Casey’s a great fellow for butting into queer places to get a bite to eat.  The other evening we went down to Chinatown and in one of those Oriantal joints that hand out Chop Suey in real china bowls with the Jersey City dragoons on ’em, we struck a dish that hit Casey just right.

  “Mither av Moses,” says Casey, “this is shure the atein fer ye;
  but what’s thot dilicate little tid-bit o’ brown mate?”

  “I don’t know,” says I.

  “Oi’ll find out,” says Casey.  “Just listen t’me spake that
  heathen’s language.”

  “Here, boy,” he hollers, “me likee, what you call um?”

  The Chink stares blankly at Casey.  Casey looks puzzled, then
  he winks at me.  Rubbing his hand over the place where the rest
  of the meat had gone, he says: 

  “Quack-quack?”

  A gleam shot into the Chink’s almond eyes and he says: 

  “No.  No.  Bow-wow.”

It took seven of us to hold Casey, he felt that bad.  But that wasn’t a patchin’ to the time we had dinner with a rich friend o’ ours and Casey was seated right next to the nicest little old lady y’ever saw. . . .

And so on until the banana story is told, with Casey the hero and victim of each anecdote.

But an entertainer feels no necessity of making his entire offering of related anecdotes only.  Some monologists open with a song because they want to get the audience into their atmosphere, and “with” them, before beginning their monologue.  The song merely by its melody and rhythm helps to dim the vividness of impression left by the preceding act and gives the audience time to quiet down, serving to bridge the psychic chasm in the human mind that lies between the relinquishing of one impression and the reception of the next.

Or the monologist may have a good finishing song and knows that he can depend on it for an encore that will bring him back to tell more stories and sing another song.  So he gives the orchestra leader the cue, the music starts and off he goes into his song.

Or he may have some clever little tricks that will win applause, or witty sayings that will raise a laugh, and give him a chance to interject into his offering assorted elements of appeal that will gain applause from different classes of people in his audience.  Therefore, as his purpose is to entertain, he sings his song, performs his tricks, tells his witty sayings, or perhaps does an imitation or two, as suits his talent best.  And a few end their acts with serious recitations of the heart-throb sort that bring lumps into kindly throats and leave an audience in the satisfied mood that always comes when a touch of pathos rounds off a hearty laugh.

But by adding to his monologue unrelated offerings the monologist becomes an “entertainer,” an “impersonator,” or whatever title best describes his act.  If he stuck to his stories only and told them all on a single character, his offering would be a monologue in the sense that it observes the unity of character, but still it would not be a pure monologue in the vaudeville sense as we now may define it—­though a pure monologue might form the major part of his “turn.”