Mr. Blight and his upper

A gentleman of the theatre receives the wrong end of a boomerang from the wrong kind of ticket speculators

DEEMS TAYLOR

Arrived at the Grand Central Station, Mr.

Blight alighted from his taxi still clutching the telegram that had ruined his luncheon at the Astor. It was from Chicago, and it announced that Mr. Blight's musical comedy, The Mortal Sin, which had opened so auspiciously at the La Salle three weeks before, was going badly; so badly, in fact, that unless Mr. Blight could think of something drastic, it must close on Saturday night. And here it was Wednesday.

Mr. Blight waddled to the ticket window as fast as his girth and his luncheon would permit. "Lower on the Century 'safternoon," he gasped.

The ticket-seller removed his cigar and blew a reflective ring.

"No lowers."

"All right. An upper. Or a drawing-room."

"No uppers. Nothing at all on the Century."

"How about the Lake Shore?"

"Nothing on the Lake Shore."

"Is there any good train," Mr. Blight demanded in desperation, "that will get me to Chicago before tomorrow night?"

The man behind the window stifled a yawn. "Nothing to Chicago. All sold out for the next six weeks."

"But I gotta get to Chicago!" wailed Mr. Blight. "What'll I do?"

The other gave a very, very slight shrug. "Might try the Pennsylvania."

Mr. Blight took a taxi to the Pennsylvania Station.

"I'd like a lower to Chicago, this afternoon. Or an upper," he added.

The man at the ticket window was telephoning, however, and had no ears for Mr. Blight.

"Hello. That you, Bill? What'll you have? Drawing-room for Chicago, today? Sure I can. Name of Ginsberg. Right. They'll pick 'em up? Right. S'long."

He put down the receiver and looked, not exactly at Mr. Blight, but in his general direction.

"I'd like a lower for Chicago—" that gentleman began, unhappily.

"Nothing for Chicago."

"Well, an upper, then."

"Nothing at all for Chicago. All sold out for the next six weeks."

"But I gotta get to Chicago—" Mr. Blight's voice trailed off. The other had turned his back, and was sorting tickets in the rack.

Mr. Blight took a taxi to the Lackawanna station. He found the ticket-seller absorbed in a newspaper.

"I wonder if I could get a lower—or an upper—for Chicago, the first train out this afternoon?"

The student continued to pore over his newspaper.

Mr. Blight lost his temper. "Hey, you!" he shouted, "I want a ticket for Chicago, and I want it quick."

The bookworm put down his paper.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! I gotta get to Chicago right away, and I want a ticket."

"You'll have to wait, buddy, if you want to go on this road. All sold out for the next six weeks." The newspaper went up again.

Mr. Blight took a taxi to the Erie station, where he found the ticket-seller chatting with two friends.

Mr. Blight coughed. The chat continued. He coughed again, louder, and tapped upon the window. The ticket-seller looked around, saw that it was only a customer, and resumed his chat. Mr. Blight tapped again.

"I was wondering if I could get some sort of ticket that would get me to Chicago by—" he began, timidly.

One of the three arose, gave Mr. Blight a dirty look, and closed the window with a bang.

Mr. Blight, for no particular reason, took a taxi back to the Grand Central Station. There he noticed something. Something peculiar. The United Cigar Store was gone from the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue, just across from the station. The shop-windows, instead of displaying their wonted boxes of cigars, pipes, razor blades, and tubes of tooth-paste, showed pictures of trains, close-ups of locomotives, seating diagrams of Pullman cars, portraits of smiling Pullman porters. A large sign in front announced: CHOICE SEATS FOR ALL TRAINSSLEEPERS FOR CHICAGO, ST. LOUIS AND LOS ANGELES.

Mr. Blight went in.

When he emerged, he was the possessor of a ticket entitling him to an upper berth on an accommodation train of the N. Y. C., St. L. & 0. Railroad. The train left Jersey City at 2:3o A.M. Thursday, and was due to reach Chicago at 2:I3 P.M., Friday. It had cost him §235.16.

He stood on the corner, staring listlessly at the long lines of motionless taxis and surface cars that so typify the rush and bustle of our great metropolis. Then a glint of resolution shone in his eye. Straightening his shoulders, he marched into the Grand Central Building and demanded to see the president of the railroad.

The president glanced at the card that Mr. Blight had sent in.

"Not Mr. Isaac Blight, the theatrical producer?" Mr. Blight bowed. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Blight?"

Mr. Blight cleared his throat. "I tried to get a lower berth on the Twentieth Century this afternoon, and the ticket agent said you were all sold out for the next six weeks."

The president's expression was a striking mixture of regret and gratification. "Yes," he murmured, "our road does seem to be very popular this season. A real hit."

"And when I tried to get a ticket at the agency," continued Mr. Blight, "they wanted three hundred and twenty-five for an upper, and four hundred for a lower."

The president made the noise that all writers transcribe as "tehk, tchk"—possibly because it doesn't sound in the least like that. "They really shouldn't ask prices like that," he said. "It's outrageous."

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"What I want to know is," said Mr. Blight, "what are you people going to do about it?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," explained the president, "there's really nothing we can do. With a road as popular as ours,"—again he strove to look regretful—"it's utterly impossible to keep our tickets out of the hands of speculators. And as for the agencies—well, Mr. Blight, consider our position. Those Chicago trains are practically the only hit we have. We run trains to St. Louis, and to Kansas City, and Omaha, Nebraska. You don't, by any chance, want to go to Omaha?"

"1 do not."

"There you are. Our Kansas City and Omaha trains are practically Hops. And when a big hit, like our Twentieth Century, does come along, and the agencies guarantee to buy all the lowers and most of the uppers for six weeks in advance—well, we have a big investment to protect, you know."

The president toyed with the papers on his desk. "Was there something else?" he inquired politely.

Mr. Blight said there wasn't. He left the Grand Central Building and went to call upon the president of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

"Your ticket agent told me there wasn't anything for Chicago for six weeks. And just before he told me that, I heard him selling a stateroom to one of the agencies for this afternoon."

The president looked pained. "That's too had. It's really too bad." He became confidential. "You see, Mr. Blight, the trouble is this. That ticket agent probably lied to you. He's probably holding out a lot of good Pullman seats for Chicago because the agencies pay him a big premium for them."

Mr. Blight gasped. "You mean to say—"

"Exactly. He is hired by the owners of the Pennsylvania Station. We rent the station, you know, on a sixty-forty basis, and he is put there by the owners to sell the tickets and keep the accounts. Of course we have our own auditor there too, to see that he doesn't sell tickets for less than their face value, or turn in less money than the tickets represent. But otherwise I have no authority over him. If he accepts more money than a ticket calls for, turns over the face value to us, and pockets the difference, I can't stop him."

"Who owns the Pennsylvania Station?"

The president told him. So Mr. Blight went to see the owner.

"Your ticket-seller—" he began.

The owner looked vague. "Ticket seller? Oh, you mean our house treasurer. Well, what about him?"

Mr. Blight told him. The owner looked annoyed.

"Really, I don't see why you come to me about a matter like that. Mr. Gyp is one of our most trusted employees. It's his business to see that the trains are kept full, and he does keep them full. After all, Mr. Blight, we're not in the railroad business. We're real estate owners. If you want to complain about train tickets, complain to the railroad."

"But I did, and they—"

"Well, I'm sorry, but it's not my affair. If there's something wrong with the station—a broken seat or something—I'll be glad to hear about it. Otherwise—" he turned to his mail.

It was growing dark as Mr. Blight stumbled wearily into the Pennsylvania Hotel. He bought an evening paper at the news stand, and went into the grill. While he was waiting for his dinner he glanced at the headlines. RAILROAD MEN NEAR AGREEMENT caught his eye. He read on.

"The Railroad Managers' Association announced this afternoon that the new ticket selling plan has been virtually agreed upon," the story began. "Plans for a central ticket agency were perfected at a meeting held this morning at the Hotel Astor, the eighteenth of such meetings held in two months. It is proposed to establish a central ticket bureau, probably on Eorty-second street, east of Broadway, where the public may purchase tickets for all trains. In order to defray the expenses of the bureau a fixed premium of two dollars over the face value of every ticket will be charged. The managers have also agreed to keep a supply of good seats for all trains in the ticket offices of the railroad stations. The plan will probably go into effect a year from next January, provided the agreement can be made unanimous. Up to now, the presidents of the Pennsylvania, New York Central, and B. & 0. railroads have refused to enter the agreement. 'It's a swindle,' declared the—"

Mr. Blight awoke, screaming.