The elevator boy smiled knowingly to himself. When he took her up,
he had noted the sparkle in her eyes, the color in her cheeks.
His little cage had quite warmed with the glow of her repressed
eagerness. And now, on the down trip, it was glacier-like. The
sparkle and the color were gone. She was frowning, and what little
he could see of her eyes was cold and steel-gray. Oh, he knew the
symptoms, he did. He was an observer, and he knew it, too, and some
day, when he was big enough, he was going to be a reporter, sure.
And in the meantime he studied the procession of life as it streamed
up and down eighteen sky-scraper floors in his elevator car. He slid
the door open for her sympathetically and watched her trip
determinedly out into the street.
There was a robustness in her carriage which came of the soil rather
than of the city pavement. But it was a robustness in a finer than
the wonted sense, a vigorous daintiness, it might be called, which
gave an impression of virility with none of the womanly left out. It
told of a heredity of seekers and fighters, of people that worked
stoutly with head and hand, of ghosts that reached down out of the
misty past and moulded and made her to be a doer of things.
But she was a little angry, and a great deal hurt. "I can guess what
you would tell me," the editor had kindly but firmly interrupted her
lengthy preamble in the long-looked-forward-to interview just ended.
"And you have told me enough," he had gone on (heartlessly, she was
sure, as she went over the conversation in its freshness). "You have
done no newspaper work. You are undrilled, undisciplined, unhammered
into shape. You have received a high-school education, and possibly
topped it off with normal school or college. You have stood well in
English. Your friends have all told you how cleverly you write, and
how beautifully, and so forth and so forth. You think you can do
newspaper work, and you want me to put you on. Well, I am sorry, but
there are no openings. If you knew how crowded--"
"But if there are no openings," she had interrupted, in turn, "how
did those who are in, get in? How am I to show that I am eligible to
get in?"
"They made themselves indispensable," was the terse response. "Make
yourself indispensable."
"But how can I, if I do not get the chance?"
"Make your chance."
"But how?" she had insisted, at the same time privately deeming him
a most unreasonable man.
"How? That is your business, not mine," he said conclusively, rising
in token that the interview was at an end. "I must inform you, my
dear young lady, that there have been at least eighteen other
aspiring young ladies here this week, and that I have not the time
to tell each and every one of them how. The function I perform on
this paper is hardly that of instructor in a school of journalism."
She caught an outbound car, and ere she descended from it she had
conned the conversation over and over again. "But how?" she repeated
to herself, as she climbed the three flights of stairs to the rooms
where she and her sister "bach'ed." "But how?" And so she continued
to put the interrogation, for the stubborn Scotch blood, though many
times removed from Scottish soil, was still strong in her. And,
further, there was need that she should learn how. Her sister Letty
and she had come up from an interior town to the city to make their
way in the world. John Wyman was land-poor. Disastrous business
enterprises had burdened his acres and forced his two girls, Edna
and Letty, into doing something for themselves. A year of
school-teaching and of night-study of shorthand and typewriting had
capitalized their city project and fitted them for the venture,
which same venture was turning out anything but successful. The city
seemed crowded with inexperienced stenographers and typewriters, and
they had nothing but their own inexperience to offer. Edna's secret
ambition had been journalism; but she had planned a clerical
position first, so that she might have time and space in which to
determine where and on what line of journalism she would embark. But
the clerical position had not been forthcoming, either for Letty or
her, and day by day their little hoard dwindled, though the room
rent remained normal and the stove consumed coal with undiminished
voracity. And it was a slim little hoard by now.
"There's Max Irwin," Letty said, talking it over. "He's a journalist
with a national reputation. Go and see him, Ed. He knows how, and he
should be able to tell you how."
"But I don't know him," Edna objected.
"No more than you knew the editor you saw to-day."
"Y-e-s," (long and judicially), "but that's different."
"Not a bit different from the strange men and women you'll interview
when you've learned how," Letty encouraged.
"I hadn't looked at it in that light," Edna conceded. "After all,
where's the difference between interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for some
paper, or interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for myself? It will be
practice, too. I'll go and look him up in the directory."
"Letty, I know I can write if I get the chance," she announced
decisively a moment later. "I just FEEL that I have the feel of it,
if you know what I mean."
And Letty knew and nodded. "I wonder what he is like?" she asked
softly.
"I'll make it my business to find out," Edna assured her; "and I'll
let you know inside forty-eight hours."
Letty clapped her hands. "Good! That's the newspaper spirit! Make it
twenty-four hours and you are perfect!"
"--and I am very sorry to trouble you," she concluded the statement
of her case to Max Irwin, famous war correspondent and veteran
journalist.
"Not at all," he answered, with a deprecatory wave of the hand.
"If you don't do your own talking, who's to do it for you? Now
I understand your predicament precisely. You want to get on the
Intelligencer, you want to get in at once, and you have had no
previous experience. In the first place, then, have you any pull?
There are a dozen men in the city, a line from whom would be an
open-sesame. After that you would stand or fall by your own ability.
There's Senator Longbridge, for instance, and Claus Inskeep the
street-car magnate, and Lane, and McChesney--" He paused, with voice
suspended.
"I am sure I know none of them," she answered despondently.
"It's not necessary. Do you know any one that knows them? or any one
that knows any one else that knows them?"
Edna shook her head.
"Then we must think of something else," he went on, cheerfully.
"You'll have to do something yourself. Let me see."
He stopped and thought for a moment, with closed eyes and wrinkled
forehead. She was watching him, studying him intently, when his blue
eyes opened with a snap and his face suddenly brightened.
"I have it! But no, wait a minute."
And for a minute it was his turn to study her. And study her he did,
till she could feel her cheeks flushing under his gaze.
"You'll do, I think, though it remains to be seen," he said
enigmatically. "It will show the stuff that's in you, besides, and
it will be a better claim upon the Intelligencer people than all the
lines from all the senators and magnates in the world. The thing for
you is to do Amateur Night at the Loops."
"I--I hardly understand," Edna said, for his suggestion conveyed no
meaning to her. "What are the 'Loops'? and what is 'Amateur Night'?"
"I forgot you said you were from the interior. But so much the
better, if you've only got the journalistic grip. It will be a first
impression, and first impressions are always unbiased, unprejudiced,
fresh, vivid. The Loops are out on the rim of the city, near the
Park,--a place of diversion. There's a scenic railway, a water
toboggan slide, a concert band, a theatre, wild animals, moving
pictures, and so forth and so forth. The common people go there to
look at the animals and enjoy themselves, and the other people go
there to enjoy themselves by watching the common people enjoy
themselves. A democratic, fresh-air-breathing, frolicking affair,
that's what the Loops are.
"But the theatre is what concerns you. It's vaudeville. One turn
follows another--jugglers, acrobats, rubber-jointed wonders,
fire-dancers, coon-song artists, singers, players, female
impersonators, sentimental soloists, and so forth and so forth.
These people are professional vaudevillists. They make their living
that way. Many are excellently paid. Some are free rovers, doing a
turn wherever they can get an opening, at the Obermann, the Orpheus,
the Alcatraz, the Louvre, and so forth and so forth. Others cover
circuit pretty well all over the country. An interesting phase of
life, and the pay is big enough to attract many aspirants.
"Now the management of the Loops, in its bid for popularity,
instituted what is called 'Amateur Night'; that is to say, twice
a week, after the professionals have done their turns, the stage
is given over to the aspiring amateurs. The audience remains to
criticise. The populace becomes the arbiter of art--or it thinks it
does, which is the same thing; and it pays its money and is well
pleased with itself, and Amateur Night is a paying proposition to
the management.
"But the point of Amateur Night, and it is well to note it, is that
these amateurs are not really amateurs. They are paid for doing
their turn. At the best, they may be termed 'professional amateurs.'
It stands to reason that the management could not get people to face
a rampant audience for nothing, and on such occasions the audience
certainly goes mad. It's great fun--for the audience. But the thing
for you to do, and it requires nerve, I assure you, is to go out,
make arrangements for two turns, (Wednesday and Saturday nights,
I believe), do your two turns, and write it up for the Sunday
Intelligencer."
"But--but," she quavered, "I--I--" and there was a suggestion of
disappointment and tears in her voice.
"I see," he said kindly. "You were expecting something else,
something different, something better. We all do at first. But
remember the admiral of the Queen's Na-vee, who swept the floor and
polished up the handle of the big front door. You must face the
drudgery of apprenticeship or quit right now. What do you say?"
The abruptness with which he demanded her decision startled her. As
she faltered, she could see a shade of disappointment beginning to
darken his face.
"In a way it must be considered a test," he added encouragingly. "A
severe one, but so much the better. Now is the time. Are you game?"
"I'll try," she said faintly, at the same time making a note of the
directness, abruptness, and haste of these city men with whom she
was coming in contact.
"Good! Why, when I started in, I had the dreariest, deadliest
details imaginable. And after that, for a weary time, I did the
police and divorce courts. But it all came well in the end and did
me good. You are luckier in making your start with Sunday work. It's
not particularly great. What of it? Do it. Show the stuff you're
made of, and you'll get a call for better work--better class and
better pay. Now you go out this afternoon to the Loops, and engage
to do two turns."
"But what kind of turns can I do?" Edna asked dubiously.
"Do? That's easy. Can you sing? Never mind, don't need to sing.
Screech, do anything--that's what you're paid for, to afford
amusement, to give bad art for the populace to howl down. And when
you do your turn, take some one along for chaperon. Be afraid of no
one. Talk up. Move about among the amateurs waiting their turn, pump
them, study them, photograph them in your brain. Get the atmosphere,
the color, strong color, lots of it. Dig right in with both hands,
and get the essence of it, the spirit, the significance. What does
it mean? Find out what it means. That's what you're there for.
That's what the readers of the Sunday Intelligencer want to know.
"Be terse in style, vigorous of phrase, apt, concretely apt, in
similitude. Avoid platitudes and commonplaces. Exercise selection.
Seize upon things salient, eliminate the rest, and you have
pictures. Paint those pictures in words and the Intelligencer will
have you. Get hold of a few back numbers, and study the Sunday
Intelligencer feature story. Tell it all in the opening paragraph
as advertisement of contents, and in the contents tell it all over
again. Then put a snapper at the end, so if they're crowded for
space they can cut off your contents anywhere, reattach the snapper,
and the story will still retain form. There, that's enough. Study
the rest out for yourself."
They both rose to their feet, Edna quite carried away by his
enthusiasm and his quick, jerky sentences, bristling with the things
she wanted to know.
"And remember, Miss Wyman, if you're ambitious, that the aim and end
of journalism is not the feature article. Avoid the rut. The feature
is a trick. Master it, but don't let it master you. But master it
you must; for if you can't learn to do a feature well, you can never
expect to do anything better. In short, put your whole self into it,
and yet, outside of it, above it, remain yourself, if you follow me.
And now good luck to you."
They had reached the door and were shaking hands.
"And one thing more," he interrupted her thanks, "let me see your
copy before you turn it in. I may be able to put you straight here
and there."
Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowled
man, bushy of eyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with an
absent-minded scowl on his face and a black cigar stuck in the midst
thereof. Symes was his name, she had learned, Ernst Symes.
"Whatcher turn?" he demanded, ere half her brief application had
left her lips.
"Sentimental soloist, soprano," she answered promptly, remembering
Irwin's advice to talk up.
"Whatcher name?" Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her.
She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure
that she had not considered the question of a name at all.
"Any name? Stage name?" he bellowed impatiently.
"Nan Bellayne," she invented on the spur of the moment.
"B-e-l-l-a-y-n-e. Yes, that's it."
He scribbled it into a notebook. "All right. Take your turn
Wednesday and Saturday."
"How much do I get?" Edna demanded.
"Two-an'-a-half a turn. Two turns, five. Getcher pay first Monday
after second turn."
And without the simple courtesy of "Good day," he turned his back on
her and plunged into the newspaper he had been reading when she
entered.
Edna came early on Wednesday evening, Letty with her, and in a
telescope basket her costume--a simple affair. A plaid shawl
borrowed from the washerwoman, a ragged scrubbing skirt borrowed
from the charwoman, and a gray wig rented from a costumer for
twenty-five cents a night, completed the outfit; for Edna had
elected to be an old Irishwoman singing broken-heartedly after her
wandering boy.
Though they had come early, she found everything in uproar. The main
performance was under way, the orchestra was playing and the
audience intermittently applauding. The infusion of the amateurs
clogged the working of things behind the stage, crowded the
passages, dressing rooms, and wings, and forced everybody into
everybody else's way. This was particularly distasteful to the
professionals, who carried themselves as befitted those of a higher
caste, and whose behavior toward the pariah amateurs was marked by
hauteur and even brutality. And Edna, bullied and elbowed and shoved
about, clinging desperately to her basket and seeking a dressing
room, took note of it all.
A dressing room she finally found, jammed with three other amateur
"ladies," who were "making up" with much noise, high-pitched voices,
and squabbling over a lone mirror. Her own make-up was so simple
that it was quickly accomplished, and she left the trio of ladies
holding an armed truce while they passed judgment upon her. Letty
was close at her shoulder, and with patience and persistence they
managed to get a nook in one of the wings which commanded a view of
the stage.
A small, dark man, dapper and debonair, swallow-tailed and
top-hatted, was waltzing about the stage with dainty, mincing steps,
and in a thin little voice singing something or other about somebody
or something evidently pathetic. As his waning voice neared the end
of the lines, a large woman, crowned with an amazing wealth of blond
hair, thrust rudely past Edna, trod heavily on her toes, and shoved
her contemptuously to the side. "Bloomin' hamateur!" she hissed as
she went past, and the next instant she was on the stage, graciously
bowing to the audience, while the small, dark man twirled
extravagantly about on his tiptoes.
"Hello, girls!"
This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in every
syllable, close in her ear, caused Edna to give a startled little
jump. A smooth-faced, moon-faced young man was smiling at her
good-naturedly. His "make-up" was plainly that of the stock tramp
of the stage, though the inevitable whiskers were lacking.
"Oh, it don't take a minute to slap'm on," he explained, divining
the search in her eyes and waving in his hand the adornment in
question. "They make a feller sweat," he explained further. And
then, "What's yer turn?"
"Soprano--sentimental," she answered, trying to be offhand and at
ease.
"Whata you doin' it for?" he demanded directly.
"For fun; what else?" she countered.
"I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You
ain't graftin' for a paper, are you?"
"I never met but one editor in my life," she replied evasively, "and
I, he--well, we didn't get on very well together."
"Hittin' 'm for a job?"
Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling her
brains for something to turn the conversation.
"What'd he say?"
"That eighteen other girls had already been there that week."
"Gave you the icy mit, eh?" The moon-faced young man laughed and
slapped his thighs. "You see, we're kind of suspicious. The Sunday
papers 'd like to get Amateur Night done up brown in a nice little
package, and the manager don't see it that way. Gets wild-eyed at
the thought of it."
"And what's your turn?" she asked.
"Who? me? Oh, I'm doin' the tramp act tonight. I'm Charley Welsh,
you know."
She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to
her complete enlightenment, but the best she could do was to say
politely, "Oh, is that so?"
She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his
face, but concealed her amusement.
"Come, now," he said brusquely, "you can't stand there and tell me
you've never heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why,
I'm an Only, the Only amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me.
I'm everywhere. I could be a professional, but I get more dough out
of it by doin' the amateur."
"But what's an 'Only'?" she queried. "I want to learn."
"Sure," Charley Welsh said gallantly. "I'll put you wise. An 'Only'
is a nonpareil, the feller that does one kind of a turn better'n any
other feller. He's the Only, see?"
And Edna saw.
"To get a line on the biz," he continued, "throw yer lamps on me.
I'm the Only all-round amateur. To-night I make a bluff at the tramp
act. It's harder to bluff it than to really do it, but then it's
acting, it's amateur, it's art. See? I do everything, from Sheeny
monologue to team song and dance and Dutch comedian. Sure, I'm
Charley Welsh, the Only Charley Welsh."
And in this fashion, while the thin, dark man and the large, blond
woman warbled dulcetly out on the stage and the other professionals
followed in their turns, did Charley Welsh put Edna wise, giving her
much miscellaneous and superfluous information and much that she
stored away for the Sunday Intelligencer.
"Well, tra la loo," he said suddenly. "There's his highness chasin'
you up. Yer first on the bill. Never mind the row when you go on.
Just finish yer turn like a lady."
It was at that moment that Edna felt her journalistic ambition
departing from her, and was aware of an overmastering desire to be
somewhere else. But the stage manager, like an ogre, barred her
retreat. She could hear the opening bars of her song going up from
the orchestra and the noises of the house dying away to the silence
of anticipation.
"Go ahead," Letty whispered, pressing her hand; and from the other
side came the peremptory "Don't flunk!" of Charley Welsh.
But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she leaned weakly
against a shift scene. The orchestra was beginning over again, and
a lone voice from the house piped with startling distinctness:
"Puzzle picture! Find Nannie!"
A roar of laughter greeted the sally, and Edna shrank back. But the
strong hand of the manager descended on her shoulder, and with a
quick, powerful shove propelled her out on to the stage. His hand
and arm had flashed into full view, and the audience, grasping the
situation, thundered its appreciation. The orchestra was drowned out
by the terrible din, and Edna could see the bows scraping away
across the violins, apparently without sound. It was impossible for
her to begin in time, and as she patiently waited, arms akimbo and
ears straining for the music, the house let loose again (a favorite
trick, she afterward learned, of confusing the amateur by preventing
him or her from hearing the orchestra).
But Edna was recovering her presence of mind. She became aware, pit
to dome, of a vast sea of smiling and fun-distorted faces, of vast
roars of laughter, rising wave on wave, and then her Scotch blood
went cold and angry. The hard-working but silent orchestra gave her
the cue, and, without making a sound, she began to move her lips,
stretch forth her arms, and sway her body, as though she were really
singing. The noise in the house redoubled in the attempt to drown
her voice, but she serenely went on with her pantomime. This seemed
to continue an interminable time, when the audience, tiring of
its prank and in order to hear, suddenly stilled its clamor, and
discovered the dumb show she had been making. For a moment all was
silent, save for the orchestra, her lips moving on without a sound,
and then the audience realized that it had been sold, and broke out
afresh, this time with genuine applause in acknowledgment of her
victory. She chose this as the happy moment for her exit, and with a
bow and a backward retreat, she was off the stage in Letty's arms.
The worst was past, and for the rest of the evening she moved about
among the amateurs and professionals, talking, listening, observing,
finding out what it meant and taking mental notes of it all. Charley
Welsh constituted himself her preceptor and guardian angel, and so
well did he perform the self-allotted task that when it was all over
she felt fully prepared to write her article. But the proposition
had been to do two turns, and her native pluck forced her to live up
to it. Also, in the course of the intervening days, she discovered
fleeting impressions that required verification; so, on Saturday,
she was back again, with her telescope basket and Letty.
The manager seemed looking for her, and she caught an expression of
relief in his eyes when he first saw her. He hurried up, greeted
her, and bowed with a respect ludicrously at variance with his
previous ogre-like behavior. And as he bowed, across his shoulders
she saw Charley Welsh deliberately wink.
But the surprise had just begun. The manager begged to be introduced
to her sister, chatted entertainingly with the pair of them, and
strove greatly and anxiously to be agreeable. He even went so far as
to give Edna a dressing room to herself, to the unspeakable envy of
the three other amateur ladies of previous acquaintance. Edna was
nonplussed, and it was not till she met Charley Welsh in the passage
that light was thrown on the mystery.
"Hello!" he greeted her. "On Easy Street, eh? Everything slidin'
your way."
She smiled brightly.
"Thinks yer a female reporter, sure. I almost split when I saw'm
layin' himself out sweet an' pleasin'. Honest, now, that ain't yer
graft, is it?"
"I told you my experience with editors," she parried. "And honest
now, it was honest, too."
But the Only Charley Welsh shook his head dubiously. "Not that I
care a rap," he declared. "And if you are, just gimme a couple of
lines of notice, the right kind, good ad, you know. And if yer not,
why yer all right anyway. Yer not our class, that's straight."
After her turn, which she did this time with the nerve of an old
campaigner, the manager returned to the charge; and after saying
nice things and being generally nice himself, he came to the point.
"You'll treat us well, I hope," he said insinuatingly. "Do the right
thing by us, and all that?"
"Oh," she answered innocently, "you couldn't persuade me to do
another turn; I know I seemed to take and that you'd like to have
me, but I really, really can't."
"You know what I mean," he said, with a touch of his old bulldozing
manner.
"No, I really won't," she persisted. "Vaudeville's too--too wearing
on the nerves, my nerves, at any rate."
Whereat he looked puzzled and doubtful, and forbore to press the
point further.
But on Monday morning, when she came to his office to get her pay
for the two turns, it was he who puzzled her.
"You surely must have mistaken me," he lied glibly. "I remember
saying something about paying your car fare. We always do this, you
know, but we never, never pay amateurs. That would take the life and
sparkle out of the whole thing. No, Charley Welsh was stringing you.
He gets paid nothing for his turns. No amateur gets paid. The idea
is ridiculous. However, here's fifty cents. It will pay your
sister's car fare also. And,"--very suavely,--"speaking for the
Loops, permit me to thank you for the kind and successful
contribution of your services."
That afternoon, true to her promise to Max Irwin, she placed
her typewritten copy into his hands. And while he ran over it,
he nodded his head from time to time, and maintained a running
fire of commendatory remarks: "Good!--that's it!--that's the
stuff!--psychology's all right!--the very idea!--you've caught
it!--excellent!--missed it a bit here, but it'll go--that's
vigorous!--strong!--vivid!--pictures! pictures!--excellent!--most
excellent!"
And when he had run down to the bottom of the last page, holding out
his hand: "My dear Miss Wyman, I congratulate you. I must say you
have exceeded my expectations, which, to say the least, were large.
You are a journalist, a natural journalist. You've got the grip,
and you're sure to get on. The Intelligencer will take it, without
doubt, and take you too. They'll have to take you. If they don't,
some of the other papers will get you."
"But what's this?" he queried, the next instant, his face going
serious. "You've said nothing about receiving the pay for your
turns, and that's one of the points of the feature. I expressly
mentioned it, if you'll remember."
"It will never do," he said, shaking his head ominously, when she
had explained. "You simply must collect that money somehow. Let me
see. Let me think a moment."
"Never mind, Mr. Irwin," she said. "I've bothered you enough. Let me
use your 'phone, please, and I'll try Mr. Ernst Symes again."
He vacated his chair by the desk, and Edna took down the receiver.
"Charley Welsh is sick," she began, when the connection had been
made. "What? No I'm not Charley Welsh. Charley Welsh is sick, and
his sister wants to know if she can come out this afternoon and
draw his pay for him?"
"Tell Charley Welsh's sister that Charley Welsh was out this
morning, and drew his own pay," came back the manager's familiar
tones, crisp with asperity.
"All right," Edna went on. "And now Nan Bellayne wants to know if
she and her sister can come out this afternoon and draw Nan
Bellayne's pay?"
"What'd he say? What'd he say?" Max Irwin cried excitedly, as she
hung up.
"That Nan Bellayne was too much for him, and that she and her sister
could come out and get her pay and the freedom of the Loops, to boot."
"One thing, more," he interrupted her thanks at the door, as on her previous visit. "Now that you've shown the stuff you're made of, I should esteem it, ahem, a privilege to give you a line myself to the Intelligencer people."
-THE END-
Amateur Night, a short story by Jack London
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