Judge — September 17, 1921 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by GARDNER O. REA. “DOT, IT's STRING AT ONC way?” “Wuy, I DON’T KNOW, MY DEAR. FEW seasons ago, a heavy-set A reporter named Arthur Hop- “ kins closed down his desk in a Cleveland newspaper oftice for good for the good of the entire English- speaking people. Not that he couldn't report. As a matter of fact, he had reported as noisily as the loudest of them, but he thought he could do something more important more im- portantly than it was being done. The first thing he did for the Theatre was to take some of the void- villainy out of the two too many a day. Next he took the prop bull by his papier maché horns and ever since he entered the arena he’s been throwing that darned he-cow all over the scenery. It’s a well-known and established fact that when Hopkins moves one of his fresh-painted, kaleidoscopic, eye- ful, towering, self-starting but never- finishing creations into a_ theatre, the House Manager instinctively goes after the “Standing Room Only” sign, drags it up from the cellar, brushes the dust out of its eyes and rivets the thing into the sidewalk where it camps until everybody with- in a million smiles has seen the show often enough to know it well enough to jump in at a moment’s notice and play any of its réles. “The Poor Little Rich Girl” might have been the Poor Little Poor Girl ERFECTLY APPALLING THE NUMBER OF AFFAIRS YOU'RE CARRYING ON! HOW MANY MEN ARE THERE?” Art By Greorce Mrrcuev. if she hadn't fallen for Poor Little Arthur and made him the rich little Arthur who, thus fortified, might go on to bigger and better things. But he came to bury Creesus, not to praise him. Having established himself with his public and hitched his vehicle to a star, he may be termed the As- trologer of the Mimic World. That clever new Kummer (Clare) found in Hopkins a pudgy but help- ing hand to wrap a fresh, cold band- age about the fevered brow of the Tired Business Man; for it was he who dared fire the barrage of Kum- merflage that delighted the poor little rich tribe of first nighties that took McBride and Tyson out of the land of bondage and burnished their domes with the guilt of gold. With the keen, piercing eye of dramatic understanding andthe un- erring wisdom of connoisurety, he brought about the Redemption , of John Barrymore; lifted that stage- ling from the cradle of farce and sat him sumptuously upon the throne of “Richard the Third.” With the “Jest” he won last season’s indoor champion- ship, Robert Edmund Jones covering the back court with flashing bril- liance. He cleaned up last year with Bon Ami. (Or was it Ben Am I?) With Samson and Delilah he trimmed the long-haired strong men of the theat- 17 HOW MANY MEN DO YOU THINK YOU CAN KEEP ON THE Hopkins rical world and brought the house down with every performance. Then. like the indulgent chef he is, he added to the koshered “Samson” the delicate entre “Little Old New York” and threw in for good measure, all but free of charge. that delicious dessert, “The Beggar's Opera.” His little book: “How's Your Sec- ond Act?” in itself would gree benefit the Stage in that it might, if more widely read, take the heart outyof promiscuous playrights and reduce the number to only those whose desire for self-expression is stronger than the need for self- nourishment. Like so many other avoirdupos- eurs, Mr. Hopkins makes his home on the golf links, having moved to Long Island, N. Y., for that purp where he may be readily seen chasing the little pill that has done so much to elude our, marksmanship, hide in the rough and generally ridicule our in- epitude, but-which, in its own little rotundity, reduces ours. He enjoys the game, however, almost as much as he enjoys the theatre and daily delights in being bunkered about from green to green until, darkness overtaking him, he crawls into his golf bag to dream of vivid back drops, perfervid leading-men, vapid soubrettes and rabid stage carpen- ters. comicbooks.com