Six tired children were put to bed at Hotel Statler last night by six slightly exasperated parents, while sundry theatrical managers and publicity men were hoping that they wouldn't go through such a day as yesterday again for a long, long time.
"Our Gang" arrived in person yesterday and turned Loew's State Theater dressing rooms into nurseries and play rooms between its five performances.
The gang arrived at the station in its private car yesterday morning amid a vast amount of hullabaloo. Jean Darling's mother, Mrs. Dorothy Darling, had lost her trunk and found herself in possession of a man's trunk instead. Wheezer Bobby Hutchins, 3, had hurt his finger.
Miss Their Naps.
Nobody had had much sleep during the night and the children had missed their naps yesterday. But the show must go on, for there were the crowds of expectant children, the police escort, the camera men and the orphans' performance.
The first lull came after their 2:30 performance. Mary Ann Jackson, 5, was whisked away from the curious by her solicitous aunt, Miss Elizabeth Henry, who accompanies her.
Farina's lustrous orbs, the rolling whites of which testify so eloquently to the terrors of ghosts in the Hal Roach comedies, were closed in slumber, while his mother, Mrs. Florence Hoskins, mounted guard.
"Freckles" Henry Spears(sic), 6, stalked about back stage, the well known derby on the back of his head, a toy pistol brandished in his hand.
"Hello," said a reporter.
"Hello," said Freckles, non-committally, extending a limp hand.
"How are you?" said the reporter genially.
O. K., and That's All.
"O. K.," said Freckles, and ended the conversation by stalking off, the hat and pistol cocked at an even more disdainful angle.
At the top of two flights of stairs, Wheezer prowled about on his hands and knees, intent upon an uninviting-looking broken chair leg.
"Dis is my camera," he announced.
That dainty bit of Dresden china, Jean Darling, meets one with the most charming of courtesys(sic), and proceeds to use every wile to bring you under the spell of her six-year-old self.
She is just learning to spell, and her great delight at present is getting people to spell out new words for her, while she prints them in bold black strokes. Yesterday, she learned "rabbit" and "kitty" and "little."
As each word was accomplished, she ran around to everyone in the room, and, turning up appealing blue eyes, asked, "Isn't it good?"
She sews, too, and draws pictures for Wheezer. While she and Wheezer were jumping up and down on the springs of a crib which had been set up in the dressing room, Joe Cobb, the fat boy of the gang, came in.
Help Manage Bobby.
"Oh, Joe's my boy," exclaimed Wheezer's mother, Mrs. Constance Hutchins, putting her arm around Joe. "He helps me manage Bobby."
"Can you manage Jean?" Joe was asked.
Jean raised her golden head quickly at the remark, and fixed Joe with a look which said "Young man, if you dare - "
"No," said Joe, meekly.
Joe is 11, and weighs 115 pounds. He has shining blue eyes and a megaphone voice. His father, James H. Cobb, who travels with him, explained that Joe had reached the seventh grade by studying under the "Our Gang" tutor, Mrs. Fern Carter.
Joe has been having a glorious time on the trip, which is his first visit east of Oklahoma. He becomes almost oratorical as he describes that wonderful day in Detroit when they were taken to the Ford plant and saw automobiles and airplanes coming out of "almost nothing." They even had a flight over the city.
"But you should have seen us in Chicago," exclaimed Joe. "The fire department gave us three great red cars to drive around in, and they let me blow the siren all I wanted to."
"What do you want to do when you grow up, Joe?"
"Nothing. I like doing the movies well enough, but this stage stuff is hard."