O.O. McIntyre
Wilmington Morning News/November 3, 1920
NEW YORK, Nov. 2.—Raymond Hitchcock is established on this gay island as a theatrical institution. A rumor trickles from the Rialto that a theatre is shortly to be built and named for the comedian, and here he will cavort from one season to the other. For several seasons he has been presenting a light, frothy musical melange, but it is Hitchcock they go to see.
His easy familiarity of appearing before the curtain and greeting the audience as it arrives, calling them by name, introducing one to the other, explaining the plot of the show and even leaving the stage to shake hands with some notable or other constitutes an evening’s entertainment in itself.
The men-about-town and women, too, who crave public attention dote on this sort of thing. It means much to their warped standards to be recognized in a public place. It is said that one man, aching for publicity, sent an emissary to Hitchcock with a note describing himself and a check for $200 to call him by name as he entered. The actor waited until he arrived and silently presented him with an envelope bordered in black. Inside, without comment, was the $200 check. Hitchcock, like Fred Stone, is a super-clown and an acrobat. He does not hesitate to interrupt the performance at any point.
Hence in the middle of the second act he suddenly appears, holds up his hands as though he has something of vast importance, something that cannot wait, to tell the audience. The show stops. Hitchcock, telegram in hand, announces, “I have the honor to report that Philadelphia has just completed its quota for the Third Liberty Loan.”
Some nights patrons find him selling tickets In the box office. Other nights he is acting as head usher, and upon one occasion after the show he was outside in uniform, solemnly performing the duties of the carriage starter.
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There is a hoity-toity attitude developing among the hotels and restaurants regarding the government’s investigation of their food prices. They have appointed a spokesman and refuse to see the investigators. Those who call are referred to their spokesman, who is in turn surrounded by lawyers. It is plain that food prices are not to be lowered without a struggle. Perhaps a little solitude in a cell might soften their hearts toward the government so they would at least answer questions of investigators.
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On upper Broadway there is a little cigar and stationery shop where husbands of the neighborhood drop in of evenings to smoke and chat. There is a large chair that is always empty. But it sits in the circle. It is all proof that sentiment may be found in unusual places. The chair was a favorite resting place of John Bunny, the late film comedian, who loafed there when he was in town. The neighborhood loved him. Across the street is a theatre named for him.
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For eighteen years he has lived in a Bowery lodging house. He came and left daily at certain hours. And as was the custom, paid for his lodging nightly. Two weeks ago he disappeared. When he returned, he came to say good-bye. He was going to the south of France to loaf the rest of his life. He had by frugality saved $10 a week out of a salary of $20. And on the way to the pier he was robbed of it all, save his second-class ticket. Now he is back as a lodger, going and coming with the same regularity.
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