Life — December 30, 1915 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

“DRE Malice in Blunderland —Up in the Air with the Drama FAtIGUED by her exciting escape from the Surgeons, little Malice still ran as fast as she could. So pre- cipitate was her flight, indeed, that she did not observe her entrance upon Broadway until an explosion of gas from the Subway, occurring as a daily thriller for the evening papers, lifted her, together with several automobiles, pedestrians, policemen and other litter, several hundred feet into the air. “Then this is Broadway!” claimed Malice, remembering descrip- tions she had heard of the region. And upward, upward she continued her flight. “There's only one street like it, kid!” sighed a sentimental voice at her elbow; and, looking around, Malice ob- served that a fattish, elaborately dressed gentleman who had_ been standing by her side at the time the Subway exploded was flying quite near to her, reading a dramatic column from a newspaper as he flew. “It takes my breath away,” Malice volunteered. “ Broadway's always like this—takes away your breath or anything else you happen to have on you. Cute little street!” “You talk like one of the owners,” suggested Malice. “Iam. I'ma Theatrical Manager,” he replied modestly. “Oh!” Malice would have drawn away in alarm had not the situation made such a manceuvre impossible. “You're apparently not used to blowing up,” the Manager observed Patronizingly. “But you'll get to lik- ing it if you stick around the theatrical business. I used to blow up about twice a week until I joined the Syndi- cate. Now I shoot the torpedoes into the other fellows.” “My word! Is Art so savage as all that?” asked Malice, shocked. “Art is hell—just as Sherman said,” the Manager philosophized. “ Y’ know, when you're handling Shakespeare, ex: =| “Tt takes my breath away” Eddie Foy, Bernhardt, Cohan and the Ticket Scalpers, you can’t be refined and highbrowed the way they are in the pork-packing business.” “How can you talk like that about the drama?” she asked, in her concern quite forgetting the speed with which they were still blowing skyward. “If you respect the drama,” he re- plied soothingly, “I'll give you tickets to some of my first nights—that’ll cure you.” “I don't want tickets.” make her manner haughty. “Well, what do you want?” the fat- tish gentleman asked. “ Nothing.” “Impossible! Everybody that talks to a Manager wants something. Per- haps you want to sue me for stealing your play. If so, I have my lawyer with me, so it’s no use.” For the first time Malice noticed a small, bird-faced professional man flying by the Man- ager’s side and making notes on a type- written brief. “Take my advice, ki Never go anywhere on Broadway with- out your lawyer. Can't tell what'll come up—damage suit, divorce, as- sault and battery——” She tried to “T'm not going to sue you,” Malice repeated indignantly. “Well, then, you're after something. Maybe you want to touch me for some money or get a job in the chorus—or are you an interviewer from the Jour- nal?” “T'm just a little girl who happened to get into the same explosion with you by mistake.” Malice’s air was quite candid. “Well, well—you're a freak, by Jove!” whistled the Manager. “If you're a freak, of course you ought to be starred in something. Do you know what ‘starred’ means?” “It means covered with little stars, doesn’t it? “Oh, you're thinking of ‘ dotty,’” the Manager argued. “On Broadway when we say ‘star’ we mean some sort of abnormal actor who gets ten or twelve times the salary he actually receives. I'll make a star of you. Mr. Bobo- link"—(the Manager turned to the Lawyer at his side)—“make out a contract—you know, one of the loop- hole variety—offering Miss Malice $75,000 a year, with a joker in the third clause so she won't get it.” “Joker!” exclaimed Malice. I'm to have a comedy part.” “Well, sort of,” the Manager de- murred, “It will be funny, but the audience won't know it. Watterbrain, my retained playwright, has just the play for a young girl newly entered into the dramatic profession—some- thing to show your freshness and charm. It’s called ‘The Vampire Wife.’ You'll be discovered in three compromising situations in the first act; in the second you take to drugs to forget all; in the third you sell your honor to save your husband's business reputation. Big idea, lots of sex.” “What is sex?” asked she, turning upon him wide, blue eyes. “Sex?” He smiled. “An imagi- nary influence that makes audiences pay good money for bad plays. But if you “Then comicbooks.com