charged Bat. “You can’t dance.”
“You couldn’t carry a tune in a bushel basket,” charged Wyatt.
They glummed at each other.
“No use belly-aching,” said Wyatt.
“Spilt milk,” said Bat.
“Where do we go from here?”
“Damifino. Trust me—I’ll think of something. What sweats me now is those permits. Not a damn word from Lucca.”
“What sweats me is getting in the papers. Who-all’d you tell who I am?”
“Well, I had to tell Eddie, and he had to tell John Considine. Oh, and Cohan of course. But I asked him to ask everybody not to spill the beans. They won’t. And that’s only three people.”
Al ambled blinking into the spot with paper and pencil.
“Thanks, Al,” said Bat. “Want my autograph?”
“Got yours, Mr. Masterson.”
He turned to Wyatt.
“Can I have yours, Mr. Earp?”
They lined up that night at the tail end of a line outside the stage door of the New Amsterdam on West 42nd. The line was composed of fashionable old ginks hugging big bouquets of roses. Bat muttered to Wyatt that these were so-called “Stagedoor Johnnies,” adding that they should have thought of flowers, too. Wyatt said he couldn’t afford flowers. Bat said he couldn’t either. Then he had an idea, ordered Wyatt to hold place, and bucked the line through the door. Inside, he chinned with Pop, the doorman, who was reading a racing form, about a filly in the fourth tomorrow at Pimlico and inquired, incidentally, who the two gents first in line were waiting for. Pop clammed up. Bat fed him a fiver. Pop vouchsafed the info that the first two gents danced attendance upon Linda Belle Lowe and Dilly Sheldon, both chorines in the cast. Bat said thanks, stepped outside, instructed Wyatt to look grim as hell, and led him along the line to face the two gents at the head, both of whom had chins as bearded as billygoats. He then addressed them as follows:
“You, sir, are waiting for Linda Belle Lowe, are you not? And you, sir, are waiting for Dilly Sheldon, are you not?”
He glowered. Wyatt towered. The gents worked their chins as though chewing on tin cans.
“Gentlemen,” said Bat with marital finality. “Miss Lowe happens to be my wife, and Miss Sheldon is this gentleman’s wife. Just hand over those flowers and get the hell out of here,” he growled, “or our attorneys will have you in court tomorrow morning for alienation of affections. Now you git!”
They got. Shaking and quaking, the old geezers got rid of bouquets and decamped down the line as rapidly as their spavined limbs would take them, while Bat grinned at Wyatt and Wyatt gulped at the gall of it, after which they assumed places at the head of the line, each in possession of a dozen American Beauty roses.
You’d have known who they were if you had straw in your hair and took wooden nickels. In white high-button shoes they tripped through the stage door like twins, having poured themselves into identical long dresses of lavender silk cinched at the waist and ultra-decolleté in front and back, with shawl collars of ecru lace covering their upper arms and white kid gloves their lower arms to the elbows. Before the first two gents in line they hesitated. Pearl chokers circled alabaster throats, while high over each head, its red hair piled and captured in a snood of gold mesh, waved a sensational ostrich plume, one sister’s of pink, the others of pale blue. It was practically the only way to tell them apart, for each had bee-sting lips painted vermilion, cheeks blushed by rouge, and eyelashes laden with mascara. If the two gents first in line did their damndest to look like ding-dong daddies, the young ladies had no wish whatever to dissemble. They were sweet patooties and proud of it. When they warbled “Ireland Must Be Heaven, For My Mother Came From There,” strong men wept. When they chirped and undulated hips to “Aba Daba Honeymoon,” they brought down the house. They could only be the Ginger Sisters.
“Mr. Masterson?”
“You couldn’t carry a tune in a bushel basket,” charged Wyatt.
They glummed at each other.
“No use belly-aching,” said Wyatt.
“Spilt milk,” said Bat.
“Where do we go from here?”
“Damifino. Trust me—I’ll think of something. What sweats me now is those permits. Not a damn word from Lucca.”
“What sweats me is getting in the papers. Who-all’d you tell who I am?”
“Well, I had to tell Eddie, and he had to tell John Considine. Oh, and Cohan of course. But I asked him to ask everybody not to spill the beans. They won’t. And that’s only three people.”
Al ambled blinking into the spot with paper and pencil.
“Thanks, Al,” said Bat. “Want my autograph?”
“Got yours, Mr. Masterson.”
He turned to Wyatt.
“Can I have yours, Mr. Earp?”
They lined up that night at the tail end of a line outside the stage door of the New Amsterdam on West 42nd. The line was composed of fashionable old ginks hugging big bouquets of roses. Bat muttered to Wyatt that these were so-called “Stagedoor Johnnies,” adding that they should have thought of flowers, too. Wyatt said he couldn’t afford flowers. Bat said he couldn’t either. Then he had an idea, ordered Wyatt to hold place, and bucked the line through the door. Inside, he chinned with Pop, the doorman, who was reading a racing form, about a filly in the fourth tomorrow at Pimlico and inquired, incidentally, who the two gents first in line were waiting for. Pop clammed up. Bat fed him a fiver. Pop vouchsafed the info that the first two gents danced attendance upon Linda Belle Lowe and Dilly Sheldon, both chorines in the cast. Bat said thanks, stepped outside, instructed Wyatt to look grim as hell, and led him along the line to face the two gents at the head, both of whom had chins as bearded as billygoats. He then addressed them as follows:
“You, sir, are waiting for Linda Belle Lowe, are you not? And you, sir, are waiting for Dilly Sheldon, are you not?”
He glowered. Wyatt towered. The gents worked their chins as though chewing on tin cans.
“Gentlemen,” said Bat with marital finality. “Miss Lowe happens to be my wife, and Miss Sheldon is this gentleman’s wife. Just hand over those flowers and get the hell out of here,” he growled, “or our attorneys will have you in court tomorrow morning for alienation of affections. Now you git!”
They got. Shaking and quaking, the old geezers got rid of bouquets and decamped down the line as rapidly as their spavined limbs would take them, while Bat grinned at Wyatt and Wyatt gulped at the gall of it, after which they assumed places at the head of the line, each in possession of a dozen American Beauty roses.
You’d have known who they were if you had straw in your hair and took wooden nickels. In white high-button shoes they tripped through the stage door like twins, having poured themselves into identical long dresses of lavender silk cinched at the waist and ultra-decolleté in front and back, with shawl collars of ecru lace covering their upper arms and white kid gloves their lower arms to the elbows. Before the first two gents in line they hesitated. Pearl chokers circled alabaster throats, while high over each head, its red hair piled and captured in a snood of gold mesh, waved a sensational ostrich plume, one sister’s of pink, the others of pale blue. It was practically the only way to tell them apart, for each had bee-sting lips painted vermilion, cheeks blushed by rouge, and eyelashes laden with mascara. If the two gents first in line did their damndest to look like ding-dong daddies, the young ladies had no wish whatever to dissemble. They were sweet patooties and proud of it. When they warbled “Ireland Must Be Heaven, For My Mother Came From There,” strong men wept. When they chirped and undulated hips to “Aba Daba Honeymoon,” they brought down the house. They could only be the Ginger Sisters.
“Mr. Masterson?”
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