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Updated: June 18, 2025
Say, that's a great play. Did you get wise to the way that Kid Burns party juggles the loose talk? I don't believe there ever was a party that slings slang the way that guy does. My mother was always particular about my bringing up, and if I ever passed out any of this George Cohan style of repartee she would give me a slap on the map and tell me to chase back and handle my harangue as per Mr.
Thank you." I went back to the sitting-room. She hadn't moved an inch. She was still bolt upright on the edge of her chair, gripping her umbrella like a hammer-thrower. She gave me another of those looks as I came in. There was no doubt about it; for some reason she had taken a dislike to me. I suppose because I wasn't George M. Cohan. It was a bit hard on a chap. "This is a surprise, what?"
I'm part of the outfit in this gin mill; they'll give it to you at a reduction." "All right!" Dan Cohan turned round and whispered something to Marie. She laughed and dived down behind the curtain. "But that Chamfort was worse yet.
He was humming under his breath and there was a grin on his broad red face. He went up to the girl and pretended to kiss her, and she laughed and talked familiarly with him in French. "There's wild Dan Cohan," said the dark-haired sergeant. "Say, Dan, Dan." "Here, yer honor." "Come over and have a drink. We're going to have some fizzy." "Never known to refuse."
Cohan took a gulp of champagne and jerked his head to one side. "An that damn laughin' kept up until about noon the next day when the orderlies strangled the feller.... Got their goat, I guess." Fuselli was looking towards the other side of the room, where a faint murmur of righteous indignation was rising from the dark man with the unshaven jaw and his companions.
"All right, kid," he said. "I told her you'ld pay when Uncle Sam came across. Ever had any Kummel?" "What the hell's that?" "You'll see." They sat down before a dish of fried eggs at the table in the corner, the favoured table, where Marie herself often sat and chatted, when wizened Madame did not have her eye upon her. Several men drew up their chairs. Wild Dan Cohan always had an audience.
One old frump that must have been tramming a mace in the Roman Hanging Gardens got a yen that was doing imitations she had Elsie Janis and Gertrude Hoffman looking like a couple of false starts. Another took the hooks out of her marsel wave and did that time-worn stunt of 'Laska. Then one of the chorus men gave an imitation of George Cohan, as usual. But that don't explain the scratches; does it?
And in certain other arts it is a test which can be applied to Anglo-Saxondom but not in music. In America and England music is still mainly a sportive habit. When I think of the exoticism of grand opera in New York, my mind at once turns, in contrast, to the natural raciness of such modest creations as those offered by Mr. George Cohan at his theater on Broadway.
Of the nineteen, four did not answer, three were temporarily disconnected, six replied in Yiddish, five were not the B. Cohen he sought, and one swore he was Irish and that his name was spelled Cohan and pronounced with an accent on both syllables.
The funny thing of the whole works was that Miss Sara Spotted-Weazel from the Bill Show nearly won at that. Gee, did you hearken to the cadenza she turned loose? Indian comic opera. Fine business. I am glad Josephine Cohan got it, 'cause she's a nice girl, though Louise Dresser is all right at that.
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