” said the tired-business-man, “but this show certainly gets you going. Almost as stim- ulating as—as a good, catchy song.” “Reminds me of ‘Within the Law,’ ” said the suburbanite. “Both got melodrama, detectives, and some good comedy. And both heroines are sent to prison unjustly, but come out all right in the end.” The critic shook his head disparagingly. “The play is simply a few sure-fire situations, tied together by some fair dialogue,” he said. “But,” said the suburbanite, “the public doesn’t pay money to see plays, these days. It pays money to sce individual scenes that have become celebrated.” Now the suburbanite knew much more about crosstown cars and commutation tickets than he did about the dramatic unities, but I rather wondered if he hadn’t hit upon the successful feature of the “Within the Law” type of play. The suburbanite was just stupid enough to make clever remarks, now and then. By this time the débutante had discovered that the authors of this play and of “See My Lawyer” were identical. Whereupon her monorail mental process led her to proclaim the fact triumphantly. “This Mr. Marcin must be very versatile,” she said. “But I think he’s better at farces than he is at serious plays. I thought ‘See My Lawyer’ was too sweet and funny for anything.” The tired-business-man groaned. “Why!” said the débutante. comedies.” “I do!” said the tired-business-man. ‘But I hate bad ones! Td rather sce a tragedy—or even Shakespeare—than a bad comedy.” “It must be bad,” said the suburbanite. “I haven’t seen it. I Tes SITUATION was really very tense. Mrs. Lake had just “T thought you liked good A. C U R T ALN 'S was going to go, but I guess I’ll spend an evening at home, instead. It would please my wife. Besides, the lawn needs sprinkling.” The critic, with a scornful glance at the unscholarly suburbanite. observed that a farce need not necessarily be categorical. “Perhaps not,” said the tired-business-man, “but, by George! it’s got to be new! And when the newest line is the old Brooklyn- rubber-plant joke—well, good-night!”” With the exception of the critic, we all agreed that either “See My Lawyer” was doomed to a short run or the public to poor judg- ment. The critic refused to commit himself — which was nothing remarkable for a critic. “You come with me,” said the tired- business-man, “and I'll take you to a good show.” “When?” asked the suburbanite. “Tonight,” said the _ tired-business-man. ***The Midnight Frolic’ at the New Amsterdam.” “Not me!” said the suburbanite. “My midnight frolic will be reading the sporting page in the smoking car of the 11:15.” The tired-business-man turned to the critic. “You'll go, won’t you?” he inquired. The critic shook his head. “How about you?” said the tired-business- man to the débutante. “I'd dearly love to go,” she replied. really think these midnight shows are so perfectly wicked!” “Wicked!” snorted the critic. ‘That’s just it! Look at the crowd! Traveling-men with plaid neckties gleaning high-life stories for credulous Cleveland merchants; perspiring bankers drinking beer and blasé glove clerks sipping cocktails; elderly ladies trying to look wickedly unsophisticated, and provincials who think they’re seeing the worst side of New York life—and they probably are! Bah!” “Well, what of it?” demanded the tired-business-man. don’t go to see the crowd.” “You can’t help seeing it,” replied the critic. “And the per- formance isn’t any better. A pair of tangoing welterweights; two made-in-America ‘apaches’—the female aggressively vampirish, the male annoyingly well-fed; and a chorus of blondes who make mirth about poor old Kankakee, pretend to live there—and probably do. At least they deserve to.” The tired-business-man was rather dazed by the critic’s elo- quence. However, he was about to commence a rebuttal when the male portion of the audience returned from its several cafés, which was a signal for the curtain to rise on the last act of “The House of Glass.” “Ty “You comicbooks.com