Watch Yourself Go By

A >> Al. G. Field >> Watch Yourself Go By

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No one seemed to have taken the precaution to buy seats in advance
although all declared they were going. Rarely did the callers leave a
place until those called upon had reserved their seats. It was not long
until the seat sale assured Alfred it would not be necessary to
negotiate a loan.

"I would have helped you out if you had needed the money," declared the
banker, "but I knew we could hustle a bit and fill the house."

The gentleman was a good story-teller. Alfred was in a rare good humor.
He had a fund of stories new to the banker. The fact of the robbery in
Bucyrus was detailed to every business man they called upon. All
sympathized with Alfred. "Bucyrus is a tough town," several remarked.
"You'll never get your money," another declared. "Be more careful if you
ever go there again."

When about to separate, the banker in a kindly manner assured Alfred
that he was only too glad to have been of service to him. He spoke
encouragingly of the future. "If you have a good show, you are sure to
pull through. I wouldn't carry a great amount of money on my person
hereafter if I were you. Be careful. Do not have a repetition of the
Bucyrus affair. How much did they get from you over there?"

"Sixty dollars." The words were scarcely uttered until the banker
bursted into a fit of laughter. Alfred had never been accused of
destiny, but he could not realize what there was in the admission to so
excite the man's mirth. Had the gentleman known what sixty dollars meant
to him at that time, it would not have seemed so funny. From the fact
that Alfred had dwelt so strongly on the theft of his money, with the
constantly repeated statement that "if it had not been for the robbery,
he would have been all right," the moneyed man had gained the idea he
had lost several hundred dollars; hence his mirth.

At Akron the minstrels did capacity business. Warren and Youngstown were
equally satisfactory as were New Castle and Steubenville. Wheeling was
the first city wherein opposition was encountered. Wilson & Rankin's
Minstrels were billed at the Opera House, the Field Company at the Grand
Opera House. When the Wilson & Rankin party started on their parade, the
other company followed in their wake. Wilson shouted to the bystanders
in front of the McClure House, "War! War!"

This opposition embittered George Wilson and for years the two companies
waged a relentless war, which never ceased until Mr. Wilson disbanded
his company. Carl Rankin, who was a Columbus boy and an old friend of
Alfred's called on Alfred. He advised that he was dissatisfied with his
surroundings and a tentative partnership agreement was entered into for
the next season. However, the arrangements went no further as Mr.
Rankin's health failed him rapidly and it was not long until minstrelsy
lost one of the most versatile performers that ever adorned it.

Since the conversation overheard in Ashland, Alfred had not spoken to
the manager of the musical act. The telegraph wires were carrying
messages daily seeking an act to take the place of the dissatisfied one.
At Zanesville, just before the matinee, (Zanesville was the first city
wherein the Al. G. Field Minstrels appeared in a matinee), Alfred called
the manager of the musical act to his dressing room.

"Mr. Turner, it has come to me that you intended leaving this company.
Therefore, I have engaged an act to take your place; you can leave after
tonight's performance, or as soon thereafter as it suits your
convenience."

"Why, Mr. Field, I did not intend to leave your company. Who so advised
you? I never told anyone I intended leaving."

"Now Bob, don't deny it. I heard you say you were going to leave the
company, that you had no confidence in the stability of the enterprise.
Your talk came at a time when I was feeling pretty blue and it hurt.
Judging from your talk you are an undesirable man to have around and I
certainly am glad to dispense with your services."

The man threatened legal proceedings. Alfred was obdurate. The man was
tendered his salary. He refused to sign a receipt. Alfred ordered the
treasurer to give him his money without his signature to a receipt. The
other two members of the act protested vigorously. They presented their
case in this manner: "We were working for Bob. He owned the act. We
like the show; we like you. It's the middle of the season. We are liable
to be idle for months. We don't think we should be discharged for the
threats of Bob. We can't control his mouth. Mr. Field, if you discharge
every performer who indulges in idle talk, you won't have anybody around
you."

"Boys, I do not propose to discharge anyone for idle talk but I won't
keep a traitor in this camp. You remain with the company. I will pay you
the same salary you have been receiving just to play in the band and sit
in the first part."

With varying success the first season progressed. But never a salary day
that the "white specter" did not perambulate. Every obligation met
promptly, a few folks began to take notice of the new show, persons who
had held their faces the other way. The manager was forced to practice
the greatest economy. There was a few weeks around Christmas time when
his shoes leaked. After Christmas he purchased two pair of shoes,
preparing for future contingencies. Smallpox was raging through
Minnesota and Wisconsin, many cities were quarantined. At LaCrosse,
Winona, Rochester and Eau Claire, the people would not go to the
theatre; hence, the show was a big loser. At Hudson, Wis., a big lumber
camp in those days, the gross receipts were the least the company ever
played to--just sixteen dollars--a few cents less than the receipts of
Alfred's first show in Redstone School-house. Alfred requested the
manager of the Opera House to dismiss the audience. The manager refused
to listen to the proposition. He contended it was Saturday night, and
that many would drop in. They failed to drop in or to be pushed in.
However, Alfred has always felt grateful to that manager. No audience
was ever dismissed by the Al. G. Field Greater Minstrels in all the
years of their existence, although an engagement in Atlanta, Ga., was
curtailed.

The company opened to an over-flowing house. The advance sale for the
remainder of the engagement was gratifying. Henry Grady, the famous
journalist and orator, after delivering a speech that electrified not
only the Boston audience that listened to it, but the nation, had died.
Atlanta and the entire south was stricken with sorrow. The minstrel
manager was intimately acquainted with Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady was one of
the promoters of the Piedmont Exposition. Peter Sells was one of Mr.
Grady's admirers, and as a courtesy to him had loaned the exposition a
flock of ostriches; which was one of the attractive features of that
most memorable exposition. Alfred was entrusted with the details
pertaining to the transaction. Mr. Grady had been very courteous to
Alfred. There never was a man who knew Henry Grady that did not admire
his charming personality. Therefore, when Mr. De Give suggested the
engagement of the minstrels end and the theatre be closed out of respect
to the memory of Mr. Grady, Alfred promptly acquiesced.

The closing of this engagement was a sacrifice that Alfred felt greatly
at the time. It meant pecuniary loss that was embarrassing to him, yet
there never was a moment he regretted his action.

It was the beginning of friendships that have endured all the years
since. Not only the success attending his annual visits to Atlanta, but
the associations are of that pleasant character that make a stranger
feel he is in the home of his friends.

Capt. Forrest Adair, one of Atlanta's foremost citizens, journeys each
year to the annual banquets celebrating the birthday of the Al. G. Field
Greater Minstrels. He is as well known and as greatly respected by every
member of the organization as by Alfred.

The first season the profits were not great, although on the right side
of the ledger. The opposition of family and friends continued. "Abandon
the minstrels, go back to a salary." Alfred was considered bull headed,
contrary, without judgment, etc. However, nothing swerved him. He
announced to all he would continue in the minstrel business.

George Knott, (Doc.) and Gov. Campbell were the agents of the Al. G.
Field Minstrels the first season. Gov. Campbell's folks once resided in
Woodville. The citizens united in their endeavors to have him bring his
minstrels to the town. There had never been a minstrel entertainment
presented in the town previously and none since. The hotel man had
undertaken the building of a hall. All sorts of inducements were held
out in the letter received by Alfred. Terms were satisfactorily
arranged, a date scheduled and the minstrels billed to appear in
Woodville.

A narrow-gauge railroad, a train with a disabled engine and a disgusted
minstrel troupe arrived at 3 p. m., six hours late. Charles Sweeny, the
stage manager, came swiftly into the dining room, leaning over Alfred,
he whispered: "There's no stage, no scenery, no seats. Just a bare hall.
No reserved sale. There's--" only thus far did Sweeny get in his
enumeration of his troubles until Alfred was searching for the manager.
He hurriedly inquired of the hotel man as he left the dining room,
without his dinner, as to the place of business of the manager of the
theater. The hotel man gazed at him in blank surprise. Alfred, in his
impatience, did not await an answer. Rushing up the principal street of
the village, he inquired of several persons as to where he could locate
the manager of the theater. Finally the postmaster, in answer to his
impatient questions, said: "You will not find any particular manager as
he ain't got to that yet. He's just built a room and thar's nuthin' in
it. He's at the hotel down yonder." It began to dawn upon Alfred that
the landlord of the hotel was the man he was looking for.

"Lord, young man. If I'd known you was lookin' for me, I'd told you
quicker, who I was. I'm no theater manager."

"But you wrote me you had a theater. I am here with my company ready to
give a performance and you have neither stage nor scenery in your hall.
How do you expect me to put the show on?"

"Why! don't you carry your stage and scenery?" the man asked, in candid
surprise.

"Certainly not. And you should know it. You haven't even got a seat sale
on."

The hotel man began to get excited. "What the hell have I got to do with
selling tickets? If you don't carry your own tickets you're a purty
cheap concern. I don't propose to be brow-beaten by you. If you don't
like the place the road runs both ways out of it." And he walked away
from the minstrel man in high dudgeon.

Seats were borrowed from the Court House, the Methodist Church, the
hotel, anywhere they could be secured. A half dozen carpenters were
working on the improvised stage until the minute the curtain went up.
The dining room of the hotel was converted into a dressing room. After
supper was served the minstrel trunks were placed in the dining room.
Pickles, crackers, ginger snaps, etc., were all in place on the table
for an early morning breakfast. The minstrels ate the tables bare,
ransacked cupboards and sideboards in kitchen and dining room, feasting
and frolicking during the performance.

The bar adjoined the dining room. The minstrels blackened and in their
stage attire, they said to the peg-legged barkeeper: "These are on me;
I've got on my other clothes; I'll settle after the show."

The dressing, or dining room, was about twenty yards from the stage of
the hall. As there was no stage door, (only a front door in the hall),
the minstrel men were obliged to enter by a window. The sash taken out,
leaned against the wall. In the piano chorus of a most pathetic ballad,
both window sashes fell over. The crashing glass brought the entire
audience to their feet. The hall owner stepped over the low footlights
onto the stage, brushing the semi-circle of surprised minstrels to one
side. Disappearing behind the curtain, he reappeared in an instant,
bearing in either hand a window sash with shattered bits of glass
sticking here and there. Crossing the stage, at the instant the
interlocutor announced the singing of the reigning song success,
"There's a Light in the Window for You," placing the sash in front of
the stage, he seated himself.

The stage, or platform, was very low. The sash stuck up several inches
above the footlights. Harry Bulger, in one of his dances purposely
kicked them over again. Down they fell among the musicians. Mr.
Hall-owner was again to the rescue, this time triumphantly bearing the
sash to the rear of the hall.

Alfred looked after the front of the house as well as his stage work.
Remaining at the door until he had barely time to make up, he requested
the hall owner to take tickets until he returned, and not to permit any
to enter without tickets.

The hall man promised not to permit any to enter without tickets. Alfred
sang a song, "Hello, Baby, Here's Your Daddy," the title of it. The
dozen end men, during the chorus, drew from under their chairs large
dolls with blackened faces. Each burlesqued a person handling a baby
awkwardly. As Alfred took his seat his eyes went anxiously to the door.
It was closed. No one entered all the while he was on the stage. At the
end of the baby song, it was customary for Alfred to cast a big ugly
doll, with the words "Here's Your Daddy," into the audience. One of the
company dudishly attired was seated in the audience to catch the doll,
leave the house, pretending to be greatly embarrassed. The audience
usually howled. The baby was flung in the direction of the member of the
company. Unfortunately, it had to pass over the head of the manager of
the hall. Jumping up, reaching into the air much as an expert baseball
player does in pulling down a hot one, he pulled the baby down. Holding
it upside down, he flung it towards Alfred. Anxious to save the scene,
with all his force Alfred flung it towards the young man of the company,
who stood waiting to play his part. But again the hall man jumped
between and caught the baby. By one foot he swung it about his head a
couple of times; the head and arms of the rag doll flew towards Alfred,
striking the stage at his feet. The man holding the legs and all that
part of the baby below the belt, waved it aloft. Meanwhile the audience
was encouraging him with shouts of approval.

Concluding his stage work, hastening towards the door, not even delaying
to change his costume or remove the black from his face, he vigorously
beckoned the hall man to him. Walking towards the door, Alfred poured
forth a torrent of peevish abuse:

"Why, you wrote me all sorts of letters that people were crazy mad for a
minstrel show and there's not fifty dollars in the house."

The landlord doubted this statement. "Not fifty dollars in the house,
huh? Why, there's men in thar," and he jerked his head towards the
audience, "there's men in thar with three hundred dollars in thar
pockets right now. Don't you think you're in a poverty-struck place. Our
people have all got money." Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets,
jingling keys and coins.

"I mean the tickets do not represent fifty dollars so far. I'm in good
and deep and you are the cause of it."

"I find nothing to do business with. I ask you as a last request to
watch the door for me. You leave the door and every jay will walk in."

"Oh no, they won't," interrupted Mr. Hall-man. "They won't get in this
hall without paying."

"Why, what in thunder is to hinder them? The whole town could walk in
without paying one cent."

[Illustration: He Waved the Key]

"I'll be durned if they could," ejaculated Mr. Hall-man, and he waved
the key of the door triumphantly at Alfred. The man had actually locked
the door. When opened, there were some dozen seeking admission. Many
left in disgust.

There was a bill for lights of glass, and numerous drinks at the bar
presented to Alfred. The glass he settled for, informing the hotel man
he did not pay bar-bills. The barkeeper could not recognize any one of
the performers in their street attire.

He assured Alfred "the hull pack of niggers with you jus' drank and
drank and only a few paid. The bill don't amount to much, so far as enny
one of the men is concerned; but one gal, one nigger gal, jus' treated
right and left. If we could get what she owes, I'd let the rest go." The
barkeeper referred to Harry Bulger.

Alfred's great desire was to present his minstrel show in his old home
town, Brownsville. The stage in Jeffries' Hall was too small to
accommodate the minstrels. Therefore, one of Alfred's boyhood friends,
Levi Waggoner, arranged to play the minstrels in the skating rink. Levi
was one of the boys who had stood by the old town through all its
changes and become one of its substantial citizens. Awake to every
business opportunity, he had not only seated the floor space of the rink
but builded circus seats against the rear wall.

Alfred was not in the old town an hour until it became imperative that
he should seek protection from his friends. He delegated one of the
company, one who was noted for his staying qualities, to represent him.
Every man met, no matter how old, claimed to be a schoolboy friend of
Alfred's. "There goes another old friend of Alf's" became a by-word long
before night.

"Spider" Pomeroy, six feet six then, when a boy, (he has grown some
since), celebrated Alfred's return more uproariously than any one person
in the town. Alfred supplied him with a ticket early in the morning. By
noon "Spider" had obtained six tickets, always claiming he had lost the
other one. When the doors opened, "Spider" ran over the small boys in
his way, brushed the ticket taker aside, entering without a ticket he
perched himself on the top of Lee Wagoner's improvised circus seats, his
legs doubled up until his knees stuck up on either side above his head
like a grasshopper.

He sat through the first part. The minstrel with the staying qualities
was laboring with a monologue. "Spider", after his strenuous day, was
sleeping off his exuberance. At the dullest part in the monologist's
offering, "Spider" let go all holds. The skating rink was built on
piles, over the river's bank. One walking on the floor, their footsteps
awakened echoes. When "Spider" hit that floor--and he hit it with all
his frame--legs, arms, feet and head, all at one time, it sounded as if
the building had collapsed. All were on their feet looking towards the
back of the rink. As "Spider" lit, the monologist shouted: "There goes
another old friend of Alf's." It came in pat. The audience grasped it
and the monologist established a reputation for originality. "There goes
another old friend of Alf's" is a common saying in Brownsville until
this day.

The property man that first season was a German, new in the minstrel
game. He is now a capitalist and probably would not relish the
disclosing of his name.

Chas. Sweeny, the stage manager, was a stickler for realism. In the
burlesque of "The Lime Kiln Club," one climax was the sound of a cat
fight on the roof. The cats were supposed to fall through the skylight.
Every member of the lodge was supposed to have his dog with him--colored
people are fond of dogs. When the cats fall into the lodge room, every
dog goes after them. Fake, or dummy cats were prepared for the scene
and used during rehearsals. The first night Sweeny ordered Gus, the
property man, to procure two live cats. Gus, stationed on a very high
step-ladder in the wings, at the cue was to throw the cats on the stage.
Gus was heard to remark: "You all better hurry or send some von to
manage one of dese cats." The cat fight was heard on the roof. The glass
in the skylight was heard to break. The cats were, with great
difficulty, flung by Gus. They clawed and held onto him. The long
step-ladder was rocking like a slender tree in a gale. One cat left the
hands of Gus, alighting with all four feet on Sweeny's neck, with a
spring that sent it out over the heads of the orchestra to the fourth or
fifth row in the parquet. The cat left its marks on Sweeny's neck and
the scars are there today as plain as twenty-seven years ago. As Gus
flung the second cat the exertion was too much for him. He followed on
the step-ladder, overturning Brother Gardner and the stove. Three dogs
pounced upon Gus as he rolled over and over on the floor. Three of the
largest dogs had followed the first cat over the heads of the orchestra,
and a stampede of the audience was in progress, the dogs and cats under
the feet of men and women, who were jumping on chairs or rushing towards
the exits. The curtain went down without the humorous dialogue that
usually terminated the scene.

"Mr. President: I moves you, sir, dat no member ob dis club hyaraftuh be
admitted wid more'n three dogs."

Alfred put his shoulder to the wheel wherever and whenever a push or a
pull was required. Night after night, he assisted the stage hands in
hustling effects from the theatre to the train. On one occasion the
train was scheduled to leave in a very short time after the curtain
fell. Alfred, without changing his stage clothes, busied himself
assisting the stage hands. Gus, the property man, flung Alfred's
clothing into his trunk, not observing they were his street apparel
instead of stage costumes. The trunk was sent to the depot. When Alfred
prepared to follow he was minus everything except a large pair of
shoes, thin pants, long stockings and undershirt. There was no time to
be lost; grabbing up a large piece of carpet, Alfred wound it around
himself and started for the depot on a run.

Doc Quigley, Arthur Rigby and several of the company stationed
themselves along his route to the depot, hiding in the shadows of
doorways. One after another shouted: "Good-bye, Al, good-bye old boy.
You've got the best show ever. Come back again. Your show's great."

[Illustration: "Good-bye Al, Old Boy"]

"All right boys, good-bye. I'll be with you next season," shouted the
hustling minstrel as he sped for the train. Alfred was completely
deceived. He imagined the compliments were coming from the towns-people.

The German property man, whose mistake was responsible for Alfred's
grotesque appearance, was stationed by the jokers behind a fence near
the depot. As Alfred hove in sight with the old rag carpet flapping
around his form, Gus shouted: "Goot bye, Mr. Fieldt. Goot luck. Your
show iz great. Kum unt see us agen. I hope your show will be here nexdt
season."

"It will be, but you won't be with it, you dutch son of a gun." Alfred
had recognized the voice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Into the city during the day,
Back to the country at eventide,
Courting the charm of the simple way,
Casting the tumult of greed aside.

"He is the happiest man who best appreciates his happiness. Happiness
comes to him who does not seek it."

"Well, you've got there. I was opposed to your goin' into the minstrel
business. It's not good to argue agin anything a young man sets his mind
on. I figured if you got knocked out, you'd be able to come back agin.
I'd rather seed you in the circus business, but say, boy, if this show
of yours ain't a Jim Dandy. Are you making any money?"

"Well, I have made money, Uncle Henry, but I'm investing it in my
business as fast as I earn it. You see the minstrel business is
changing. The basis of minstrelsy will always be that which it is and
has been, but you can't hand them the same things they've been accepting
the past forty years and expect them to enjoy and buy it. The farce
comedy, the musical show are virtually minstrel shows. Based upon music
and dancing, they produce about the same stuff the minstrels do."

"Well Alfred, we hear a great deal about the old black-face minstrels.
Some people say they like them best."

"That's true, Uncle Henry. You can't gainsay it. Some people like the
old-fashioned cooking the best. But the public, the majority demand
something different. Even if they eat the same sort of food they ate
when younger, they demand it be served differently. Let me call your
attention to this fact: Every manager that has endeavored to present an
old-time, black-face minstrel show in late years has failed. The
old-time minstrel show, like the one-ring circus, is pleasant to dream
of, pleasant to talk of, but not profitable to present. Two friends were
responsible for my decision to put on a simon-pure, old-time minstrel
show. I engaged the best talent procurable, costumed the show in
conformity with the ideas of my friends. It was the least profitable of
any season since my first year; or it would have been had I continued. I
changed my entire show in the middle of the season, going back to the
black-face comedians, white-face singers.

"The minstrels in all climes have sung their songs of love and war. Even
in the days of the ancients there were minstrels who sang the news of
the times to the gaping multitudes in the streets and market places. In
fact, David, with his harp of a thousand strings, whose voice charmed
King Saul and his court, was the first minstrel. I can fully understand
why a minstrel, an American minstrel, singing a plantation melody to his
dusky dulcinea, should have a blackened face, but why a man blackened as
a negro should sing of 'My Sister's Golden Hair,' or 'Mother's Eyes of
Blue,' is too incongruous for even argument's sake."

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