“When the evening came there was a very nervous lot of actors behind the impoverished curtain, and even the manager lost a part of his assurance and would have backed out if he dared. But the miners were packed in the house like sardines in a box, and there wasn’t standing room for a fly, so we knew it would not be safe to change the bill on them.
“That performance of ‘Hamlet’ was the rankest parody of a play ever presented to a suffering public. The miners looked on critically and tried to make out what it was all about. The manager, who was chief actor as well, stayed on the stage most of the time himself, getting off time honored gags and trying to put a little go into his embarrassed and indignant company. I was to play the ghost, but not having seen ‘Hamlet’ at that time and having no idea how to dress the part I had covered myself with a sheet and swung the brass drum in front of me. As I’m rather short, my eyes just ranged across the top of the instrument. My cue was to be ‘Who art thou?’ but I was busily engaged in watching the antics of the company.
“They had been a little reckless in their movements and some of the boards near the center of the stage had slipped back, leaving a hole about two feet across. Owing to the drum I never saw this hole. I stood waiting for my cue in the wings, but I was thinking intently of something else when I became conscious that the manager was standing at the other side of the stage glaring angrily at me an shouting ‘Who art thou?’ at the top of his voice.
“Instantly I stepped out, gave the drum a solemn beat at each stride and exclaimed ‘I am thy father’s ghost!” At the same time I unconsciously stepped into the gaping hole in the stage and disappeared like a shot; but the drum remained on top while I was struggling in the darkness to gain a footing and the crowd was shouting in intense delight at this magnificent denouement. The manager rang down the curtain and act first was concluded. They drew me out all covered with bumps and bruises, and while the company roared with laughter and the manager thanked me with tears in his eyes for saving the piece, I tried to collect my wits and discover what had happened.
“But this wasn’t the worst of it. Those cussed miners thought the accident was part of the piece, and during the next act shouted so energetically for the ghost that I was forced to go on and repeat the whole business. The third act was the same way, and when it was over my legs and arms were skinned, one eye was swelled shut, two of my front teeth were missing and every inch of my anatomy was sore. The crowd waited outside to escort me to the boarding house, where they gave me three rousing cheers. ‘Tell you what,’ said one of them to me the next day, as I sat propped up in bed, ‘that air Hamlet is a great show. We sorter wondered why you didn’t want to play it for us, but we understand now, and are grateful to you for givin’ in. If ever your troupe comes here again, an’ you give us Hamlet an’ the ghost, you can have every dollar the town holds!’
“And that,” concluded the actor, with a sigh, as he picked his grip out of the rack and put on his ulster, “is the only time I remember playing a tragic part, and yet my soul yearns for tragedy. Good-by, old man, I get out here. To-night, if you’ll stop off, you’ll see me once more in the grasp of relentless fate, and playing the fascinating part of Marks, the lawyer--for which sin may heaven forgive me!”
Yesterday at the Exposition
YESTERDAY was a busy day at the exposition. The pneumatic cars were discharged from the Lake Front Station at intervals of one minute the entire day, and every carriage was packed. One car, indeed, became inverted, but so rapid was the transit that the passengers were unaware of the fact until they arrived at the terminus at Kenosha Park, when the sudden stopping of the car caused them all to drop upon their heads on the cushioned ceiling, but fortunately no one was injured.
The air ships also carried large crowds to the grounds, and the Chicago Sealed Projectile Company fired projectiles regularly every five minutes, landing each time 1,600 passengers in the rubber receivers at Kenosha without accident. The invention is a great success, and the company is now arranging to fire projectiles regularly to Boston, where there are still enough inhabitants to make the enterprise remunerative. Besides these models of transit, many came from afar in their own motorcycles, while the thousands of motorcycles belonging in Chicago were utilized for the same purpose.
There were many foreign notables at the exposition, including the President of the German Republic, the Governors of Turkey and Armenia, M. Pagliosky of the Russian senate and the President of the Republic of Ireland. It is expected that the President of England will attend Saturday, if she can borrow an air ship from the Republic of Scotland to carry her over. Everyone is disposed to assist poor England since she became so impoverished, and we hope our citizens will endeavor to treat her representative with at least a show of respect while she is our guest.
There are many genuine novelties at Chicago’s great fair. The new chemical fertilizer “Akasa” was exhibited to admiring crowds, and through its use wheat was grown from the seed in fifteen minutes, automatically thrashed, ground and baked in ten minutes longer, and a superb article of bread distributed to the crowd that had watched the seed planted a half hour before. The exhibit of smokeless tobacco attracted much attention, as did also the jagless whiskey, which has recently become so popular.
The new bicycle, which contains the motor in the half-inch tubing that forms the handle bar, was again proved a startling success. It is understood that one has been purchased by Mrs. Strident, the director general of the exposition, for her own use.
The popularity of thought-transference was evidenced by the large number of people who sought the solitude rooms at the government building to receive or dispatch thoughts to friends at home, and it is probable that very soon the telegraph will cease to be used save by the most stupid or material people.
The exhibit of monster gems is very beautiful. These were all discovered by the use of Rontgen’s light, which photographed them as they lay embedded in the bowels of the earth and so enabled the discoverers to dig them out.
The Midway is still attracting many visitors. The band of educated talking orangutangs from Africa divides popular attention with the native of New York, who is puffed up with pride at being the last of that strange race of creatures, who were swamped many years ago by the accumulation of consolidated conceit that overwhelmed the little island of Manhattan.
At the beauty and costume exhibit are a bevy of ladies wearing skirts and corsets, a mode of dress that was fashionable for a long period in the world’s history. Many spectators can scarcely believe that so cramped and unlovely a costume was ever universally adopted by women, as the symmetry of the form is not only disguised thereby, but the discomfort to the wearer must have been great. Still there are authentic records to prove that skirts and corsets were once the accepted mode of dress.
The kinetoscope theaters were well filled, the greatest novelty being a reproduction at the Alhambra of a play presented by an actress named Bernhardt away back in 1896. The intonation of her voice came clearly from the perfected graphophone hidden in the flies, while the figures thrown by the reflecting kinetoscope were lifelike, and proved by their grace of motion that this actress was one of no mean ability.
The illumination in the evening was beautiful, and the sky was aglow with the gorgeous electrical designs displayed from the aerial island suspended over the exposition grounds. These, with the flashing lights of the passenger projectiles and the illuminations from the throng of air ships, made up a delightful scene, while the soft strains of music from the monster phonograph anchored three miles out in Lake Michigan fell sweetly and soothingly upon the ear.
To-day’s edition of THE TIMES-HERALD contains many beautiful day and night scenes at the exposition, photographed in their natural colors.
L. FRANK BAUM.
120 Flournoy Street, Chicago.
[Third Prize, Ofler No.12, Chicago’s International Exposition, A.D. 2090.]
How the Scroggs Won the Reward
Filling the space between two lar
ge building blocks was a little, one-storied office. It was flush with the sidewalk, and upon the large window was painted, in red letters,
MR. DICK ROGERS,
CITY BILL POSTER.
“Mr. Dick Rogers” was himself seated behind the window, a big cigar in his mouth, his feet resting upon the confused mass of papers which littered his desk, and his eyes fixed intently upon his morning newspaper.
From amid the stream of passing vehicles a handsome carriage drew up before the door. Mr. Rogers looked over the top of his paper and watched a gentleman step out upon the sidewalk, followed by a servant bearing in his arms a huge package. This the servant placed upon the table, and returned to the carriage.
“I have come once more to employ your services, you see, Mr. Rogers,” said the caller, in a quiet, dignified voice.
“Just so,” responded the bill-poster, with a nod. “So another year is up, eh? Mercy me! Mow time flies. I’m getting to gauge time by your visits, Mr. Lawrence; you’re as reg’lar as clock-work. Let me see - this is the sixth year, ain’t it?”
“Yes, this is the sixth year. How many times more I shall be obliged to come to you only God knows. I think I should already have abandoned the attempt were it not for my poor wife’s sake.”
His voice trembled a little and he turned a rather appealing and deprecatory glance upon the unmoved face of Mr. Rogers.
“Never say die, sir,” remarked the bill-poster, cheerfully, “I s’pose you’d like ‘em out right away?”
“If you please.”
“Got a boy at liberty right now.” He walked to a rear door, opened it partly and shouted:
“Scroggs!”
“Yep!” answered a clear voice.
“Bag, bucket, an’ brush!” roared Mr. Rogers.
“Right ye are!” came the reply, seemingly from a distant apartment.
Mr. Rogers closed the door and returned to his chair.
“Scroggs’ll do the job beautiful,” he remarked.
“Are you sure he’s reliable?” asked Mr. Lawrence, anxiously; “I am almost afraid to trust this to a mere boy.”
“That’s Scroggs’s strong point - He’s reliable. Hain’t been with me quite a year, but I’d trust him anywheres. Never neglects a likely place, an’ never comes back ‘til the last sheet is posted. That kid’ll make a great man one o’ these days. I shall always give him your job after this, for I know you’ll like his work.”
Mr. Lawrence sighed at this intimation of the fruitlessness of his efforts, and the two men sat silently until the door was burst open and a boy of about ten years entered. He wore a bill-poster’s white jacket and trousers, very much spotted and soiled; a small cap was set far back upon his curly head, and in his hand he bore a canvas bag and a flat paste-bucket with a brush sticking out of the side.
“Here y’ are, Dick,” he announced.
“Promp as a biscuit, ain’t he?” asked Mr. Rogers, casting an admiring look at his small assistant. “Now, Scroggs, this gentleman is very particular about his work. They’re quarter-sheets an’ easy handled, an’ they’re to go in every likely spot you can find.”
“Specials, eh?” said Scroggs, as he stooped over the package, cut the cord and began filling his canvas bag with the sheets.
“Very special, my boy,” said Mr. Lawrence, earnestly. “You’ll not neglect the work; will you?”
Scroggs straightened up and regarded him with a look of pained surprise.
“D’ye know what they calls me, sir? Why, it’s ‘Scroggs, the Reliable!’ I’m proud o’ that. When I turns up my toes, sir, I’m a goin’ to have this cut on my tombstone: ‘Here lies Scroggs, who never missed a stick!’ An’ I won’t neglec’ your work, ‘cause why?’ Cause it would spoil the motter on the tombstone. Then air bills’ll go up full count an’ all right.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and the paste-pot upon his back. Then he bobbed his head at the two gentlemen and passed out the door.
“A strange boy,” said Mr. Lawrence, musingly; “and very young for such work. Are not those bills and the paste too heavy for him?”
“Bless ye, no!” replied Mr. Rogers. “Scroggs likes pastin’. He stops so often, you see, he don’t mind the weight. It were a lucky day for me when old Scroggs, the blind man, died, an’ I got that boy. I’d noticed him leadin’ that old man around as keerful as a kitten, an’ I says to myself, a kid as’ll take that pains with his old dad has good stuff in him — an’ I were right. lie’s sharper ‘n chain lightnin’, too.
Mr. Lawrence settled his bill and re-entered his carriage. The bill-poster relighted his cigar and watched the equipage as it rolled away.
“That duck’s on a regular wild-goose chase,” he reflected, “but that’s no business o’ mine. I expect he’ll be a regular customer for years to come.”
Meanwhile Scroggs pursued his way up one street and down another, leaving a trail of bills wherever he went. They were odd-looking bills, he noticed, with great black letters at the top and considerable descriptive matter at the bottom. Scroggs could not read; he merely knew when the letters were right side up, but that was quite enough for his purpose. He was quick to sec a conspicuous position where a bill would be noticed by the general public, and he never let a good space escape him. Here was one in especial - the broad front of a deserted shop, where the remains of various old bills still fluttered. Scroggs pasted three bills in a row upon the front, and then sat down to rest a minute and admire his work.
“They’re all exactly straight,” he murmured, complacently, “an’ jest the right distance apart.”
Two men, passing by, stopped and read the bills curiously. Then a woman paused to read, and another man, and still another. Several boys joined the group and soon there was quite a little crowd inspecting the posters.
Scroggs smiled. It pleased him to think his work was so effective.
“Five thousand dollars!” remarked a fat man to no one in particular; “that’s a pretty stiff reward.”
There was no reply, and he passed on, his place being quickly filled by another. For the first time Scroggs began to wonder what the bills were about. Usually he was indifferent to the purport of his advertisements, but the remark of the fat man led him to suspect these bills were more important than usual. And the gentleman had told him they were special - very special.
The group slowly melted away; only the boys remained slowly spelling out the printed words. Scroggs looked at the boys critically, and decided he might venture a question.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“Can’t yer read?” demanded the biggest boy.
Scroggs shook his head.
“Well, then, listen,” said the boy patronizingly, “an’ I’ll read it out for yer.”
He followed the lines with his finger and read aloud, slowly, and with some difficulty, as follows:
$5000 REWARD
ENTICED OR STRAYED
From his home, No. 3018 Wellington avenue, on June 2nd, 1890, Kenneth Keith Lawrence, familiarly called “Trotty.” Age, four years and two months. Dark brown hair and eyes; large for his age, able to tell his name, but perhaps not his residence. Wore at the time of his disappearance a white dress with blue sash, blue flannel jacket and straw sailor hat. Was last seen upon the sidewalk in front of said residence listening to the music of a hand-organ played by an old Italian. The above reward will be paid for information leading to the recovery of said Kenneth Keith Lawrence, and all prosecutions will be waived.
JOHN KEITH LAWRENCE
2013 Wellington Avenue.
Sept. 12, 1896.
“There, ye have it,” continued the reader, “an’ I wish I was the kid. Folks as can pay five thousand dollars reward must have money to burn, an’ no mistake.”
Scroggs made no reply; with hands thrust deep into his pockets he was staring blankly at the bills before him. The boys passed on, but still he stood thoughtfully regarding the printed announcement, and paying no heed, for once, to the fact that
half his bills remained unposted.
Another little crowd collected about him; Scroggs retreated across the sidewalk, and sitting down upon his paste-pot rested his head upon his hands and continued to think deeply.
“Another Charlie Ross case,” a man was saying in front of him.
Scroggs suddenly arose and swung his paste-pot over his back.
“I’ll do it,” he muttered, “no matter what comes of it. Why, it’s the rummest go I ever heard tell of, an’ I s’pose I might as well win that five thousan’ dollars as anyone!”
Down the street he marched, and before he had gone a block his face had lost its grave expression and he was again whistling merrily. It was a long walk to Wellington avenue; miles and miles it seemed to Scroggs, and after he had reached the avenue he found that he was still a long distance from No. 2013, and the farther he walked the more imposing and grand were the residences that lined the street. Finally he paused before a large, handsome building, set well back in the midst of a carefully trimmed lawn, and stared thoughtfully over the iron gate. The boy tried hard to decipher the bright brass figures upon the gate, but finally he nodded his head and muttered:
“This is the place, all right; I’m sure o’ that.”
Carelessly shifting his bill-bag to the other shoulder he opened the gate, walked resolutely up the broad walk to the front door, and rang the bell.
The tall servant in severe black who opened the door looked at the miniature bill-poster in amazement.
“Mr. Lawrence in?” demanded Scroggs, meeting the man’s gaze smilingly.
“Yes, he’s in, but I don’t think you can see him.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” returned the boy. “You jest tell him I’m Scroggs, an’ I’ve come to see him ‘bout that kid.”
“What kid?”
“The kid as was lost.”
“Come in,” said the servant, with alacrity: that was the message he did not dare to ignore.
Scroggs entered and sat down in the big hall while the servant departed to speak to his master. The boy eyed the grand furniture with a perplexed air, and then, impelled by some recollection of what was fitting, removed his cap and thrust it into the pocket of his jacket. As he did so, Mr. Lawrence entered and hurriedly approached him.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 860
