Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 105, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 May 1915 — SEEING LIFE with JOHN HENRY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

SEEING LIFE with JOHN HENRY

by George V. Hobart

John Henru on Cabarets

(Copyright, 1915, py the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)

SAY! Did you ever burst right into Bohemia and with the 'aid of a complaining pocketbook try to Help yourself to a Hilarious evening? , Tag me —I’m It. Of course, I don’t mean Bohemia in the highbrow sense —nix. Not one of those quaint retreats with the lemoncolored atmosphere where sad-eyed Artistic Temperaments foregather to chop spaghetti with a fork and bark hand-made repartee at each other over a beaker of absinthe —nix. I mean the Bohemia so called by the Buyer from Max Plahn’s Universal Emporium, Waukesha, Wis., who hits New York along In August and leaves the imprint of his sandals all over Longacre Square and adjacent byways.

The Bohemia, so called, which is composed of incandescent lights disgulshed as rosebuds; Bulgarian waiters disguised as second-story workers, and a menu card which, without any disguise, leads the unwary directly tb a Petition in Bankruptcy. Ever since ye’ve been back in New York, Peaches has been Handing out Hints that she’d like to have me take her over the hurdles into that Fair Land where rag-time and breaded pork chops do a sister act —to one of those real devilish New York Cabarets. • Rub his ankles. Doctor; the blood has rushed to his Bean! I tried to explain to friend wife that the Cabaret is an Institution invented solely for the purpose of giving hiccups to Gold-plated Strangers, but Peaches was strong for a Peek at the Night-Life of New York and It was up to me to furnish the opera glasses. She wanted to know if I thought she could toy with a tenderlbln steak In some Musical Soup-House without having a policeman call her by her first name. , I told her I was away on sick leave the morning Cabaret Etiquette had

H. W. bowed. Hep slipped him again and he bowed lower. Hep slipped him another little map of the mint and H. W.’s forehead scraped the floor. The room was a-dazzle with Gaudy Lights. Rag-time music hurried away from a preoccupied orchestra, hit the celling, bounced off and scampered around the tables. Laughter, both refined and careless, tried to drown the clatter of dishes—and won out. “So this is |Bohemia!” sighed Peaches as the head waiter pulled out a chair and dared her to sit down. “John, dear, do point out the celebrities to me, won’t you?” “They haven’t come in yet," I gurgled, and Hep let loose a laugh so nearly like that of a nervous coyote that four waiters rushed up, prepared to take any kind of a tip. Just as we were sinking gracefully into our plush chairs, and the Sicilian brigand was about to take our order, who should float into the dry-dock but Max Mincenstein, one of Hep’s friends —after 2 A. M. I don’t know how Max ever pressed close enough to get on Hep’s staff. Max has money. He’ll always have it —the same money. Max is a lazy loosener. 'When the waiter returns with the check Max is the busiest talker in the bunch. Max loves money. Money loves Max. They are inseparable. Whenever Max passes a bank he takes off his hat and walks on his toes. I spoke his name rapidly when I introduced Max to Peaches, but as she was busy trying to lead a swift life by ordering a seltzer lemonade it didn’t make much difference what I called him. Hep must have been sitting over a trapdoor, because suddenly wine-cool-ers began to festoon themselves around about him. Blue wine-coolers appeared at his right, magenta winecoolers at his left, and ice, drift ice

been passed around, but I’d ask my friend Hep Hardy about It. Hep is what they call In the laurajeans Prince of Good Fellows. As near as I can size him up a Prince of Good Fellows puts in twelve hours a day trying to stab himself to death with Bronx cocktails, and the other twelve hours are descreaming for help and icewater. Mind you, I’m not Knocking Hep. His father cut out the breathing business about four years ago and' left Hep wish $200,000 and a long dry ■pell on the Inside. Hep has been in the surf ever since. His only recreation between bars Is golf. He invented the G. A. R. ■core in that game—out in ’6l, back in *65. I explained my sad plight to Hep over the ’phone and, later on, with Peaches all dolled up like a Corot landscape, we met Hep by appointment in front of Bustaflddlestrings Cabaret - Hep in hip, man-about-town scenery was a sartorial dream in black and white. He had everything oa, including half a bun. “Well, if it isn’t John Henry!" he hagueandhagued. “Touch thumbs with your old pal!** Then in a side speech he wanted to know what musical show had loaned me its prize chicken. I introduced him to my wife and he tried to square himself by explaining that now that his right eye was properly focused she didn’t look at an like a chicken—she waa more of the squab type. Then with a merry burst of ver-mouth-laden laughter he led the way into the Cabaret The head waiter met ns at the edge of the reservation. Sep slipped him something that ■sade a noise like five dollars and the

as far North as the eye could see. Presently a platoon of waiters began to annoy the corks and then followed a correct imitation of the second day at Gettysburg. One cork went over quickly to another table and struck a fat moneyed person from Pittsburgh between the second and third floor of his accordion chin. He thought it was one o’clock, so he arose hurriedly and lefjt the room.

Meanwhile Max was overboard with a splash. For the first ten minutes he had three waiters on the verge of nervous prostration trying to supply the suds fast enough. But Max didn’t play Rugby rules —he used two glasses and both hands. After a time, however, he feathered both oars and drifted aimlessly with the tide.

“Pardon me!" said Peaches to Max, in an effort to pass ont a bit of Society Salve, “but do you find it interesting—this glimpse of Bohemia?" “Bohemia nothing!" bubbled Max. “This joint is Cosmopolitan—sure thing! The chef is a Frenchman; the pastry cook is A Greek; the head waiter is a German; they got a Hungarian violinist and the proprietor has a >vife and two kids in Jersey City, but he don’t go there much. Bohemian, not on your powder puff!” Peaches took the count, then she leaned over and whispered to me, “What is he? —a painter?” "Oh! he’s a painter all right,” “Water colors or oil?" she asked. “Oil,” I said; “fusel oil.” “Has he ever done any good thing?" she queried. "Yes,” I said; “Hep Hardy.” “Oh! Tin enjoying this so much," she coo-cooed. giving Max and his past performances the sudden pass-by. “Who is that man at that other table with the fawn-like eyes and the long bairn

He was the night-watchman of •> apartment house uptown, but I gave her an easy speech to the effect that he was BUI Mendelssohn, a grandson of old man Mendelssohn, who once wrote a wedding march so carelessly that it is now used as a coon song.

She gasped and gurgled with delight—in Bohemia and having the time of her young life, so I let her dream. In the meantime Hep, with a bucket of wine, was busy trying to put out the fire in the well Max used as a neck. Every time a waiter looked at our table Hep’s roll would blaze up. Peaches presently concluded she’d broaden out a bit on Art and the Old Masters, so she asked Max if he liked Rembrandt. Max looked at her out of the corner of his eye and murmured, “Much ’bliged, but I’m up to here now!” ‘ Then he pointed at his Adam’s Apple and fell asleep. Hep was beginning to see double. Every once in a mile he’d stop humming "Here Comes My Daddy Now—

Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa!" then he’d close one eye and with the other look over at Peaches and hand her a sad, sweet smile. , ' It’s a gay life, boys! When our expensive food finally arrived Hep was gazing at his fingers and wondering how they got on his hands, while Max, the genial pest, with his chin driven through his shirtfront, was over on Dream Avenue, about to hitch up his favorite nightmare and take a spin through Bugland.

Peaches was toying with a spoonful of consomme Julienne and I was parleying shoestring potatoes back on my fork, when suddenly there came a great clanging,of bells, doors rattled and banged, women screamed and the orchestra fell out of a back window —all except the bass fiddle. He fell in a bowl of soup left for him by an obliging but hurrying waiter. Max woke up suddenly, looked about wild-eyed and slid gracefully under the table.

Hep, with a roll of bills in each hand, tried to stand up and defy the universe, but he toppled over among the wine-coolers and passed peacefully away again in cold storage. A fat man with a beard and a dialect ran around in circles exclaiming that he was the proprietor, but nobody pinned a medal on him, and he burst into sobs.

Then he rushed over to our table and yelled, “Get out! Get out!" “Why should we get out?” I inquired, placing a piece of fried chicken tenderly in his outstretched hand. “Because it’s closing up time and I always forget about it. The police have to come and remind me.” Then he threw the fried chicken at the lady cashier and faded out of our Uvea I looked in the direction of the. door. Yes, there they were —an Army Corps of Cops, marching steadily forward into the Palace of Pies, fearless in the face of danger. It was a brave sight to see them deploy by fours and reaching forward with their nightsticks knock a hunk of beefsteak out of a hungry diner’s hand. I grabbed Peaches by, the elbow and we beat it from' Bohemia while the beating was good. The last I saw of Max he was acting as a foot-rest for the General commanding the Fifth Brigade, while Hep slept peacefully on amid the up-turned wine-coolers and the ice-floes. Bohemia, eh? \ So this is what they call Having A Good Time in New York!

Mr. Umpire, I called you Bad names —put me on the Bench. This Burg is the home of. the Gink who can’t keep his Temperature down unless he is continually sniffing the odor of burning money. This Gink’s idea of being a gentleman Is to get into a Tuxedo make-up and swap gags with a bunch of booze biters while Mamnja has to tie herself up in a Mother Hubbard and stay home alone till Papa gets through being a Good Fellow. Cabarets, eh? Hereafter me for the little Ptomaine Parlor where the dillpickles hide behind the bowl of pulverized sugar and wink at you when the waitress splashes an omelette on your shoulder; But Peaches thought it was all perfectly lovely. “And .you’ll take me some night soon," she marshmallowed, “where we can see some real turkey trotting, won’t you, John, dear!” A glass of water. Nurse; he’s faint* tag- ; ,

"It Was a Brave Sight to See Them Deploy by Fours."

“The H. W.’s Forehead Scrapped the Floor.”