Martinsburg independent. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1875-1900, 1897-12-18
THE WOOING OF THE GRIP.
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
BY JOHN LANDoN HEAToN.
CHAPTER 1.

A dense winter fog covered New
York when I turned down the side
street toward the stage door, as
lonely man, l dare say, as the
town held.
1t was preposterous weather. The
damp air was chilly if one leitered,
oppressive if he hurried. The thick
reek hid the outlook and turned the
streets lights into soft disks of glow
ing yellow, frayed at the edges by
the gloom. Spectres and COLLINS
peopled it, and huge, unoanny shad-
ows were cast upward against it by
the low hung carriage lamps.
One mysterious blur of light leap
ed out at me from cross street, and
above it lowered the figures of two
crouchiDg giants. Then they shrank
into hardy wheelmen pedalling a
tandem, and / was aware of dis.
proportionate resentment against
childish folks who could 60 pleasur-
ing in such weather, and the happy
Christmas faces | saw renewed the
sense of injury.
The smell Of the painted scenery
heartened me when 1 reached the
theatre. If I could have shifted the
odor of escaping gas I might have
been almost happy, for it would
have minded me of days before the
electrics, when "gripped" for Booth
and Mccullough, and had a mother.
Besides, Miss Ford's face soon
made me forget my grumpy mood.
Before she covered the tell-tale
traces with dabs Of powder on her
nose and chin ard eyes and smouch-
es of red on her checks, / saw that
she had been crying, and | had the
grace to be ashamed of having sulk-
ed for no reason.
"Come, Miss Ford,'' l said, as she
leaned for moment against the
wind machine, "look little bright
er, child. Christmas is coming
"Not for me-" she said, gulping
down big sob.
She was a quiet thing, Miss Ford,
who marched as a drummer boy
not from love OF tinsel, or greed of
roses, but because of some such
stress as stageland knowe.
When the call came it was as if a
bevy of butterflies in white and pink
and orange and black and gauze and
gilt had futtered out on the stage
to preen their freed wings and cele-
brate their escape from the net.
But my eyes were fixed by one
tiny figure that marched through
the maze as if in dream, clutching
the drumsticks in tiny pair of fists,
and to face that was set like q
painted mask of sorrow.
Not that I had much time for
star-gazing.
1t is busy work behind the scenes
of a ballet, with the wind MACHINE
whizziDg and the buckshot rain rat.
thing in its tray, the electricians
launching Jove's lightnings. and the
suaye stage manager, with the ineri-
table red rose at his lapel, pulling
the cord that frees his canuon.b ball
thunder.
| have known the time when six
weary men would try to strike a
scene, the audience laughing and
stamping beyond the curtain at their
nervous hammer strokes.
Now l keep thirty.fye "grips, at
work, and all the heavier scenes are
SO arranged to roll on casters that
In twenty seconds on darkened
stage battlemented castles glide
away and new slides take their
places, while flies and borders drop
like magic, and the lights flash up
once moro.
1t is like magic. Their again
shines the stage in its new splendors
and beyond it the great audience, SO
cleaning in silk, sparkling With jew
els and bubbling over with applause
that one would say, to look at 1t,
there could not be darkness or sor.
row or suffering anywhere.
Pretty soon | spoke 10 Miss Ford
again, watching my opportunity.
what is the matter, child?u
said, for ] am well past thirty and a
veteran Of twenty years abehind.a