She was small and petite, and blessed with the loveliest skin this
side of Helena Rubenstein's advertisements; with two miniature apples
for cheeks.  That was my Mom. 
     That's what she looked like to me when I was four years old.  She
was remarkably active and alert for a little bird-like woman who had
given birth to 13 children, nine of whom lived, and as she sat rocking
Lillie, the youngest, in our three-room flat on Stanton Street on New
York's Lower East Side, our home warmed to the spirit of wellbeing.
What if the walls of our flat were bursting at the seams and the beds
and couches sagged under the weight of three or four in a bed?  Mom was
happy as she reflected on her brood.  There was Lillie in her arms, aged
one; Georgie -- that's me; Millie, six; Alec, eight; Flossie, nine;
Hymie, eleven; Davie, twelve; Sadie, thirteen; and Abe, fourteen. 
     What can a woman do when her husband is as handsome and reckless as
hers?  He was irresistable.  Pop was a playboy without money.  He
laughed easily, especially when his beloved slivovitz was flowing, and
he could cry with maudlin sentiment, just as easily, when I sang a
popular ballad of the day. 
     What if he took a swipe at Mom now and then?  It was only because
she nagged him when he drank up part of the rent money.  Pop wasn't a
good provider.  As a barber earning seven dollars a week and tips, he
managed to maintain his wife and family in a reasonable state of
poverty.  Possessing a spirit of wanderlust and a yearning for convivial
company, he just couldn't make it to everyone's satisfaction, not that
he tried very hard.  When problems seemed insurmountable to him, he
solved them very simply, by walking away from them.  He would take a job
as a barber on a ship sailing for any distant port; the more distant,
the more desirable.  He didn't know how to say goodbye; consequently Mom
often didn't know where he was.  She searched in all the neighborhood
saloons, phoned the barbers' union, questioned his cronies -- but never
went to the police.  That, she feared, would mean even more trouble.  In
a month or so, we would always receive a letter from him telling us what
a wonderful city Bremen or some other place was, and what a fine job he
had, and how good his tips were, and how he was saving his money, and
how good things were going to be when he returned.  I guess he meant
well but things were always happening to Pop that prevented our ever
realizing the benefits of his wonderful expeditions. 
     Like the time he was in San Francisco when the earthquake and fire
destroyed the city, causing him to lose all his money and the great
treasures he intended for us.  Or like the time in Southhampton when he
was assaulted and robbed just as he was headed for the American Express
Office to send us the money. 
     When he did come home, Pop was broke, but buoyant, bubbling with
the tales of his amazing ventures, some of which must have been true.
The only benefits resulting from his excursions were a new burst of
ambition and a resolve to be a good family man.  He would get back his
old job in the Standard Oil Building, borrow enough from the boss to pay
up his union dues and be right back shaving Col. Rogers again.  He was
very proud of his Standard Oil connections.  He was not merely rubbing
shoulders with, but conversing and massaging the faces of the great
tycoons.  He was so proud of this lofty association that he ordered
calling cards on which there was no mention of a barber shop.  It simply
stated, "Harris Price -- Standard Oil Co., 26 Broadway, New York." 
     It might take him several days before he could reach 26 Broadway to
apply for his old job, because he would have to stop in at his favorite
East Side coffee shop to tell his friends about his travels.  His
accounts would sometimes be interrupted by discussions on Bolshevism
with his friend Leon Trotsky.  Because of his connections at Standard
Oil, Pop was labelled a capitalist.  When he was working and on the
wagon, our home was a happy one.  We staged little shows for him, and
dozing off to sleep, we could hear Mom and Pop laughing as he read aloud
the stories of Sholom Aleichem, appearing daily in the Yiddish papers.

While pop was off on one of his many ocean-going activities, Mom had a
tough time of it.  Unable to pay the rent, nor stall off the landlord
any longer, we were constantly moving.  The day I was born, the first
month of first year of the 20th Century, Mom and her brood of seven were
occupying a one-room flat in the basement of a Stanton Street tenement
house which Mom got "rent-free" for doing the janitor's work.  For a few
days after I was delivered, Mom was unable to work.  I don't think the
landlord knew of Mom's condition but, when he dropped by and saw that
the work hadn't been done, he sent a dispossess notice.  Some moving men
came, and when Mom refused to leave her bed, they moved it out onto the
street with both of us in it.  My brothers and sisters put up such an
awful howl that the kindly neighbors took matters, and the bed, into
their own hands and moved us back into the room again.  Had the landlord
been there, I'm sure they would have lynched him.  However, when he did
learn the truth, he relented and let us stay on. 
     Mom had the rent problem licked, but she had to do something about
food.  Children in the slums fall into bad habits, and the most
difficult one to cope with is the habit of eating.  Kids will get
hungry.  In Mom's desperation she figured out a way to provide the
necessary vittles.  Necessity being the mother of invention, Mother
became an inventor. 
     While tending the furnace, she discovered a large vat of oil.
This, together with the mountains of ashes she was constantly hauling,
was a great source of low-cost raw materials.  She mixed the oil with
the ashes, packaged it handsomely in red, white and blue paper bags, and
sent brother Abe and sister Sadie off on a door-to-door sales campaign
of "Mrs Price Stove Polish".  This simple invention put Mom in business.
Soon the neighborhood market was glutted with her three-cent product,
and the oil was gone.  But it wasn't long before Mom invented a more
lucrative business. 
     Through adversity and great suffering, humans develop a fine sense
of compassion, understanding, and sympathy, and Mom had enough of these
qualities for all the women of the neighborhood, and they seemed to
sense it.  At first, the women in our tenement came to Mom with their
troubles.  As a good neighbor, she listened, sympathized, consoled, and
finally advised.  One of the women, realizing Mom's financial plight,
pressed a dollar upon her.  That was the beginning.  Soon Mom acquired a
deck of cards representing the signs of the zodiac, a crystal ball, and
a new flat for us at the corner of Rivington and Clinton Streets, where
a black and gold sign was displayed, reading "Pauline Price -- Palmist
and Fortune Teller".  For sure, the cards and palm reading were only for
setting and atmosphere; Mom's tender sympathy and sage advice to her
clients was the real reason for her success.  Luck, too, played an
important part in her career.  One case established her in the
neighborhood as a "Healer".  Another case brought her a reputation
throughout the city as the possessor of supernatural powers.

     The "healer" tag came as the result of a visit from the mother of a
famous judge.  The judge's brother had been suffering from rheumatism or
some form of neuritis.  The best medical talent had been provided for
the old man, but the pains persisted.  In desperation, the mother
consulted Mom.  She prescribed a secret potion to be applied twice
daily.  Within a week's time the old man was cured; the judge and his
parents were everlastingly grateful; and Mom was amazed.  The secret
potion -- what was it?  Nothing more than a mixture of oil and horse
manure.  It sounds crazy, but if I ever get rheumatism or neuritis, I'm
going to try it! 
     She gained the reputation for supernatural powers when Stern the
butcher, lying on his deathbed, expressed the dying wish to see his
missing son.  Mrs. Stern's anguish grew greater with each succeeding
visit to Mom.  The butcher was sinking slowly, and Mom was running out
of ministrations, potions, ad libs, and hocus-pocus, when the Miracle
occurred.  By Divine Guidance and Mom's damn good luck, the missing son
came to her for advice.  He had run away from home following a
neighborhood escapade in which a man was shot and some money stolen.
Young Stern was afraid to go home until Mom convinced him that all would
be forgiven if he would return, entering the house precisely on the
twelfth minute of the twelfth hour of the twelfth day of the twelfth
month.  Mom had to hurry.  She rushed off to the Sterns' and told them
of the supernatural Message that had come to her in her meditations, and
just as Mrs. Price had predicted, the son (right on cue) entered at the
fateful and dramatic moment.  The mother was ecstatic and the son
forgiven; the father's joy prolonged his life; and Mom was famous.  The
astounding Stern case found its way into the newspapers, and Mom found
herself being quoted in the N. Y. Evening Journal on all sorts of future
events.  The headline read, "Mrs. Price's Predictions".

     Pop had been off on the longest of his many ocean voyages and on
his return, he inquired at our last known address and when he finally
found us we were living the "plush" life.  Mom was happy to see him.  He
was a handsome devil.  He looked like the barber in the Ed.  Pinauds
Hair Tonic advertisements and combed his hair the same way.  But with
his return and through no fault of his, came a sudden end of Moms career
and our affluence.  The Clergy, Newspapers, City Authorities, and
finally the Police of New York City declared holy War on the Fortune
Teller Racket.  The lives of many unfortunate people had been ruined
through the unconscionable deeds of numerous scoundrels who were
cloaking themselves in the guise of Palmists, Mystics and Fortune
Tellers.  Houses of Prostitution and Hop Joints becoming known as
Palmist Parlors.  The Crusade was highly successful.  The lurid cases
appearing in the newspapers were meat for the publishers who knew what
their readers wanted.  The Clergy had an issue on which they could
spread themselves.  The legitimate Fortune Tellers were not organized so
the politicians, with nothing to lose, and with righteous indignation,
passed laws with real teeth in them.  The fines were enormous and the
Jail sentences interminable for those practicing Palmistry, Mysticism,
Mind Reading, etcetra.

     In less than a year we were back in a cheap tenement again.  Pop
was back to shaving the Standard Oil mugs and Mom was finding it
difficult to manage.  The cataclysmic decline of the Price fortunes left
us bewildered but none of us took it so hard as Pop.  He felt that he
was bringing us bad luck, even the cane with the gold head that Mom gave
him, was in hock.  Self pity was a good excuse for him to fall off the
wagon and right into the corner saloon to which he devoted more time
than he did to the Standard Oil whiskers.

     The lower east side was being exploited and terrorized by murderous
gangs at the time and at the age of five, I was working with them and
for them.  The Sullivan Act had been passed providing a seven year term
for anyone carrying a concealed weapon without a license.
Inadvertantly, I became the carrier.  For a quarter per day, I was the
means by which the gansters got around the Sullivan Law.  I would trail
along with the gangster.  His revolver hidden in my blouse until the
time he would have need of it.  If the Police discovered the weapon, it
would not be upon the Gangsters person.  The mob had a cellar hangout
with a pool table.  They were nice--They gave me a nickel or dime to
sing or run errands.  I didn't know what it was all about but when Mom
heard how I was getting my money whe forced me to "go straight" and the
Kid Twist gang lost a fearless member.

     The Price kids found other ways of getting things.  They were petty
but they helped us survive.  My brother Al and David or Henry would
throw stones at one of the pushcart peddlers.  If properly provoked, he
would leave his cart to chastize them.  During the chase, Al, Florence,
Mildred and I would steal off with as much of his wares as we could
carry.  Another idea we had was good for at least fifty cents a day and
it didn't involve stealing.  Al and I would stand on a busy corner.  Al
would fake a slap at me and leave.  I would scream and cry. The
sympathetic passersby would evquire, "Whats the matter little boy".
Through uncontrollable tears I would wail, "My brother hit me and took
my money and now I haven't got carfare to get home".  The charitable
passersby would give me the fare and a little something extra for ice
cream or candy to dry my tears.

     We learned that for a total of six cents, four of us could ride to
Coney Island.  Here is how it could be done.  We could board the
Franklin Avenue car on the New York side of the Williamsburg Bridge
Plaza.  Mildred and I travelled free.  (too small to pay fares) Alex and
Florence paid two half fares.  Three cents each and got transfers.
through a series of transfers to streetcars crisscrossing Brooklyn, we
could reach Coney Island.  Once there we could employ many of our tried
and tested routines.  We would first wade into the ocean and across the
jetties into the wondrous Dreamland Park where a combination ticket was
sold for use on all the rides, exhibits and features.  We would station
ourselves at the exits and ask for the un-used tickets.  After having
our fill of these pleasures, Alex and I would put on our crying act.
Holiday crowds were extremely liberal.  When it was time to go home, it
was no longer necessary to take the money-saving route.  We would
scamper into the front seat of the open car, at the motormans back,
directly facing the other passengers and as soon as they were
comfortably seated, we would begin to harmonize a song.  After a few
songs, Alex would swing down the running board of the car, passing his
hat to the occupants of one row of seats and then another for their
gratuities.  Mom was glad to see us go to Coney Island because we not
only had a good time for ourselves but we always brought home a couple
of bucks for her.  When she asked us how we got it, we always assured
her we earned it honestly.  Occasionally, it was necessary for Mom to
ask Pop to leave the Saloon and come home.  He resented the intrusion to
his club life.  If she went herself, he would make a scene.  If she sent
David or Abe, my older brothers, he would box their ears, give them a
slap on the fanny and send them off with a warning, never to disturb him
again.  It made him look bad in front of his cronies.  One day Mom sent
me and as I walked in, under the swinging doors, Pop greeted me
lovingly.  He took me in his arms, kissed me and introduced me to the
entire assemblage as the greatest singer in the world.  He lifted me to
the top of the bar and ordered me to sing.  I sang Tammany, with a
special version catchline.  I don't know yet where I picked it up.
Perhaps in the pool room when I was a member of the Kid Twist gang.  It
went....

     Tammany..Tammany...  Big Chief sits in his teepee Cheering Braves
to victory Tammany....Tammany...  Hokus-Pokus...Kiss my
tokus...Tammany".

It was a howling success.  Someore grabbed my hat, passed it around the
room and made a collection.  I took it and raced home to Mom.  She
counted it.  Over four dollars was there.  I gave it to her and she
cried when I told her, she would never have to worry again as I would do
lots of singing and earn lots of money for her.  With Alec as my
"Advance Man" and Press Agent, we visited scores of Barrooms, pretending
to look for Pop.  We would search the room, not for Pop, but for an
unoccupied table on which I could stand and sing.  Alec passed the hat
around.  Some of the songs I sang went over good but the Tammany song
was the clincher.

     Community singing in the movie houses, with illustrated slides
flashed on screen was popular.  It was after the illustrated song singer
sang the first verse and chorus that the words were flashed on the
screen and the audience invited to join in.  I joined in one day.  The
audience stopped singing to listen to me.  After several encores, the
manager told me I would always be admitted free.  Many a night when the
show was over, he would find me asleep in the theatre and lifting me in
his arms, would carry me home.

Delaney, the paid singer at the theatre assured Mom that I could win
every Amateur Night Contest I entered and for a split of the profits he
would enter me and take me to all the theatres having such contests.
Mom agreed.  Delaney and I soon monopolized the Amateur Night field.  He
quit his regular job and coached me in a sure fire routine containing
the same ingredients that was making George M. Cohan
successful.....Heartfelt tributes to Mother and the Flag.  Four or five
nights a week Delaney would "get the hook", which was the Amateur Night
term for being razzed off the stage, but he smiled smugly knowing that
he had fifty percent of the winner.  When I walked on stage, I looked no
more than a three year old.  Actually, I was five.  I sang "Mother is
your best friend after all" and concluded with a recitation extolling
America and the Flag.  The last lines predicted...  "Although I am very
small and have not much to say, I hope to be your President some day.  A
salute, an about face, and a soldierly march off stage was the routine
that brought tremendous applause and a shower of money from the
audience.  Mom walking on stage and picking up the money and placing it
in her apron, was the signal for an even greater shower.  When the stage
hands offered to help her, she waved them off.  As though all this were
not sufficient enough to assure me of Ist Prize, I was fortified with a
trick for capturing first money that never failed.  The Prizes were
awarded by lining up the contestants and holding the prize money above
their heads.  As the money was held above each head, the audience would
choose the winner by applauding for their choice.  The contestant
receiving the loudest applause was the winner.  When the money was held
above my head, my trick was to make a grab for it.  The audience
sympathetically, sensing the need I had of that money made sure that I
got it-- at first it was accidental but Delaney made me keep it in the
act.  It was as sure-fire as the many tricks I later learned for
stealing an extra bow.

     Pop went to work and the family moved to Harlem.  Soon other
members of the family gained employment.  Sadie got a job at Macy's.
Abe was learning to become a printer.  David and Henry became messenger
boys.  Millie helped with the house work and ran errands.  Mom averaged
about a dollar a week from each of the.  Not nearly enough dollars to
pay for her medicines and doctors.  Giving birth to thirteen
children--nine of whom lived, under such miserable conditions, was
beginning to show its effect on her health.  She developed an excemic
condition of the hands that she never succeeded in curing.  The Amateur
Night feature was petering out.  Like all fads, the faster they came up
in popularity, the faster they would die out.  The Amateur Night fad was
the same.  Something had to be done.

     Pop decided it was time for him to take an interest in my career.
He learned that Jacob Adler, the great yiddish actor was appearing in a
play with music.  There was a part in the play in which Adler invited
the audience to join him in the singing of the Theme Song, (Pintele
Yid).  The song was popular, I knew it and Pop reasoned that once the
Great Adler heard me sing it, my future was assured.  To make sure I
wouldn't be singing un-noticed, he bought the very first seat in the
stage box.  It was expensive and a big gamble for Pop, but he had great
hopes.  As is the case in most Yiddish plays, the action was highly
dramatic and the Hero suffered unendurable agonies through four acts.
By the time the theme song was introduced, there wasn't a dry eye or
handkerchief in the theatre.  When Adler invited the audience to join in
the singing of Pintele Yid, Pop set me down off his lap and ordered me
to sing.  I might have done a Pagliacci and sung through my tears but my
throat was so constricted and choked-up that I could not utter a sound.
In desperation, Pop pleaded, "Sing..Sing..  The ticket cost a dollar and
a half, for God's Sake Sing"..  The Great Adler never heard me and Pop
washed his hands of my career.

     It was through Alec and his after school jop, that I became a
professional actor.  He was collecting and delivering clothes for a
tailor after his school hours.  I always tagged along with him.  Alec
boasted of my singing talents at each stop he made.  He assured the
tailor's customers that they were in for a real treat if they could get
me to sing.  Their curiosity properly aroused, they would agree to give
me the nickel, I demanded.  It was at just such a nickel concert that I
got my first break.  It was in the home of the Timberg's.  Mother
Timberg was alone when I sang for her and she was so impressed that she
called in her neighbors to hear me.

"He's got talent like my Herman" she said.  That was quite a compliment
because Herman was her son and the star of Gul Edwards' School Days
playing at the Circle Theatre.  Mother Timberg arranged for Gus Edwards
to hear me.  They were to celebrate Herman's Eighteenth Birthday with a
party at her home.  Many celebrities had been invited, including Gus and
Mrs. Edwards.  She told me to come and to bring my Mother.  When Pop
heard we were going to a party, he wanted to go too and when Mom said
no, he demended to know "What kind of a party is it, that starts at
midnight?" We arrived at the party, (without Pop), and after Mother
Timberg introduced me to his guests....Enrico Caruse, who was also a
good singer,....Lillian Lorraine, appearing in School Days and later to
be the sweetheart of Florenz Zeigfeld and the Featured girl of the
Follies.  Lillian Walker, the dimpled beauty who became famous in the
silent Movies..Joe Keno and Rosie Green, the parents of Mitzi Green, who
were also appearing in School Days....and after meeting many more,
Herman took me across the room to meet Gus and Mrs. Edwards saying, "Mr.
Edwards, I want you to hear this little boy sing.  I never heard him
myself but Mamma has been raving about him".  I stood in the center of
the room and without accompaniment, I sang.  What an audience.  What a
reception.  Caruso said, "The leetla boy is only sixa year olda and
evena now, he singsa better as me".  I got hugs and kisses from the
ladies and Mr. Edwards sat me on his lap.  He asked me how I would like
to sing with Mr. Caruso and himself?  I said I would and I did.  He
arranged with Mom for us to come to his apartment for luncheon the next
day.  He taught me the song "My Cousin Caruso", a comedy number which he
had written in tribute to his great friend.  Seweral hours later we were
seated in a box at Wallick's Theatre where a benefit performance was
given for Detective Petrosini, the Chief of the New York Squad handling
the Mafia and Black Hand gang cases.  Petrosini was killed while
performing his dangerous duties, leaving his family in dire
circumstances.  The house was packed and the applause was thunderous
when Caruso finished.  He then introduced Gus Edwards.  Gus sand "My
Cousin Caruso".  The audience howled at the catch lines and Caruso
screamed louder than anyone else.at Gus' efforts to satirize him.  Then
Gus introduced me simply as, "Little Georgie".  I imitated him, giving
and imitation of Caruso.  After many encores, I pulled my little (Mother
and the Flag) recitation and Caruso carried me off the stage on his
shoulder.  After the performance we returned to the Edwards' apartment
for supper.  I was sprawled in front of the gas log fire, trying to
figure out why the logs didn't burn up.  I dozed off to sleep.  While
asleep, Mom and the Edwards had a serious talk.  They explained that
although they had been married for ten years, they had never been
blessed with a child.  Wouldn't my mother let them have me?....they
could do so much for me in so many ways...they would raise me as their
own son.  Mom wouldn't think of letting them adopt me but realizing the
advantages I would enjoy as against what I had on 113th Street, she
agreed to let me live with the Edwards.  My salary, whether or not I
worked, was to be ten dollars per week.  Paid to Mom.  When I awoke the
next morning, it was between clean sheets and I was in a bed "alone", it
was like heaven.  I was accustomed to sleeping with two or three of my
brother or sisters in a single bed and struggling for a piece of the
torn quilt.  After a breakfast, such as I had never seen or tasted
before, Mrs. Edwards took me on a tour of the best children's clothing
shops and bought me several complete outfits.  Mrs. Edwards asked me how
I would like to live with them always?  I said I'd love to but I was
afraid I would miss my family if I could never see them again.  She
assured me I could visit them as often, and for as long as I like.
After the first few visits, I came to dread them.  Not because of lack
of food or the comforts at home but because of the new problems my
visits presented.  One such problem was the matter of my clothing.  Mrs.
Edwards had dressed me in little pink bloomers.  My patent leather pumps
had bows on them.  This type of apparel called for shouts of "SISSY"
from the kids in my neighborhood.  I had the rep for being the best
fighter of my size in the neighborhood but with each visit, dressed as I
was, I was forced to prove it.  Mrs. Edwards could never quite
understand why I wanted to go home in my old clothes.  She wanted Mom to
see me dressed in my best.  Having become the breadwinner of the family,
Mom forgot I was only six and treated me as the head of the family.  She
would pour out her troubles to me.  About Pop or what Henry or Florence
or Sadie was doing, and how I'd have to talk to them about it.  They
stopped contributing toward the upkeep of the home, insisting that the
ten dollars per week she was receiving from Mrs. Edwards was sufficient.
After each visit home, I would return to the Edwards saddened by these
perplexities.  One day, while we were preparing to go on a trip, Mrs.
Edwards brushed my hair and out of it fell many little crawling things
onto my new Eton Collar.  I had been home for a two day visit.  That
settled it, my head had to be shaved and henceforth, I was to visit Mom
for dinner only.  At one of these dinners, my brother Henry exhibited a
clipping from a newspaper.  He jerringly announced to me that my days of
luxury were numbered and then read the clipping which stated that Gus
Edwards was going into Bankruptcy.  I didn't know what Bankruptcy was
but from the devilish way that Henry said it, I knew that it was
something terrible, and I cried.  It was true that Gus was going through
bankruptcy, and how like him it was, to take on the responsibilities and
expenses of an added member to his household at such a time.  But money
meant nothing to Gus.  He spent freely, lived lavishly, and gave
generously.  Consequently, he was always forced to get a new bankroll in
a hurry.  Mrs. Edwards tried her best to keep him in check but it was
useless.  When the bank would call her to advise her of an overdraft,
she would ask Gul, what had became of the $1500. royalty check he had
received that morning?  He would simply say he had spent it.  She would
only smile at him like an over-indulgent mother does when her son puts
his socks on inside out.  She never reproached him for squandering
money.  The creditors were fairly patient but it was constantly
necessary for Gus to get some money in a hurry.  He was forced to
liquidate his Music Publishing Business and sell the publishing rights
to some of his best songs for a ridiculously small sum.  The same was
true of his Production rughts to the School Days Show.  He arranged a
Vaudeville act in which he made personal appearances.  His brother Leo
played the piano.  Lillian Boardman a beautiful blonde soprano sang from
the box and when Gus invited the audience to join in the singing of
Shcool Days, I would walk down the aisle and sing it.  I would then be
lkfted onto the stage, "When and where the law permitted it".  In some
cities the law forbade children under sixteen from appearing on the
stage, unless a special permit was granted.  Often permits were granted
for walking or talking on stage before ten p.m. but not for singing or
dancing.  However, there was no law preventing me from singing in the
aisle of the theatre.  That was not on stage.  Our first engagement was
at Hammersteins Victoria Theatre, and we were in fast company.  One the
bill were Eva Tanguay, the "I don't care girl" and Williams and Walker.
Williams was the famous Bertand walker, who introduced the song,
""That's why they call me shine", was considered the finest singing and
dancing straight man in show business.  Also appearing on the bill were
Loney Haskell with Don the Talking Dog, Willie and Eugene Howard, and a
trio of accused murderers in the Becker-Rosenthal Case.  There was also
a blackface singer on the bill, who impressed me so that I unconsciously
copies his style of singing.  It was his first appearance in "The
Bigtime" as a single act and although he had to appear very early in the
show, he was a terrific hit.  His name was Al Jolson.  We played several
other New York Vaudeville theatres and then left for a tour of
Cincinnati, Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Louis.  The tour was exciting.
Mrs. Edwards warned me to grab on to Gus' coat tail and never let it ot
or I would get lost.  On the first Pullman ride, I thought I was to
sleep in the little Hammock.  I loved the idea but I was told the
hammock in a berth was used for clothes.  In order to help take care of
me, it was arranged for me to sleep with Miss Boardman, the beautiful
blonde soprano.  I, like a dope, cried and refused to sleep with anyone
but Gus.  Chicago was a wonderland to me.  It was there I met Sophie
Tucker appearing in Louisianna Lou, Joe E.  Howard, Bernard Granville,
Alex Carr, Mlle Dasie and Mme.  Charlotte, the great ice skater.  The
popular rendevous was the old College Inn, owned by Joseph Byfeld and
run by his sons, Gene and Ernie Byfeld and Frank Berring.  They were
planning to build a new College Inn in the Sherman House Hotel which was
then being erected.  On our return to New York Gus took offices in the
Astor Theatre building and started production of several vaudeville
acts.  The Blonde Typewriters, The Messenger Boys, The Kountry Kids, The
Night Flyers and the Newsboys Sextet were some of the successful ones.
In these acts appeared many young thespians who later became famous such
as the Marx Bros., Willie Solar, Bert Wheeler and Lew Brice.  Gus teamed
a Bass singer, named Woods with a Tenor from Indiana, named Harrold, in
an act called, "When Tenor Meets Bass".  Harrold, in time, became
Orville Harrold, the first American tenor to be starred in the New York
Metropolitan Opera Company.  In speaking of the many illustrious
proteges of Gus Edwards, they are erroneously mentioned, by most people,
as having appeared in School Days.  In fact most of them joined Gus long
after School Days had closed.  This applies to such people as Louise
Groody, Mae Murray, The Duncan Sisters, Sammy Lee, Ruby Norton, Eddie
Buzwell, Eddie Garr, Olga Cooke, Alfred Newman, Charles Previn, Mitzi
Mayfair, Gloria Gilbert, Ray Bolger, Hildegarde, Cantor, Winchell and
Jessel and numerous others equally as talented but whose names escape me
at the moment.

     The manager of Gus' office was Harry Rapf who became a producer and
Vice President of Metro, Goldwin & Mayer.  The stenographer was a Miss
Uhfelder, who would oblige the Edwards by taking me to her home to spend
the nights when they expected to be out too late.  I always welcomed the
opportunities to stay with Miss U and so did Harry Rapf who too, spent
many nights with her.  I hasten to say after she became Mrs. Rapf.  Bert
Wheeler became our office boy and he constandly induced me to pester Gus
into letting me go to the Baseball games, knowing he would get the
afternoon off to take me.  Looking at the gentle, docile, mousey-like
Wheeler now, it is difficult to reconcile the fact that he was the
toughest, fightingest boy, ever to work for Gus.  I don't know just when
he lost his lust for combat.  Perhaps it was the time he was about to
beat up the fourteen year old Jessel and George said, "Bert if you
expect to stay in show business you'll have to stop licking the Jews --
they own it.

     Except when Gus was in the process of staging a new act, we would
be appearing in his "IN PERSON" performances.  I always stood in the
wings and counted it a lost week when I couldn't repeat the routines of
every act on the bill.  One day I came into the dressing room and
screwing up my face, I sang a song called "Everything depends on Money",
just the way Sadie Janson, the girl on the bill did it.  Gus said it was
the greatest imitation of Eddie Foy he had ever seen.  I didn't even
know it was Eddie Foy I was doing.  I thought it was Sadie Janson.  She,
it seems, was clowning Foy.  Gus, excitedly whisked me over to the Lambs
Club to see Foy.  The great old comedian was thrilled as I did my
imitation of him.  He invited me to visit his home and meet his
children.  A few days later I was seated across the breakfast table from
him in his New Rochelle Hame.  His seven children watched me imitate
their father.  When I finished, he gave Charlie, one of the older boys,
a resounding whack and roared, "See there...  Here is a kid who never
saw me in his life.  He can imitate me and you can't".  Charlie learned.
In return for teaching me how to ride his bycicle, I taught Charlie how
to imitate his father.  Imitations came easy to me and the people I
imitated were very cooperative and helpful.  Raymond Hitchcock, Sam
Bernard and Fannie Brice were particularly kind.  E.  H. Southern spent
many hours with me perfecting the accents, inflections and intonations
used in some of his Shakespearean roles.  Mimicry, is in itself the
finest means of acquiring training and knowledge of the theatre for
aspiring young talent.  To give a good imitation of a good singer,
besides having a voice, one must perfect the tones, style and phrasings
of that singer. to successfully imitate a great dancer one must master
the rhythm, grace and execution of that dancer.  Valuable instruction
can be obtained in the dramatic arts by the study and copying of actors
and actresses who have perfected those arts.  As a precocious child
prodigy, it was my ambition to be versatile.  To b e able to do anything
I had seen anything I had seen any person do on a stage, even to
wire-walking, acrobatics and trampoline stunts.  Some of the brightest
stars commenced their careers by doing imitations.  I never quite got
away from imitations although they later took the form of satirical
impressions, and created a great deal of ill feeling between myself and
those I satirized.  The trick of satirizing a well know personality, is
to discover the weaknesses of the artist and over-emphasize them, Harry
Richman was particularly resentful of my satirization of him.  Although
Harry is a virile he-man, a thoroughly regular fellow off stage, he
developed a sissy-like, preening manner on stage and I presented him in
this light together with my observations of his "life or death" struggle
to reach a high note that is no longer within his range.  I'M truly
sorry that Harry is no longer my friend.  I consider him the greatest
popular song singer of the late 1920's and early 30s.  Cantor and others
have taken my lampooning of them in good grace but Jessel has come to
dislike it and I hardly blame him.  Because of me, a colossal myth about
his singing has sprung up.  I was seated at a table with him and several
friends one day and jokingly imitated him.  As I reached the end of each
phrase I went off key.  Jessel laughed heartily and so did the others at
the table.  A few of them requested me to repeat it in my act.  It soon
became a part of my regular routine.  The canard of Jessel singing off
key became so generally accepted that he, in self defense admitted it,
and made jokes about it.  At this late date, I want to confess that
while I never considered Jessel a good singer, he definitely does not
sing off key.

     In 1910, Gus Edwards startled the Vaudeville world by producing the
most ambitious and lavish presentation ever to be seen.  It was called
the "Song Revue", a Fountain of Youth in six scenes.  The production was
as extravagant as any Zeigfeld or Schubert Revue.  Gus, not only wrote,
directed, produced and financed the Song Revue, but he also appeared in
it.  And so on the day of the tryout in Union Hill, Now Jersey, it was
understandable that he had forgotten some important details.  One of
these details was the one involving the children to be used in the
"Jimmie Valentine" number.  This was the number in which Gus and I
travestied H. B. Warner, who as Jimmie Valentine, the master crook,
sand-papered his fingers and cracked a safe.  In the play, the contents
of the safe were important papers but in our travesty, the treasure was
children.  An hour before our world premiere performance, Gus decided he
needed a few more young children.  Jessel looked young enough and so did
Walter Winchell.  Crissy Joss and Corinne Malvern suited perfectly but
Gus wanted a few more smaller ones.  He walked out of the stage door and
on the street corner, he discovered a group of kiddies playing Marbles
and Jacks.  He noticed one particularly beautiful four year old girl
with jet black hair, large brown eyes and teeth like little rows of
young corn.  He lifted her in his arms and asked her name.  She replied,
Gussie Apfel.  He asked her if she would like to go on the stage and she
lisped "I'll have to ask my Mother".  She directed Gus to her father and
mother, Mr. and Mrs. Carl Apfel, who were Manager and Cook respectively
of a little German restaurant.  They agreed to let the little girs go on
the stage of Gus wauld eat in their restaurant.  Gus promised to bring
the whole company.  The Edwards grew to love the little girl, who he
nicknamed Cuddles, and she grewto love the Edwards.  Soon she came to
live with us.  She became my partner and was featured with me as the
team of Georgie & Cuddles.  We were raised by the Edwards as sister and
brother and were inseparable for many years.  Cuddles blossomed into one
of the mast ravishingly beautiful girls in America and as Lila Lee
became a great Hollywood star.

     The Song Revue proved to be a smashing success and for several
seasons wo toured the Percy Williams, Jeith, Orpheum and Interstate
Circuits to the four corners of America playing three productions of it.
Jessel remained with us for several seasons but Winchell dropped out.
Although Winchell was one of the handsomest bays ever to work for Gus
Edwards, he wasn't one of the most theatrically talented ones.  His
appearances in the Song Revue, and in School Boys and Girls were
relatively unimportant.  The latter act was a revival of the School Day
show designed for Vaudeville.  Walter played the part of the tough kid.
After marrying Rita Green, one of the pretty girls in the act, he teamed
with her in a typical Boy and Girl act playing the "Small Time".
Winchell is always referred to as the "Former Hoofer".  Actually
Walters' act consisted of singing and crossfire comedy as well as
hoofing.

     It was necessary for Cuddles and me to have our lessons in the
"Reading and Writing and Rhythmatic", we were singing about.  And so for
five extra dollars per week, Jack Weiner, one of the boys in the act,
instructed us for two hours daily in the writing rooms of our hotels.
Our second tutor was Arthur Freed.  Arthur had come from fairly well to
do parents, which was unusual among the "kids" in our act and he had a
good education, which was also unusual.  His habit of isolating himself
from the other bays and seeking quiet and solitude for the writing af
his songs, was mis-construed as a snobbish and superior attitude.
Consequently, he became the "Patsy" of the act.  The boys nicknamed him
"Zeke" and made him the mutt of most of the practical jokes.  In his
present capacity as M-G-M producer, charged with the production of their
top musicals, it might cause him to wince a little when others learn
here that he was the only Gus Edwards protege who could not walk in time
to the music.

     The operational expenses of an act such as the Song Revue were
necessarily great.  The railroading of a company of thirty people
requiring private cars, was one of the most costly expenditures.  During
those times when we were playing the routes of an established circuit,
the overhead could be properly budgeted against the income.  However,
when Gus was confronted with the problem of open dates between regular
bookings, he would "roadshow" or wildcat the Song Revue in auditoriums,
halls, or theatres, playing one night stands en route to the opening
date of our Vaudeville circuit city.  These wildcat dates invariably,
shrunk Gus' Bankroll but provided great excitement and adventure for the
company.  On one of these expeditions, Gus enthusiastically, hired a
theatre in Austin, Texas.  Only one person came to the box office.  It
was a kindly old lady seeking a pass, explaining she was Billie Allens'
Mather.  Billie was a Siegfeld girl who later married Johnnie
Hoagland--heir to the Royal Baking Powder fortune.  For our engagement
in Temple, Texas, the house was sold out in advance of our arrival.
However, when it became time to start the show, not a soul was seated in
the auditorium.  We were in a dilemma until the manager explained that
the audience was down at the Court House Square, witnessing a lynching.
We ran down to the Square and watched our audience hang an unfortunate
negro.  Soon they filed into the auditorium and applauded our 'cute'
antics.  They received our performance with enthusiasm although the
performance we gave was not as spectacular as the one they gave for us.

Gus learned that Thrall, Texas was the scene of a great OIL BOOM.  He
was told that the people there were loaded with money and starved for
entertainment.  The nearest town to the Thrall field was the County seat
of Taylor.  Gus hired the auditorium at Taylor, which was located an the
second floor of the County Court House Building.  The only stone or
brick structure in the town.  The basement housed the jail, the Fire
Department occupied quarters on the street level and the County Court
convened on the first floor.  The Sheriff and his Deputies were charged
with the added duties of performing as Fireman and Stage Hands for the
show.  It was true that here was a prosperous community and its
inhabitants were show-hungry.  The house was packed and the audience was
delighted with the show until the Fire alarm rang and our stage hands
deserted us to man the fire wagon.  The audience sat patiently until the
fire was extinguished and show was resumed.

     Trouping with the Song Revue resembled a holiday excursion more
than it did a theatrical company working on the road.  The principal
purpose of the tour seemed to be our recreation rather than our stage
appearances.  The time schedule for our shows were not as important as
the time when we would agree to assemble for horse-back or bicycle
rides.  We organized a baseball team and played all comers.  Teams
composed of Stage Hands and Ushers were our most frequent victims.  As a
celebrity, Gus was lionized and much sought after by the socialites
along our route.  His impromptu drawing-room concerts brought us
invitations and entrees to the best homes in each town.  A millionaire
enjoyed Gus' company so much that he invited the entire company to spend
whole summers in Oconamowoc, Wis.' as his guests.  Gus loved giving
impromptu shows and one of the most colorful ones he staged was in tiny
cow-town of New Mexico.  We were en-route to Salt Lake City from Los
Angeles when a washout on the line, caused, what we were told, would be
a twelve hour delay.  It was eight a.m. when Gus left the train to
"case" the town.  He discovered a movie theatre among the few wooden
structures that made up the town.  Gus thought of poor "Tony", one of
our boys who was seriously ill, lying in his berth on the train, and
decided to give a benefit performance for him.  He sought out the
manager of the theatre, hired it for twenty five dollars and got the
owner of the local weekly newspaper to print up some handbills.  His
next stop was the Barroom and Pool Hall.  For a promise of passes the
cowboys agreed to distribute the handbills.  By ten thirty a score of
hard-riding westerners were rip-snorting through the town and out to the
ranches shouting, "Show Today", and distributing the handbills.  The
furor they created could not have been greater had they been shouting,
"The Indians Are Coming".  By two p.m. a most colorful crowd of western
characters made their way by wagon, horesback, jallopy and on foot to
the box office of the theatre.  The complete Orpheum Circuit bill was
traveling with us so it was arranged that we would do the full show
including the Acrobats and the Four Volunteers quartet.  Nan Halperin
would do her act and Allen Dinehart would do his sketch.  Louis Silvers
played the music for the show on the antiquated piano.  It was the mast
receptive audience we ever played to and the show was going along
swimmingly when the colored Pullman Porter burst in shouting, "Come on
everybody, the trains going".  Gus screamed instructions to us to sing
the Finale March song and march out in single file.  We paraded down the
aisle of the theatre, waving goodbye until we reached the doors.  Then
we broke into a run.  Over the noise we could hear Lou Silvers, sticking
to his piano like a Captain to his sinking ship, thumping away and
screaming, "Wait for me, Wait for me".

     We were more than compensated for our lack of scholastic education.
The personal experiences and on the spot learning was more valuable.  At
the age of twelve, I knew more about American Geography and History than
mast College Boys.  We visited the Mines, National Parks, Redwood
Forests, Forts, Mills, Factories, Historic Battle Grounds, Monuments and
Museums.  Mrs. Edwards wauld drag us to these places with a fanatical
fervor.  She considered it a crime for us to miss any one of them.  Even
when we were home in New York she made sure that we saw all the sights.

     Following the series of Song Revues, Gus produced an act called the
Bandbox Revue starring "Cuddles" Edwards & Georgie Price.  It was the
first time my last name had been used, and the first time we traveled
without the Edwards.  The wardrobe woman acted as our Governess.  My
salary was Fifty Dollars per week and expenses.  Half of the fifty was
sent to Mom and half was to be placed into a bank account by Mrs.
Edwards and saved for me.  Following the Bandbox Rewue, we appeared with
Eddie Cantor and Jessel in the Kid Kabaret.  It was during this
engagement that Florenz Zeigfeld made Gus an offer for Cuddles and me to
do our specialty numbers in the Follies.  Gus told Zeigfeld that he
couldn't take us our of the Kid Kabaret because of its future bookings.
After completing the Kid Kabaret tour and another in a revived
condensation of the Song Rewue, Mrs. Edwards decided that Cuddles and I
should have some real school education.  She enrolled us in the newly
organized Professional Childrens School from which I emerged as the
first boy graduate.  John Drew and Elsie Ferguson presented me with my
Diploma and the New York Times printed my graduation speech.  The thesis
of which was "The Advantage of the Child on the Stage."

     Publicity and exploitation had become such an important part of the
Motion picture business that Jesse Lasky and the Paramount Executives
boasted that they could take almost any pretty little girl and make her
a star before she actually had been soon in a picture.

After a short test of Cuddles, they decided she would be the girl with
whom they could prove it.  Her still pictures appeared on the covers of
all the Fan magazines and newspapers in the country and proclaimed her
as LILA LEE, Paramount's Newest Star.  Mrs. Edwards suggested the name
of Lila Lee and after many conferences at Paramount it was accepted.  So
at the age of 14, Cuddles was on her way to Hollywood with all the
Ballyhoo and build-up that Paramount could muster.  She was an extremely
beautiful but tall child.  She had grown perceptably between the time
the contract had been signed and the production of her first picture,
which was to be titled, "Puppy Love".  She had also commenced to bulge
alarmingly.  After a series of conferences, starvation diets and
tortuous strappings, Lila and Paramount rushed "Puppy Love" through to
completion.  Lila survived the awkward stage and in time rewarded
Paramount by becoming one of their most popular Stars.  Puppy love in
real life was coming to me.  Until Cuddles left for Hollywood, I
regarded her as a sister but soon I felt that I was in love with her.
We had been together constantly for years and I was lonesome for her.  I
yearned to got to California to marry her but decided that would have to
wait for the time when I too would be a star and meet her on equal
footing.  My career was dragging along wery discouragingly.  Gus was
busily engaged in producing and writing a series of Restaurant, Hotel
and Cabaret entertainments.  It was "Good-bye Broadway, Hello France"
and the public whooped for entertainment.  His shows at Reisenwebers,
The Shelburne, The McAlpin, and Hendersons were pretententious and
extravagant but there seemed to be no place in them for me.  I was too
young for the war and too young for Cabaret work.  I was still living
with the Edwards' and somehow I had the impression that Gus' would use
me in one of his new productions.  After several months passed and I was
still un-employed, Mrs. Edwards advised me that Lila was coming to New
York for a visit and that she would need my room.  She suggested that
for fifteen dollars per week, I could board at her sisters house.  She
would pay the fifteen dollars until I could get a job.  I realized then
that my days as a Gus Edwards protege were ended.  When I asked for the
money she had saved for me, she seemed to resent the idea that they owed
me anything, and so I never spoke about it again.  I shouldn't have
asked.  They owed me nothing.  In fact, I owed them so much that could
never be repaid.  I was so indebted to them for the years of tender care
they had given me and for all advantages they had provided for me, for
their efforts to guide and teach me what was right an wrong.  It was my
good fortune to be raised by the finest woman I've ever known.

     I had no money and I needed a job.  I remembered the offer Zeigfeld
made to Gus for Cuddles and me so I went to his office and asked for an
audition.  He heard me and said he would use me in his new Frolics on
the New Amsterdam Roof.  Zeigfeld told me that he had a great idea for
presenting me.  I soon learned what the great idea was and what inspired
it.  Eddie Cantor was appearing in the Follies and was feuding with
Zeigfeld.  Eddie was a terrific hit and bitter about the billing he was
receiving.  He demanded that a photograph of him be displayed in front
of the theatre.  Zeigfeld was adamant, insisting that only his girls
photos would be displayed.  Early one morning, Cantor gathered up all
the frames and pictures of Lillian Lorrane, Zeigfeld's sweetheart, and
placed them in the ladies toilet.  Zeigfeld was furious.  The manner in
which he would present me would be his answer to Mr. Cantor.  He told me
that I was to sing, act and dress exactly like Cantor.  I was to be
another Cantor but not as an announced imitator.  I timidly suggested to
him that I didn't think the audience would like the idea of someone
stealing Cantors act and perhaps it would be better to announce it as on
imitation, doing one chorus instead of three numbers.  Zeigfeld assured
me he knew best and that I would be a big hit.  I had never used
blackface before and after a few botchy tries, I appealed to kindly old
Bert Williams who showed me how to apply the burnt cork.  Early in the
show I had done a cute Barrel number with Yvonne Shelton and Mary Hay
and I had plenty of time to apply the burnt cork before my specialty
number.  Will Rogers did a riotous routine, Holbrook Blinn did a
beautiful Tableaux Sketch with the girls, Bee Palmer making her New York
debut was a sensational success and so was DeLisle Alda.  Bert Williams
was brought back for many encores.  As the orchestra played my
introduction, I bounced out on the stage in typical Cantor style.  The
audience thinking it was a surprise appearance of Cantor, gave me a
thunderous reception.  I had the white-rimmed glasses, the black, long
flowing Windsor Tie, black alpaca suit and white socks.  I felt like
Cantor and had I finished after the first chorus, I'm sure that the
Opening night, show wise crowd, would have considered it a great
imitation of Cantor and let it go at that.  The first number went over
fine.  During the second one, however, I could hear the audience arguing
about whether or not I was really Cantor.  The third number brought
audible outright resentment which I could hear until I exited.  I rushed
back to acknowledge the applause that wasn't there.  Only Mr. and Mrs.
Edwards applauded.  The next day I was handed my "resignation".  It was
the Great Zeigfeld who guessed wrong but it was I who got fired.  When I
questioned Gus as to what he thought my next move should be, he answered
that he was going to be terribly busy and that I should do what I
pleased.  In the earlier Song Revue days, when the boys were angry with
me, they would say, "Wait until you grow up, and your voice changes, you
won't be cute and no one will look at you".  I was sure that those days
had caught up to me

In my dispair, my all-absorbing thought was to get three hundred dollars
and open a candy store in Brooklyn.  I didn't have the three hundred so
I wrote a "single" act for myself instead.  Fannie Brice informed me
that Blanche Merrill who wrote many songs for her, had a clever
recitation that would fit me perfectly.  It was true, the recitation was
just what I needed but Blanche wanted five hundred for it.  I asked Mom
for the money.  I explained how important that recitation was to my act.
But it was no use.  Mom said she would write a recitation for me herself
and she actually tried to.  Poor Mom.  Her days of poverty on the east
side had made her miserly.  Despite the sizable bank account she now had
and the house she purchased with my salaries, whe would have to be
tricked into buying a new pair of shoes for herself.  I finally talked
Blanche into letting me use the recitation on an easy payment plan.
Proctor's Theatre in Newark was considered one of the best theatres in
which to try-out a vaudeville act.  I went directly to the theatre and
booked a date there.  My Zeigfeld engagement was good reference.  I was
to receive $57.50 for four days.  The manager's report to the booking
office on my act must have been sensational.  The day after my opening a
mob of agents came to Newark seeking to represent me.  After proving a
hit in several try-out theatres, I was booked into the Palace.  THE
PALACE, WOW, the Mecca, the Shrine, the goal, the ultimate aim of all
Vaudevillians.  I had to be a hit.  I devised a scheme to insure my
success at the opening performance.  Vaudeville was the best means of
popularizing a song so the Music Publishers wined, dined, bribed or made
outright payments to get a song into the act playing the Palace.  If
their song was a hit there, scores of other acts would want to sing it.
And to make sure it was a hit, the publisher would have a claque on hand
at the theatre.  I learned a song from the catalogue of each of the six
leading publishers and told each one that I would sing his song as one
of my encores.  The publishers claques never stopped applauding.
Although I did several encores, I never did several encores, I never did
sing their songs.  I was a riot.


The bane of a vaudeville managers' existence, was the "Single Woman"
headliner.  There were some who deserved the Headline position because
of their drawing power, others, because of their theatrical talents.
Unfortunately, they were in the minority.  A great many enjoyed the star
spot thru their Boudoir talents and the patronage of a Circuit head or
booking manager.  In most instances, it was the latter she-devil type
who kept the local theatre manager, the booking office and her fellow
performers in a constant state of panic.  Her persistent efforts to
completely dominate the show led her to make unreasonable demands.  She
dictated the manner in which the names of the other acts appeared on the
Billboard, the time of their appearance in the show and the length of
their act.  She would permit no act to eclipse hers.  If another act
were an out-standing success, she would find means to dim that success.
It was during my first engagement at the Palace, that I ran afoul of one
of these Single Women Headliners.  At the opening performance, I was
fourth on the bill, immediately preceding her.  She complained about
having to follow me.  At the next performance, I was placed second
immediately following the acrobats.  Although most of my act was hurt by
the disturbance and noise of the late-comers, I remained a success.  She
then refused to have me appear at all before she could make an
appearance herself.  I was placed in the next to last position which
brought a double objection from her.  She claimed that my success caused
the audience to forget her and further, she would not permit anyone in
the show to sing a popular song but her.  I omitted my songs-doing only
my imitations and finished the week closing the show.  A spot generally
reserved for the acrobats.  Flinging modesty to the winds, I claim the
achievement of a feat never before accomplished.  The audience remained
in their seats after the lowering of the Asbestos curtain, applauded
throughout the entire Exit March and refused to leave until the curtain
was lifted and I did an encore.  Knowing the situation, the theatre
personnel was as pleased as I was.  It brought me a two year booking.

     It was the golden era of Vaudeville.  That form of entertainment
was so popular and presented in so many theatres, that I played two
entire seasons without leaving Nwe York City and its neighboring
environs.  This is as good a time as any to expound one of my pet
theories.  "Will Vaudeville ever come back?".  I claim it never went
away.  When you see Sophie Tucker, Ted Lewis, Danny Kaye, Edgar Bergen
or myself, we are doing our vaudeville acts.  The acts differ only in
the respect that they have nowbbecome part of a Night Club, Movie, TV or
Radio presentation.  Vaudeville was so wall intrenched that a "Standard
Act" was a commodity.  Contracts covering circuit bookings could be
taken to a bank, your agent or the booking office and used as collateral
for sizeable loans.  Next to Burlesque, Vaudeville was the greatest
school for theatrical experience.  "Milking" and audience was considered
the height of "showmanship".  Milking an audience is the method by which
an actor can prolong the applause long after it would naturally cease.
The tricks are many, varied and very carefully devised.  One of the most
successful tricks is to ask the audience for request.  By doing the
least requested numbers and holding out the one getting the most
requests, the audience would continue the demand for encores until they
heard the desired one.  Eddie Leonard, the last of the Minstrels, was
the greatest exponent of that method.  Another milking trick was to keep
a leg or an arm in view of the audience as you bowed off.  Dooley and
Sales made an art of this form of milking.  Bowing with a musical
instrument or prop as yet unseen, would bring an extra bow or two.  Some
acts while bowing would bring out an infant child and wave its hand to
the audience.  It was very rare for a dramatic sketch to "stop the show"
but Allen Brooks, a talented actor, accomplished it at every performance
regardless of how few people were in the theatre.  He did it with a well
rehearsed trick, of manipulating the curtain while he was bowing.  It
would have to be raised and lowered for each bow.  The second rise of
the curtain found him upstage.  He would walk toward the audience,
presumably to make a speech, but the curtain would be timed to drop
before him as he reached the curtain line.  The raising of the curtain
would find him with his back to the audience, wildly gesticulating and
showing his extreme displeasure at the unseen stage hands.  Suddenly
wheeling, he would feign the realization that he was in view of the
audience, and walk forward with the curtain again lowered before he
could reach the footlights.  After this maneuver was repeated, the
audience was convinced that the stage hands were conspiring to keep
Brooks from addressing them.  Their vociferous applause showed their
determination to hear him.  Neither the public nor the critics detected
this inspired piece of "showmanship" but the acts on the bill were full
of admiration for Brooks and his display of the art of "Milking in its
highest form".  Al Herman, the Black face comedian, employed an
ingenious bit of artifice.  During his act, he would tell the audience,
surreptitiously, "Folks, you should hear the terrible way the other
actors on this bill talk about you.  They say you're a tough and
unappreciative audience.  Just to spite them, give me a terrific hand
and make me come Back".

     Harry C. Conroy a clever but hard-driving comedian did a sketch
immediately preceding my act for many weeks on the Orpheum Circuit.
Harry was a great laugh-getter but when the audience was "tough" he
would fill in the silent spaces where the laughs should be, by making
loud grunts or imitate the neighing of a horse.  Seated in my dressing
room, I could always tell in advance from his grunting and neighing,
just what to expect from the audience.



     The moment after I learned I was booked to play in Los Angeles, I
wired to Cuddles.  She answered with an invitation to stay in her house
in Hollywood during my engagement there.  I was thrilled.  I missed her
so badly and now at last I was to see her again.  I couldn't picture
myself being married to any other girl.  When I arrived in Los Angeles,
she met me at the station.  Her greeting to me was enthusiastic enough
but not what had I fancied it would be.  Her kiss was like the kiss of a
sister to a brother just returning home for the holidays after his first
semester in college.  The swift peck on the cheek was in indication of
her feelings.  As we drove to her home, she advised me that her Mother
and Father were visiting her but there would still be room for me and
that I was to go and come as I pleased.  Feel perfectly at home.  She
would be busy at the studio and although her social engagements were
heavy, there would be times when we could be alone and talk over the old
days.  Lila had gone Hollywood; but not in the derogatory meaning that
expression has come to imply.  She had an air of sonstant excitement.
The forced gaiety in conversation. the obvious effort to dismiss an
important happening with a flippant remark and the same effort to be
scintillating with small talk.  No..  Lila was no longer "my Cuddles".
She was making an heroic effort in spite of her exhausting schedule.
When she was at home, we managed a bit of conversation between her
incessant phone calls.  At sixteen, poor Cuddles was insufferably
"Hollywood".  As she swept out of the house in the evening, she would
announce, with a florish, she was "having dinner with Charles".  For me
to ask "Charles who", aw definitely a faux pas.  "Chaplin, of course"
she would answer.  To the Hollywood world, I learned that there is only
one Charles, Robert, William or Gloria, and that is the one that is
currently the most successful.  It was difficult for me to reconcile
myself to Lila's english accent, especially when I was seated across the
table from her parents who spoke with a thick German dialect.  Her
father moved in a strange mysterious manner.  He would leave the house
at sun-up and return sometime after sun-down.  His stealthy, cat-like
comings and goings suggested that he was playing hide and seek with some
sinister forces.  Actually, he was trying to avoid capture by the Police
authorities and certain elements of a murderous Chicago gang.  He had
taken over the management of the North Turn Verein Hall in Chicago at
the beginning of the Ist World War.  It was a spacious place with a
dining hall capable of seating and serving two thousand people at one
meal, and catered to the German people of Chicago.  At the time when it
was unsafe to call hamburger steak anything but Victory Steak, the North
Turn Verein Hall was jammed to capacity with Germans singing Deuchtland
Uber Alles and toasting the German cause to the tune of a twenty-five
piece orchestra.  When I entered the hall one Sunday, I thought, "Is
this Chicago?  Illinois?  U.S.A?, was I really on North Clark Street or
Unter Den Linden?  Are we really at war with the Germans?