“Say, you know the night we opened in the Garden? Well, we was playin’ ‘The Holy City’ for the guy in spangles what rolls hissef up the spiral. The music plot was ‘Holy City’ to the top, a little of the shiver while he was makin’ the last turn, an’ then a lot of brass an’ bing-bing when he makes the rush to the ring. Well, the boys were playin’ the ‘Holy City’ fine and daisy when the equestrian director comes across the track an’ whispers:
“‘Here’s Dewey comin’ up by the reserved section.’
“So I knows he wants somethin’ appropriate, an’ I gives the signal for ‘Here Comes a Sailor.’ Well, them twenty-eight switches like a limited on a clear track an’ the crowd on the boards goes wild. But the guy in the tin ball, he’s been kneelin’ it up to ‘The Holy City,’ an’ when the music changes to swift he can’t work his knees fas’ enough an’ he lets go an’ nearly breaks his back. He calls me a Dutch somethin’, I didn’t jes’ catch, an’ it costs him 25 fine off the pay sheet.
“An’ speakin’ about noise, fifteen year ago I leaves home, where I was workin’ in a harness factory and leadin’ the Silver Cornet Band in the evenin’, an’ goes on the road with a medicine show. We has one of them long-haired boys doin’ the fake dentist an’ pullin’ teeth without pain while his wife does the female doctor an’ sells pills. We six brass has to play when Doc an’ his wife is workin’, an’ in the mornin’ go back of the stage an’ roll pills an’ put ’em in fancy boxes what Doc sells with the packages of Australian gold pens, the little joker transparent cards an’ the South American Cyroola Corn Cure what he gives away to each an’ every purchaser of Dr. Sorino’s Death Delayin’ Pellets.
“Well, the game was to git some coon in the crowd to come up on the stage an’ have his tooth pulled for nothin’ an’ without pain. Doc gets the moke in the chair an’ makes his spiel ’bout the great pain killer he has an’ says it won’t hurt the boy on the velvet. The band was all brass except Cooney Watson, who was playin’ a kettle drum an’ workin’ the bass and cymbals with a pedal. While Doc was gittin’ the forceps on the tooth we played soft an’ quiet like an’ as soon as he gives the jerk we lets loose with a march an’ you can’t hear nigger man holler to save your life. It was great, an’ it worked the countries all the times. Cooney would make you think there was a thunder storm comin’ up the way he beat them drums.
“But poor Cooney. Doc picks up six Indians to make the show stronger an’ introduce his famous Indian bitters. The red boys had a new moon an’ asks Cooney to loan ’em the drum to do the Tom Tom. Cooney says no an’ the Big Chief gets good an’ sore, but says nothin’. The next day we has a parade an’ we brass is on top of a wagon with Doc’s ads, painted on the side. The Indians is ridin’ along behind us. Well, say, we had hardly hit the main street when the Indian what was sore on the drummer throws his lariat and lassos poor Cooney off the wagon, drums an’ all, into the middle of a bunch of cows what was gettin’ weighed. He was pretty bad, so we shipped him home.”
“That ain’t Cooney beatin’ the drum with us, is it?” asks the Boss Canvasman as he tied a long running knot in the guy rope to the net under the swings for the brother act.
“No indeed,” says the Leader, “Cooney never joins out again. The las’ I seen of him he was workin’ at his trade out in Indianny—he was paintin’ the roof of the courthouse when we had the parade.”