“Who do you think spoils the scene you are fussing about?” he asked. And then he addressed the thin-faced and ascetic-looking lady of the company who played “Aunt Turnip-top” in the little comedy. The sergeant’s long-blunted curiosity awoke a little. The night was a dull one in that particular police station. The comedian caught it, and gazed with increased melancholy at the panels of the sergeant’s desk. “Then it’s his fault,” declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glance of scorn from her dark eyes. “There are only two of you on in the scene,” argued the playwright hotly, “you and Delmars, here-” “It is not my fault,” reiterated the actress. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her old way.” There is one scene in it in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. But during the last two weeks it has lost favour. “For five months the comedietta was a drawing-card in the best houses. “What Miss Carroll says is true in part,” said the author. “How dare they say such a thing! I’ve played the title rôle ever since it was staged, and if you want to know who made it a success, ask the public-that’s all.” “It’s not my fault,” she cried indignantly. In a long coat of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, she bounded before the desk. “It’s not true, sergeant,” cried the clear voice of Miss Clarice Carroll. In her anger, because we remonstrated with her for spoiling the scene, Miss-” “The dishes were paid for,” said the playwright. De gang was raisin’ a rough-house and breakin’ dishes.” “Me,” said a white-aproned voice in the rear. “Who makes the charge?” asked the sergeant. I hope that the case will not be pressed and that we may be allowed to go.” You see that we are sober and are not the kind of people who desire to raise disturbances. We may have been rather noisy and intolerant of interruption by the restaurant people but the matter was of considerable importance to all of us. We became deeply interested in the discussion as to which one of the cast is responsible for a scene in the sketch that lately has fallen so flat that the piece is about to become a failure. The company of actors who are performing in a little play that I have written, in company with a friend and myself were having a little supper. Sergeant,” said he, out of his throat, like Actor Irving, “I would like to protest against this arrest. He wore nose-glasses and evening clothes, even if his shoes had been tans before they met the patent-leather-polish bottle. The author of “A Gay Coquette” stepped to the front. “Disorderly conduct in a restaurant,” said the policeman who had brought the party in.
In twenty minutes the party of six was in a police station facing a grizzled and philosophical desk sergeant. He made a sign with his hand and a waiter slipped out of the door. He was told to go to the popular synonym for war so promptly that the affair might have happened at The Hague. The manager came tripping and suggested peace. The comedian sighed and looked a trifle sadder and disinterested. She sprang up like a panther, managed to smash half a dozen plates and glasses with one royal sweep of her arm, and defied her critics. She hurled back at the attacking four their denunciations in tones sweet, but of too great carrying power for a Broadway restaurant.įinally they exhausted her patience both as a woman and an artist. Her high, clear soprano voice rose to what would have been a scream had it not possessed so pure a musical quality. Her slender, eloquent arms constantly menaced the tableware. Her large eyes flashed a scorching denial at her accusers. Gallic ancestry gave her a vivacity that could easily mount to fury. At this rate the sketch will have to be taken off.” It is only of late that you have acted this way. Fifty times they told her: “It is your fault, Clarice-it is you alone who spoilt the scene. Excepting the downcast comedian, all members of the party united in casting upon her with vehemence the blame of some momentous misfortune. The oral warfare of four immoderate tongues was directed at Miss Clarice Carroll, the twinkling star of the small aggregation. That was the comedian of “A Gay Coquette.” He was a young man with a face even too melancholy for his profession.
No one of the Party was silent except when answers were stormed from him by the excited ones. Loudly the six maintained their clamorous debate.
The sixth at the table was a person inconsequent in the realm of art, but one at whose bidding many lobsters had perished. Another was the author of the comedietta, “A Gay Coquette,” which the quartette of players had been presenting with fair success at several vaudeville houses in the city.
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