10
T
he
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u t o m a t ic
and settled down.
A variety of slot machines were
added to the phonographs. For a
penny or two they produced stereop-
tican views, aluminum identification
tags, love letters, visiting cards, and
“ My Country Tis of Thee” in mixed
chorus. Many families left $4 or $5
in the machines before they called it
a day. His shooting galleries may
look cheap, but they bring Broadway
prices, he confesses, when competi
tion between the gunners is keen.
Punching bags, electric rifles with
which the marksman may wriggle a
spider, ring an alarm clock or make
Happy Hulligan laugh, and other in
cidentals to the popularity of his
penny vaudeville followed.
Never Stalled Creditors
“ It was hard work io pay bills at
times, but I never stalled my credi
tors off,” the owner recalls with a
smile, “ it broke me sometimes, but
I waited until I could earn more by
my own efforts.” On holidays the
amusement hall in the merry-go-
round was patronibed by thousands
of excursionists, so another arcade
was set up in the Cooper block. A f
ter a dozen unsuccessful attempts to
interview the Ocean Grove associa
tion for the purpose o f convincing it
that a penny arcade would not be an
outrage to the Campmeeting resort,
persistence and diplomacy at length
won a third location at the North
End hotel, with the understanding
that all machines be moved out of
sight Saturday midnights.
The only other amusements were
the Third avenue toboggan chute, a
wooden Ferris wheel where the steel
wheel now stands, Fulton’s circular
swing at Second avenue with baskets
instead of planes for carriers, and
the original Old Mill, which was
later replaced by the Whip. Thirty
years ago Ernest Schnitzler of A t
lantic City installed a little merry-go-
round in a roller skating rink by the
lake. This grew into the well known
Palace carousel, with which Williams
was connected for 25 years.
© International Arcade Museum
A
ge
Then came the movies. Across
the street from the Cooper triangle,
on the site of the Lyric, Williams
opened one of the shore’s first movie
shows. The admission price was five
cents. The performance lasted 29
minutes,
showing half a reel for
three days and the last half the three
succeeding days. Every 20 minutes
those who had seen the entire show
ing were supposed to vacate. Boys
were then fished from under the
seals, and the reel mended for the
next performance. A muslin screen,
a racketty piano, a sawdust sprinkled
floor and camp chairs were the equip
ment of the Nickelette. The films
run by hand, dropped into a potato
bag and then rewound by hand.
Moving pictures were crude in
those days and often raw. Vaude
ville houses called them “ chasers,”
and put them on to clear the thea
ter between shows. Reels cost about
$45 and operators were paid $18 a
week . It was the plunge into the
theatrical game that
almost
cost
Williams his accumulated capital of
years of penny arcade finance. His
show house called “ Mars,” later the
“ Parlor theater”
suffered a severe
slump shortly after the “ first night,”
and his partner, discouraged and dis
gusted, begged Williams to let him
get out with his $1200 share of the
investment. Not knowing how to
cover his losses but confident in the
venture’s future provided he could
weather the decline, he went to
Henry C. Winsor. His zeal and earn
estness persuaded the banker and the
necessary cash was advanced.
A diving act was also staged in
the little “ Parlor.” In a glass tank
girls threaded needles and ate ba
nanas underneath the water but they
did not make a hit. A t Second ave
nue and Kingsley street, Williams
opened another “ movie”
which he
called “ It.”
Obliged after a few
months to raise the price to 10 cents
and forgetting to take down his five
cent admission sign he was de-
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