"
Inside, at one end, is the long wooden bar, presided over by some thug
of the highest order, with a big diamond stuck in the centre of a broad
expanse of white shirt front. At the other end is the so-called stage,
while scattered about indiscriminately are the tables and chairs. The
air is filled--yea, reeking--with the fumes of bad whiskey, stale beer,
and the odor of foul smelling cheap tobacco smoke, and through all this
haze the would-be "show," goes on, and the applause is manifested by
whistles, cat calls, the pounding of feet on the floor and glasses on
the tables. Occasionally some artist (?) will appear who does not seem
to strike the popular fancy and will be greeted by a beer glass or
empty bottle being fired at his or her head.
Now, at the time of which I speak, my prospects were very slim, and as
nature had endowed me with a fair singing voice, I had just about made
up my mind to go to the Palace Variety Theatre and ask for a position as
a vocalist. I could, at least, sing as well as some of the theatrical
bygones that graced the place. The price of admission in one of these
places is simply the price of a drink.
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