Earp.’”
Al pounds the piano as Wyatt backs awkwardly out of the spot.
Silence in the Belasco.
Bat steps in. “He’ll kill ‘em with that, Mr. Considine! Now I’ll do a recitation and pick up the tempo—okeh, Al.”
Al starts a sprightly rendition of the popular “It’s Tulip Time In Holland.”
“Howdy, folks. I’m Bat Masterson, at your service! Now folks, picture a lonesome cowboy out on the prairie tending herd at night and writing a letter to his ladyfriend far, far away. He’s pining for her, and here’s what he might write. It’s called ‘The Cowboy’s Profession of Love.’”
Bat removes his derby, claps it over his heart, and goes down on a knee.
“‘Dearest: My love is stronger than the smell of coffee, patent butter, or the kick of a young cow. Sensations of exquisite joy go through me like chlorite of ant through an army cracker, and caper over my heart like young goats on a stable roof. I feel as if I could lift myself by my boot straps to the height of a church steeple, or like an old stage horse in a green pasture. As the mean purp hankers after sweet milk, so do I hanker after your presence. And as the goslin’ swimmeth in the mud puddle, so do I swim in a sea of delightfulness when you are near me. My heart flops up and down like cellar doors in a country town; and if my love is not reciprocated, I will pine away and die like a poisoned bed-bug, and you can come and catch cold on my grave.”
Al pounds the piano as Bat rises and takes a deep bow. “I’ll have ‘em rolling in the aisles with that, Mr. Considine! It’s sure-fire!”
Silence in the Belasco.
“All right, now for the grand finale, Mr. Considine. You’re gonna love this number—George M. Cohan wrote it for us—that’s right, Cohan himself! It’s called ‘Mr. Earp & Mr. Masterson!’ Okeh, Wyatt.” His partner joins him in the spot. They position themselves side by side, derby tipped, slouch straightened. “Now remember, Wyatt, for God’s sake,” Bat backhands, “left, one two—back, one, two.” He smiles. “Okeh, Al, let ‘er rip!”
Al squints at the sheet and rinky-tinks an intro.
(To PIANO ACCOMPANIMENT)
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON)
“We were faster than corn-plasters with a gun!
We stuck up for the law—
Beat the badmen to the draw—
Before the shootin’ was begun—we won!”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON)
“On the dodge from us they didn’t run so far!
Made their play—got their fill—
Pushin’ daisies on Boot Hill—
In the West we were the best—we wore a star!
We laid ‘em low...
We hung ‘em high...
Like the town of Tombstone we’re too tough to die!”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Wyatt Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Bat Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON, SLOWLY, WITH FEELING, HATS OFF)
“We can’t last—what’s past is past—we’re going gray.
Shed a tear upon our grave—
Tell your children we were brave—
When we’re gone they’ll carry on for the U.S.A....
Tell ‘em how we made our stand—
Bringing JUSTICE to this land—
(UPTEMPO, HATS HIGH, BIG FINISH)
Now we thank you, Ladies and Gents—give us a hand!”
Silence in the Belasco.
Eddie Foy appears out of the dark below the spot.
“I’m sorry, Bat. Sorry, Wyatt. Broken heart for every light on Broadway, y’know.”
“But where’s Mr. Considine?” demands Bat.
“Oh, he pulled out, halfway through the song-and-dance. It’s not a bad turn, just needs some polish. But cheer up—you’re set for tonight with some lulus! You can pick ‘em up at the stage door of the New Amsterdam—the Ginger Sisters!”
“The Ginger Sisters?” said Wyatt.
“Hot-diggety-dog!” said Bat.
Eddie Foy had gone, and they stood in the spotlight like two suitcase troupers who’d just got the hook and tickets to the next town.
“You were right,”
Al pounds the piano as Wyatt backs awkwardly out of the spot.
Silence in the Belasco.
Bat steps in. “He’ll kill ‘em with that, Mr. Considine! Now I’ll do a recitation and pick up the tempo—okeh, Al.”
Al starts a sprightly rendition of the popular “It’s Tulip Time In Holland.”
“Howdy, folks. I’m Bat Masterson, at your service! Now folks, picture a lonesome cowboy out on the prairie tending herd at night and writing a letter to his ladyfriend far, far away. He’s pining for her, and here’s what he might write. It’s called ‘The Cowboy’s Profession of Love.’”
Bat removes his derby, claps it over his heart, and goes down on a knee.
“‘Dearest: My love is stronger than the smell of coffee, patent butter, or the kick of a young cow. Sensations of exquisite joy go through me like chlorite of ant through an army cracker, and caper over my heart like young goats on a stable roof. I feel as if I could lift myself by my boot straps to the height of a church steeple, or like an old stage horse in a green pasture. As the mean purp hankers after sweet milk, so do I hanker after your presence. And as the goslin’ swimmeth in the mud puddle, so do I swim in a sea of delightfulness when you are near me. My heart flops up and down like cellar doors in a country town; and if my love is not reciprocated, I will pine away and die like a poisoned bed-bug, and you can come and catch cold on my grave.”
Al pounds the piano as Bat rises and takes a deep bow. “I’ll have ‘em rolling in the aisles with that, Mr. Considine! It’s sure-fire!”
Silence in the Belasco.
“All right, now for the grand finale, Mr. Considine. You’re gonna love this number—George M. Cohan wrote it for us—that’s right, Cohan himself! It’s called ‘Mr. Earp & Mr. Masterson!’ Okeh, Wyatt.” His partner joins him in the spot. They position themselves side by side, derby tipped, slouch straightened. “Now remember, Wyatt, for God’s sake,” Bat backhands, “left, one two—back, one, two.” He smiles. “Okeh, Al, let ‘er rip!”
Al squints at the sheet and rinky-tinks an intro.
(To PIANO ACCOMPANIMENT)
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON)
“We were faster than corn-plasters with a gun!
We stuck up for the law—
Beat the badmen to the draw—
Before the shootin’ was begun—we won!”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON)
“On the dodge from us they didn’t run so far!
Made their play—got their fill—
Pushin’ daisies on Boot Hill—
In the West we were the best—we wore a star!
We laid ‘em low...
We hung ‘em high...
Like the town of Tombstone we’re too tough to die!”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Wyatt Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Bat Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON, SLOWLY, WITH FEELING, HATS OFF)
“We can’t last—what’s past is past—we’re going gray.
Shed a tear upon our grave—
Tell your children we were brave—
When we’re gone they’ll carry on for the U.S.A....
Tell ‘em how we made our stand—
Bringing JUSTICE to this land—
(UPTEMPO, HATS HIGH, BIG FINISH)
Now we thank you, Ladies and Gents—give us a hand!”
Silence in the Belasco.
Eddie Foy appears out of the dark below the spot.
“I’m sorry, Bat. Sorry, Wyatt. Broken heart for every light on Broadway, y’know.”
“But where’s Mr. Considine?” demands Bat.
“Oh, he pulled out, halfway through the song-and-dance. It’s not a bad turn, just needs some polish. But cheer up—you’re set for tonight with some lulus! You can pick ‘em up at the stage door of the New Amsterdam—the Ginger Sisters!”
“The Ginger Sisters?” said Wyatt.
“Hot-diggety-dog!” said Bat.
Eddie Foy had gone, and they stood in the spotlight like two suitcase troupers who’d just got the hook and tickets to the next town.
“You were right,”
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