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Show THE CUNNING CHORUS GIRL. There is no getting ahead of the chorus girl, says the New York Press. We hear of Mrs. James Brown potter having to sell all her effects to pay her bills. We read of leading men and leading women going to court for a beggarly $300. Succeeding Suc-ceeding editions keep us posted on the apparently apparent-ly interminable war between Belasco and the "syndicate." But did anybody ever hear of a chorus girl getting the worst of a deal? If so, let him rise and narrate. On the corner of Thirty-fourth street and Broadway last night, at about the time when Sam Bernard, inside the Herald Square, was throwing his second spasm in the effort to pronounce pro-nounce the word "liniment," two chorus girls met and talked. "Hello, Mazie!" said one, eyeing the other's gown critically. Still living at the hotel?" "No, Mona, dear, I'm no longer there," replied the other, arranging her hair with the aid of the nearest plate-glass window. "I'm up on Forty-seventh Forty-seventh street now, in the dearest little flat. I just love it. But, say, I certainly did make that hotel manager look like a short super in the rear rank. "You see, I owed him $245 for board and room rent. And what kind of a chance of paying it this summer did I have with nothing but roof gardens gar-dens and phonograph concerts on Broadway? Well, one day I received a note from him. It wasn't the first one, you know, Mona, but it was worded differently from the rest. It practically prac-tically said I could pay the $245 that morning or get out. "What did I do? Well, you know, my dear, I am honest, so I squared the bill. I also got out of the hotel, and the whole operation cost me absolutely nothing. I don't know who paid I didn't. Some one, I suppose, was stuck. "When I received his nasty old note I remembered remem-bered a promise which a friend of mine had made to me. He told me I could order a complete new street outfit this summer, and he would pay for it. 'All right, Billy,' I thought, 'now's the time to test your faithfulness.' So I hied me to a shop and I picked out a perfect dream of a gown marked $110. A hat marked $30, a pair of slippers at $9, six pairs of stockings at $1.50 per, a white pique suit at $40, three shirt waists at $10 each, and some gloves and veils and things brought the whole bill up to $245. "When I told them to send the stuff up to the hotel they did it, for they knew me, and I had always paid my bills. When they arrived I untied all the packages and' spread the things out on the davenport, on the chairs, on the mantelpiece and on the t u. The gown, the hat, and the stockings I tied together and pinned on them a piece of paper reading: 'These are worth $149 They pay for my board.' "The slippers, the pique suit and shirt waist I made into another bundle and wrote on it: 'Scratch out my room rent bill. These cost $79. Take them in remembrance of me.' The gloves and veils and things I tied up and labeled 'To incidentals, in-cidentals, $13.' "Then I put on my hat, called an expressman, had my own things taken up on Forty-seventh street, and walked out. And, Mona, dear, you will come up and see." |