By O. O. McIntyre //
The late Frank Bacon was a typical vaudevillian. When he rode the high wave of success I noticed that between the matinee and evening performances he was usually to be found with a group in front of the N. V. A., telling jokes and accepting jibes. At the N. V. A.’s weekly Sunday dinner, where each guest contributes to an impromptu performance, you will find a top-liner entertaining an animal act man, a juggler or the broken down old fellow who perennially opens the show with his “While-strolling-through-the-park-one-day “ ditty. It is a hurrying life they lead and most of them in a few years tire of the grind and plan for a cottage in their country. But they rarely achieve their heart’s desire. The lure of greasepaint remains until the final curtain. They are streaked with sentiment. Almost any issue of Variety, the two-a-day official journal, carries column after column of anniversary cards of loving memory from those who are here to those who have gone. Before me is one which reads: “To dear old Jim who died in 1912. My prayer goes out to you nightly from my prison cell. You Loving Partner, Sam.”
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