The actors' boarding house, with its ball bedrooms—there used to be rows of them in the side streets between Twenty-third and Thirty-fourth—was his retreat for sleeping, if he had cash or credit, and how he could stretch that credit! If he had neither, only he himself knew when and where he slept. There was no Equity then to make sure that no legitimate actor should go hungry, nor was the actors' fund sufficiently strong to assure him of a place to lay his head. But there were free lunches and beer!
Disliked the Box Office.
Between his sauntering and chats along Broadway and his visits to the cafes he followed the trails leading to the offices of the managers and booking agents, always hopeful, impervious to rebuffs, indifference and waits. They gave him ample opportunity for the recounting of his titanic abilities—words which sounded sweet in his own ears, even though they bored the producer, and afforded him later when he met his cronies full chance to pour the vials of his wrath.
The box office, for the box office he had naught but contempt.
A distaste fed on many a tour by its disappearance, with all it contained, including the manager. 