Brownsville herald. [volume], November 01, 1932, Image 2

About Brownsville herald. [volume] (Brownsville, Tex.) 1910-current

Image provided by: University of North Texas; Denton, TX

                
J Urn WEB, indeed.” said old Joe
* Derby, feeling to hie
> I pocket for a toothpick
V andtben suddenly
_ thinking better of it. “I'll say
f it's beun a pretty tough season
for the tent-show business."
“1*11 say it has!” agreed trim
little Nell Jones, who had been
Mrs. Joe Darby since way back
when Barnum teamed up with
Bailey. "One tough season Is
right. Specially with an outfit
like Shapiro's."
"Well, things have been slow
in a lot of lines.” 1 said. “Maybe
business will pick up when you
start your swing back East. Now
look here, Joe and Nell, 1 don't
want to hurry you, but it's al
kmost seven o'clock. Hadn’t I
get the car around and
you out to the lot?’’
id Joe Darby squirmed in his
and looked pleadingly to
ils wife.
K don’t start throwing
wnm signals at me,” she
I him. “You ought to tell
ourself, Joe. Go on now,
leak up.”
husband turned to me.
Pi to say something, smiled
lie which trembled at the
i-rs and then drank a turn
er water. From under
table came the sound of a
small but capable foot encounter
ing a long, lean shin.
“Ouch!” he said. "Now you
lay off me, Ma. You said you
was going to tell him, and I sure
do think you’d . .
“Oh, all right, all right!” said
Nell, and as she busied herself
with mirror and lip stick 1 sud
denly realized that she was try
ing to keep back the tears. “You
see, well, Joe and me are mighty
grateful for this swell feed and
all, and it's mighty fine of you
to offer to shoot us back to the
lot in your car. But, you see,
we don’t have to go back. . . .”
“No," Joe Darby chimed in.
“Ha, hal We don’t have to go
back.”
"—we don’t have to go back
because we’re all through,” ex
plained Ma with a little choke.
"Yair, all through,” her hus
band confirmed her. “We’re
canned, fired, ouslayed umfray
the oiutjay.”
“He means we haven’t got a
job,” explained Nell. “Say, listen,
Joe Darby, you ought to be
ashamed ot yourself talking that
* cheap carnival talk In a high,
grade private residence like
this!”
Old Joe Darby hurried around
the table, knelt beside his wife
and patted her awkwardly on the
back. “Aw, now, Ma, you’re
crying, ain’t you? Don’t cry,
Ma—come on, now, Nellie, just
a little cmiie for Papa, ’atta
girl. . . . She’ll he okay in just
f a minute,” he explained apolo
getically. "It’s just that we had
a kind ot tough season. And
then about Boy-Joe and all. ..
"Boy-Joe?” I repeated, sud
denly remembering their grown
eon. “Oh, why, sure, I meant to
ask about him. Do you mean
that something happened?”
“Yes,” said Joe Darby in a
matter-of-fact tone. “Boy-Joe
got killed. It was my fault.”
"No, It wasn’t,” declared Nell,
recovering herself with a final
sniffle. “It was my fault. But
anyway, it don’t matter whose
fault It was, because Boy-Joe’s
dead, and now we ain’t got a son
any more.”
Unh-huh, nodded her hus
band. "I guess that’s just about
the size of it Having no job Is
a cinch beside having no son.
But still and all, I guess it was
more of Sam Shapiro’s fault
than anybody else's, don’t you
think so. Mamma?”
"Ob, oh, oh, what difference
does it make?" she said, sway
ing from side to side. "We’ll
never see Boy-Joe any more and
we'll never see Sam Shapiro any
more, so what difference does it
make?”
"That’s right, we’ll never see
8am Shapiro any more either,
Will we? It was him that give
us the ate-gay this afternoon.”
"Ate-gay!” repeated Mrs. Dar
by indignantly. "Ate-gay! If
yon mean gate, Joe Darby, say
gate and stop talking like a
spieler.’^
jL, I am a spieler, ain’t
*?" he answered. "I’m the
best spieler In the business, if
yon ask me, and when Sam Sha
piro says that old age is getting
to my voice, he lies."
"Of coarse he does," nodded
Wa Darby. "It’s whisky. But
aven so, Joe’s spiel is that loud
k you can hear it clear across the
J lot when the calliope fa whoop
^ Ing.**
f "—Yes, and even the shoot
] leg-gallery, too — that’s Just
\j what I told Sam Shapiro when
v
4
DARBY JND JONES
he Arst got picking on me back
in the middle of the season. 1
says to him, 'See here. Sam,’ I
says, *ao mattar what you aay,
I can spiel 'em in better than the
best in the business My voice
ain't only loud, it's got person
ality — personality and magnet
ism. And you mustn't forget,
either,’ I says to him, ‘that my
spiels is all new original stuff,
and that's why I panic 'em In.
Now, you take, for instance, the
part when I’m through with
Fatima the Naughty Nautch Girl
and I’m spieling ’em into Flambo
the Fire Eater—that part where
I suddenly screams ‘Fi-ah! Fi
ah! Fi-ah! . . .'
" 'Yair,' says Shapiro in that
nasty way of his. ‘That’s an
other thing you gotta cut out.
You panic ’em, all right, but in
the other direction. Why don’t
you yell murder, murder, mur
der, while you’re at it? With
that wheezy voice of yours,
they’d think that somebody was
getting strangled sure."’
“Is that really what he said.
Joe?" asked Ma Darby incred
ulously. “Well, I never!”
“Nope, neither did I!” de
clared her husband. “But, any
way, It's then he tells me that
he’s wire-1 East for this other
guy, and that if I and Ma and
Boy-Joe wants to stick with the
show, we gotta And some new
way to make ourselves useful.”
•“'W’AIR, Just think, can you tie
that?” snorted Nell. “Pa
doing his spieling — tue singing
three soprano numbers, one of
them is Eyetallan grand opera,
in the Big Free Concert—poor
Boy-Joe doubling in braes in the
band. All that we was doing,
mind you, and all for a lousy
sixty bucks! Why, if I . . . Oh,
excuse me! I oughtn't to of
said lousy.”
wen, it was, r.nyway,” de
clared Joe Darby. "And make
out I didn’t tell Sam Shapiro so,
too. But he says, Usten, Joe,
lous—er, right or wrong, it goes
as it lays. This show needs new
attractions, new talent, new pep,
and I can’t afford to pay pensions
to a lot of has-beens.'
"Well, when he pulls that
crack about has-beens I have a
mind to smack him down. But
then I think, no, what’s the use,
I might as well wait and see
what his proposition is, because
I can feel one coming, even
though it is liable to be a lot of
horse feathers.
"Well, It does come, sure
enough. ‘Now, look here, Joe,
listen,’ he says to me. ’Don’t
think I'm .giving you the ate gay
or the old Yazoo,' he says. *1
wouldn't do nothing like that to
an old trouper like you, especial
ly a team like Darby and Jones
that is famous throughout the
show business for two genera
tions. But,’ he says. ’I was think
ing that what this show needs ia
new attractions, and what would
you say to a balloon and para
chute drop, hey, sama as you
and Nellie used to do with your
old smokebag twenty years ago?*
'* ELL, at first I think he’s
crazy, and I tell him so.
'Smokebag and chute?' I says,
laughing, kind of. ‘Why, hell’s
bells, Sam, first you talk about
something new, and then you
pull a gag that’s been dead since
Bill McKinley. There ain’t a
smokebag rider working in this
whole broad land today, not that
I know of. No, nor I ain’t seen
an ad of one in The Billboard
for I bet it’s fifteen years.'
‘"Well, that’s just the point,*
he says, and 1 begin to see where
he’s not so dumb. ‘There’s none
of the modern generation has
ever seen a smokebag and chute,
only airplanes. And, shucks,
planes ain’t in It for thrills,
throbs and daredevil, death
defying draymer compared to
seeing a guy in pink tights
plunging down on the trapeze,
and the old bag turning over
and shooting out black smoke up
there in the sky like a barn was
on fire.*
"Well, I got to admit that
Sam is right, and the more I
think of it, the better the old
smokebag gag listens as an at
traction, ‘But,' I says to him,
‘you can’t proposition me on
smokebags. As far as I and
Nellie is concerned, smokebags is
entirely out. Neither of us is
still so young that we could stick
to the trap when the chute
springs, because usually it pretty
near yanks your Insides out.’
“ ‘Oh. sure, sure,' says 8r,m.
‘I didn’t mean for you and Nel
lie to ride it. I meant that we
By Guy Gilpatric
* 'Iioh him that l‘ve got on my ohl Npangle I tight* underneath
and 1 tell him either he goe* up or 1 do.
could use Boy-Joe. You could
go up with him for a double drop
one or two times, like I remem
ber you done when you was
teaching little Nellie, and after
that Boy-Joe could work alone.’
“Well, we sit there in the of
fice-car talking price, and finally
we settle at a hunnerd and
twenty-five smackers a week. He
tells me to see the canvas boss
for what fabric I need and as
many men and sewing machines
and things, and start right in on
ft bag and chutes and the infla
tion outfit.
"Well, It’s a long lime since
I have built a balloon, so 1 go
back to the sleeper to get my
old scrap book out of my trunk,
which I have always saved. This
book has the whole dope in ft
which Charlie Baysdorfer gave
me, what shape to cut the panels
and all. Ma is there and she
asks me what I’m looking for,
so I tell her the proposition and
she don’t like it. You didn't like
It, did you. Ma?”
"IVO,” said Mrs. Darby, ’I
didn’t like it. But you see we
was up against it, so I had to
like it. The only thing is, I
thought we'd aught to tell Boy
Joe right away.”
“Yair, that’s right, so you
did,” said her husband. “Well,
I send for Boy-Joe, and 1 says
to him, ‘Sonny, I’ve got swell
new*. Things have broke swell
for you, and I’ve fixed up a
chance for you to make a wad of
ack-jay.’
" ‘Yair?’ he says, ‘what do
ing?' he says, taking a pack of
scags out of the pocket of his
red and gold band uniform—he
sure looked nice in that uniform,
didn’t he, Mamma?—‘What do
ing, and how much jack?’
" 'A hunnerd and a quarter a
week!’ I tell him. ‘Yes-sir —
and just for riding a smokebag.
same's your Ma and I useter
do*
“Well, I set batk waiting for
him to look pleased, but he don't
look no such thing.
“ ‘Me ride a smokebag?’ he
says, shaking his head very
positive. 'Unh-unh, Pa, not me!’
" 'Why, whaddya mean unh
unh, not you?’ I ask him. ‘Have
n’t you got no ambition? Do
you want to Ww brass and be
an elephant’s chambermaid all
your life?'
” ‘Of coure I don’t,’ he says.
‘But I’d a darn’ sight rather do
it than go up on any smokebag
or go jumping with a chute. I’m
here to tell the world,’ he says.
“Well, we argues back aud
forth, and pretty soon I get sore
and call him yellow. I guess we
was right on the verge of taking
a sock at each other when Ma
horned in and stopped us. You
stopped us, didn’t you, Ma?”
“Yair,” said Mrs. Darby pen
sively. "I horned in and stop
ped ’em. And all the time since
1 been wondering if maybe I
hadn’t stopped ’em. would^lt it
of all turned out different.”
"VTO, of course it wouldn't,”
^ declared Pa Darby. “Thn
poor kid’s number was up, that’s
the only way to figure it. But
of course me calling him yellow,
I didn’t really mean he was yel
low all over, but just yellow
about ballooning. Why, I’ve
seen that kid clean out the hyena
cage many a time with nothing
to protect him but the broom.”
“So’ve I,” Ma Darby nodded.
"He wasn’t yellow all over. It's
like Joe says—it was only about
flying he was yellow. There’s
lots of people like that, and they
just can’t help it, same as some
people are a-scared of cats. But,
anyway, after I’d made Pa lay
off and stop hollering at him, I
... I talked poor Boy-Joe into
it myself. Oh. just think, I
talked my own little baby. . . .”
“Aw, now, there, there, Ma,
come on now, 'atta girl!" old Joe
Darby hastened to coinfort her.
"You gotta brace up and help
me tell this, Ma.”
"Okay!’’ she said, biting her
lip and trying to smile. "Okay.
Sure. Go right ahead, Pa, I'm
okay now.”
"Of course you are! Well, so
anyway Ma talks to Boy-Joe
pretty near all morning, and
when I sees ’em in the chow tent
that noon I can see that Boy
Joe’s been crying. But he grins
at me and socks me on the back
and says, ‘Okay, Pop! Trot out
your old smokebag and lead me
to It!’ And that afternoon he
chucks up his two jobs with the
menadjcrie and the band and we
go over to the canvas boss and
get to work.
**We work for three days at
that stand, and then two days
more at the next town we move
to, and so on, and at the end of
three weeks we’ve got a very
nice outfit. We’ve got a nice
tight smokebag, a couple of
chutes, the four big hold-down
posts, and rigging (or filling her
up and everything.
“ A LL the time we’re working
I keep telling Boy-Joe
what’s what and what to do
when you're riding a smokebag.
I give him all the dope that me
and Ma learned in the eleven
years we was riding smokebags
together before he was born.”
' And not to many days before
he was born, either!” said Ma
Darby proudly.
■—No, I’ll say It wasn’t:”
agreed Ta, squeezing her hand.
"And, say, come to think of it,
you'd of thought that would of
made a difference to him, having
balloons bred in his blood, so to
speak. . . . But it didn’t. Nope,
it didn't. For all the time I’d
he ta* ting to him and telling him
what a cinch it was, I could tell
that he was scared to death. He
was only half listening, kind of.
‘But, shocks,' thinks 1 to myself,
•I’ll make the first couple or
three jumps with him, and after
that he’ll be rarin’ to go, he’ll
be that tickled with it.' You
know—the spanfled tights and
all. .. .
“Well, the outfit is all ready,
so I go to Sam Shapiro and tell
him we’ll show at the neit pitch.
* ’Atta stuff!' says Sam. 'I'll
wire the advance crew to stick
up plenty of paper, and E bet
we’ll play to capacity.’
"Well, when we get to this
Joint Element, or Bismont, or
whatever its name is, it Bure
looks like Sam has called the
turn. The hicks has come in
flivvers from all over the coun
ty. and the town is jammed.
And they’re all talking about the
balloon — the old ones remem
bering when they’d last seen one,
and the kids all anxious to. You
see, this burg was on an air-mail
route, and nobody even bothered
to rubber up when an airplane
went buzzing by. But a balloon
— oil, boy, a balloon was some
thing different!
“AH that moruiug we are busy
digging the fire pit and putting
the straw in it, and rigging the
four big corner poles that the
smokebag hangs from when
you're filling it up. But all the
time we are working I can see
that Boy-Joe is feeling pretty
weak in the knees. He ain't
*urly, exactly, but still he don't
say much.
“We re billed to go up at one
thirty, but when l knock off at
about eleven to grab a bite of
lunch 1 tell Boy-Joe that maybe
he'd better not eat any. You
see. if he gets swung around
much on the chute 1 know he's
liable to be sick.
" No chow for yours, kid. till
after you’re down.’ 1 tell him.
But then your Ma and me will
take you uptown and buy you a
swell plank steak; what do you
know about that?’
HK don’t say nothing to this,
one way or the other, but
just sets down on a coal-oil bar
rel and looks awful solemn. And
then 1 know It's pretty bad with
him, because he is always nuts
about plank steak.’’
“Yair,” said Ma. “Plank
steak, and also cold hard-boiled
eggs.”
"Yair, and he liked pigs*
knuckles, too,” murmured Pa
Darby. “Pigs’ knuckles with
kraut on the side. He always
put vinegar on them.”
“He did that because I told
him to when he was just a baby,”
explained Ma. “It's really the
best way to eat pigs’ knuckles.
(Jo ahead, Joe.
“Well, after I’d et a bite of
chow, I go back to the pit. and
the gang of razorbacks is there
that I’ve borrowed from the can
vas boss to hold down the bag,
and Boy-Joe has got his new
green tights on. He's got his
pants on over the lower part of
’em because there’s a big crowd
of yahoos gathered arouud. and
1 gwtsa he feels bashful, sort of.
’’I show the razorbacks how
to hold the bottom of the bag
out away from the fire pit, and
then I crawl in underneath and
start the fire. Pretty soon she
gets good and hot inside and bc
bins to swell out, so 1 crawl
under the edge and take off my
pants and shirt, and 'here I am
in the old red tigU’s with span
gles on ’em that L uster wear,
and white Roman gladiator sail*
dais. Yes, and I looked pretty
good for an old feller. Didn't I
M»?"
•'Yair, you really did look fine,
Joe." said Ma. “Fine. But it's
lucky I’d darned ’em."
"I looked fine, anyway.” de
clared Pa Darby, chuckling to
himself. "Well, the new spieler
is spieling, aud the band is play
ing. and there's a couple thou
sand ’ !cks around and, believe
me. it’s all pretty swell. I turn
to Boy-Joa and kind of poke him
in the ribs, and say, ‘How about*
it, ki(*? Pretty swell, what?’
But i don’t get much of a rise.
“W«U, the old smokebag is
puffing out and swaying like a
big gray pig, so I lays out the
two chutes side by side on the
grass and makes sure that the
shroud lines is all clear and the
little knives is fastened just
right with their rubber bands
go’s we can cut loose with one
yank. And then I take Boy-Joe
to one side to give him the final
carfut.
" Kid.’ I says, putting my arm
around him. 'Kid, why, shucks,
there won't he nothing to It!
We got two thousand feet of sun
shine before we get near the
clouds, and we’ll cut loose way
down at one thousand. We don’t
want to wait till we’re too near
the clouds, because they’ll cool
the bag and down she’ll come
ker-swillop. I’ll cut first, am
when my chute opens up, you
cut too. Just shut your eyes,
kid. yank the knife-cord and
hang on. And half an hour from
now we’ll be tearing into that
plank steak, hey, how' about It?’
"I look at him with the old
magnetic smile all over my face,
expecting to see likewise on him.
But there ain’t. I can tell from
his iook that he hasn’t beard a
word I’ve been saying.
“He moves his mouth a couple
of times but no sound comes not.
Then he takes a long breath and
says. ‘It's no use. Pa. I can't
go through with it. I’m yellow.
Pa. I'm yellow, lust like vou
said. Pa.'
“Well, I don’t know what to
do, because In a minute or so the
smokebag will be full and then
we’ve either got to go np or
she’ll maybe catch fire. But I
spot Ma over In the crowd, so I
beckon at her and turn Boy-Joe
over to her and walk away, be.
cause I know she can fix him up.
But I look back at them and I
see her talking to him very
earnest, and suddenly she opens
up the front of her shirtwaist a
little and shows Boy-Joe what
she’s got on underneath. Didn’t
you. Ma?"
“Yes, God forgive me.” said
Ma. “I show him that I’ve got
on my old spangled tights under
neath. and I tell him either he
goes up or I do. Yes. and I
would of, too.”
“Why. sure you would!”
agreed Pa Darby. “But, of
course, after that you didn’t have
to. Boy-Joe conies orer to me
and I can see he's walking in
kind of a fog. he’s that scared.
But he says. ‘Okay, Pop.* Yes,
that’s exactly what he says,
’Okay, Pop.’
'“Y17E1A*, th® *■ filled •»
’* fight as a drum aud pull
ing hard, so we both step through
our trapezes on our chutes, hold
ing 'em up by the side ropes,
end get reedy to run hell-bent
with the breeze until the bag
lifts us off.
’T nod at the spieler, give the
office to the band leader and yell,
‘l***go, gentlemen! All aboard
for doudland!'
"The four poles come down
ker-thump! The spieler lets
loose a yell, and the band bust*
Into Hail Columbia! The old
bag jumps up. yanks the slack
out of our chute shrouds, and in
half a second we're shooting In
to the air. And It all seems so
good to me and like it was yes
terday. sort of, that i slide back
wards on the bar and hang by
my knees head down, same as I
always useter."
“1*11 say you did!” Ma testi
fied. “You whs behaving like a
damned old fool."
"Ma!" said Joe Darby, severe
ly. “Remember you ain't on the
lot now.”
“Excuse me." said Ma. "Er .
•. go on, Joe. Er . . .“
"Er . . . well, yes, I will. But
this is getting to be the tough
part, kind of, on account of Boy
Joe. For w hen I dumb back on
my trap, figuring that maybe
what I'd done had pepped Boy
Joe up, I see him setting there
on his bar with his arms gripped
around the side ropes and his
eyes tight shut. His face is
really a bluish gray color like I
have never seer, on a live man'i
face before. . . .**
“Well, go on,” said Ma Darby,
after a pause.
“Yes, bluish gray.” Pa con
tinued. gulping audibly. “Hla
lips is the same color too. He is
only five feet six Inches away
from me, so I can talk to him
easy. I tell him to open hla
eyes, and aint It fine, and look
how pretty the country looks.
He says ‘Yes,’ but very absent
minded like, and he doesn't open
his eyes.
“ Well, kid,* I says to him
finally, 'here we are at a thou
sand feet. I’m going to cut
loose now, kid, and down I go.
And when you see my chute open
up. yon cut loose too.*
"I yanked my cord and
sw-o-o-sh! down I go! After
what it seems like falling a mile,
there’s the usual jerk like It
would bust every bone in your
body, and my chute is all spread
out above me like a big white
flower. Say, it’s a great feeling,
and swinging back and forth
with the old breeze whooming
through my shroud lines. I keep
her swinging, too, because I
want to see beyond the edge of
the chute to watch when Boy
Jo© cuts loose. But ... he
doesn't.”
“No,” said Ma, “he doesn’t.”
*TTE wag just setting there,”
said Pa. "Just setting
there, and me yelling at him to
cut. Only he didn’t have the
nerve to cut.”
“I could hear you,” said Ma.
“Yes, I could hear you yelling,
even abovd all the band and
mg | was trying to
faint, but I oouldn’t.”
"Well, I wish you had of, Nel
lie.” said Pa, half reproachfully.
Ma Darby whrugged, and snif
fled softly. "So do I. But even
when he went into the cloud* I
didn’t give up hope. I figured
maybe the bag would cool off
gradual and let him down easy.
He was up in those clouds out of
sight for I bet it was twenty
minutes.”
“Twenty minutes! Why, I
bet it wasn’t more than five,”
said Pa. "You’d really oughta
know better than that how quick
a smokebag cools off, Nellie.”
“I bet it was twenty minutes,”
said Ma Darby stoutly. "All the
sky was bright and blue except
where them clouds was, and my
Roy-Joe was up in them clouds.
But suddenly I seen him coming
out. . . .”
“Yes,” said Pa Darby. "1 was
on the ground by now and I seen
him too. The hag had cooled off
and was flapping limp behind
him like a rag, leaving a trail of
black smoke. He was falling
very fast. I bet he was falling
a million miles an hour. He bit
In a plowed field about a mile
and a halt on the other side of
Bement, or Bisniount, or what
ever the name of that town was.”
"Belmont.” said Ma Darby.
"Yair. Belmont. That's right.
Belmont. Well, Belmont was
about six or eight towns back
before we got to this burg. We
stayed along with the show, but
we didn’t feel like doing much.
We felt kind of tired all the time,
didn’t we, Ma? And this after
noon Shapiro let us out. We’re
living in a boarding house up
town, Ma and I, and everything’s
really very okay with us because
we got a couple hunnerd bucks,
haven't we, Ma?”
"A hunnerd and eighty-five,”
she said proudly. "We’re paid
up on the room a week In ad
vance, too. We’re really sitting
very, very pretty. And besides
that, we’d oughter hear from our
ad in The Billboard by Monday
at latest. Show him that ad you
sent in to The Billboard. Joe.”
Pa Darby passed an envelope
across the table. On the back
of it I read:
"THAT PAIR WITH I
PERSONALITY’* 1
The Silver-Throated Spieler |
and The Diamond-Voiced Lyric- I
Soprano, open Tor carnival, tent. ■
med. shows, or what have you?
All new spiels, and Joe in best
voice. Little Nellie the same
sweet ingenue as ever. Thla
famous team just finished ban
ner season with Sam Shaplrow
do anywheres, but send tickets. ^
DARBY A JONES \
(Copyright Uj; Th« Bril Syndics!*, tne.) I