Twenty Years of Spoof and Bluff
by Carlton · English · Gutenberg #49547 · 512,467 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Twenty Years of Spoof and Bluff
Author: Carlton
Release date: July 29, 2015 [eBook #49547]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWENTY YEARS OF SPOOF AND BLUFF ***
TWENTY YEARS OF SPOOF & BLUFF
[Illustration: CARLTON--OFF]
TWENTY YEARS
OF
SPOOF AND BLUFF
BY
“CARLTON”
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
YORK STREET, ST. JAMES’S
LONDON, S.W. 1 MCMXX
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND
PREFACE
It has been said that any man of mature age could write at least
one interesting book, if he confined himself to relating his own
experiences.
Well, that is what I have done. This is primarily the story of my life,
interspersed with various anecdotes, “wheezes,” and “gags,” pertaining
to a profession concerning the real inside of which the public is
mostly ignorant.
Like Topsy, the book “growed.” An incident recalled here, a story
remembered there, has been jotted down at haphazard as the mood seized
me.
I may add that the incidents recorded in Chapters XIV. and XV., as also
the human telescope story in Chapter XIII., first saw the light in the
_Strand Magazine_, to the Editor of which periodical I am indebted for
permission to reproduce them here.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
EARLY EXPERIENCES
PAGE
Work as a telegraph messenger boy--First attempts at “public”
entertainment--Small but appreciative audiences--I introduce
the cycle to the post office--Christmas-boxing on my own--
I am rewarded with the “Order of the Sack”--Hard times--A
home-made conjuring outfit--On tramp to Southend--Busking on
the sands--Wrathful “niggers”--“Stage” fright--“Best clear,
kid”--I clear--On the road back to London--Hunger and
thirst--Four shows for fourpence--A “welcome” home--No food
in the house and the brokers in--“Covering the spot”--Jimmy
Jennings--I win watches--Beat a game and gain a friend--“A
quick way of making money”--Learning to be a street patterer
--Tricks of the showman’s trade--Nearly a riot--Jimmy grows
anxious--Good-bye to London once more--A new pitch--And the
beginning of a new life 3
CHAPTER II
I POSE AS A SHOWMAN
Practising conjuring--Why I rarely play cards--The great
Maskelyne and Cooke box trick--I make a trick box of my own--
The “Flying Lady” who flew--away--In partnership with Gypsy
Brown--My life with the show folk--I begin to make money--
The kings of the fair grounds--Caravan life and cookery--The
Romany people and their ways--Gypsy Brown cheats me--How the
“bluers” work--Fights in the Fair Ground--The etiquette of
the showmen--In a boxing booth--Taking on all comers--A
rough life--“Do a slang to get a pitch”--The tricks of the
travelling boxing-booth proprietors--A gypsy duel with cocoanut
balls 17
CHAPTER III
WITH THE GYPSIES
I start a show of my own--Gypsy Brown plays me a dirty trick--
The hunchback in the box--Bank Holiday at Cheriton Fair--I
plan to circumvent Gypsy Brown--And succeed only too well--
The crowd wrecks Brown’s booth--Pandemonium in the fair ground
--The gypsies attack my show--The fate of a peace-maker--
My fight with Gypsy Brown--£10 to £1 on my opponent and no
takers--A knock-out blow--Gypsy Brown vows revenge--My
life in danger--How I outwitted the gypsies--The last of my
experiences as a fair-ground showman 30
CHAPTER IV
THE TRICK THAT FAILED
Back in London--At the Westminster Aquarium--“The Pro.’s Casual
Ward”--Zæo’s Maze--“Oriental beauties from the Far East-End
of London”--“Fake” side-shows--A “fasting lady’s” prodigious
appetite--A lively subject for a coffin--I sell conjuring
tricks to visitors--“Uncle” Ritchie--An audience of one--
Annie Luker, the champion lady high diver--I find myself barred
from the Aquarium--The mysterious voice in the maze--Mr.
Ritchie investigates--And Mr. Wieland scores--Penny-gaffing
in London--Working the shops--Sham hypnotism--How to eat
coal and candles--And drink paraffin oil--The box trick again
--Venice in Newcastle--I offer a £1000 prize--The trick
that failed--My first engagement in a regular “hall”--My
absent-minded partner 41
CHAPTER V
CLIMBING TO FAME AND FORTUNE
I give an impromptu show at the Palace Theatre--“Chuck him out!”
--I seek out Mr. Wieland again--At the Crystal Palace--
I adopt my present make-up--“The Human Hairpin”--Charlie
Coborn and “Two Lovely Black Eyes”--I do a trial turn at the
Bedford Music-hall--Billed as a star turn at the Alhambra and
Palace Theatres--And at the “Flea Pit,” Hoxton--My reception
there--I work the Alhambra, Palace, Middlesex, Metropolitan,
and Cambridge together--A record for those days--A Press
“spoof”--Continental engagements--Paris, Milan--An overdose
of Chianti--And its results--The night life of Milan--
A blood-curdling adventure--Murder most foul--Callous
passers-by 54
CHAPTER VI
PLAYING IN HUNLAND
Vienna and the Viennese--Churls by nature and instinct--How I
made “There’s a Girl in Havana” go down there--Chorus men and
waiters--Some innocent tricks of the music-hall trade--In
Berlin--Death of my giant--Official boorishness--German
sharp practice--I engage a Hun giant--Uncomfortable railway
travelling--At Buda-Pesth--More sharp practice--I throw up
my engagement and return to England in disgust--Litigation and
worry--My case is taken up by the Variety Artistes’ Federation
--A new “Battle of Prague”--Which I lose--A story of a
“misspelled” railway station--Back in Old England--A day’s
rabbit shooting--The two “Arthur Carltons” 72
CHAPTER VII
AUSTRALIAN EXPERIENCES
Eastward bound on the _Ortona_--Dinners and diners--Spoofing a
chief steward--A brush with the master-at-arms--“Queering” a
poker game--Trouble in the smoke-room--We plan revenge--And
execute it--Potatoes as ammunition--The cold water cure--
The Captain sends for me--I decline to go--Trouble brewing--
I run my head into the lion’s mouth--And am frog-marched before
the captain--A stormy interview--I am threatened to be put in
irons--All’s well that ends well--A benefit performance at
sea--Arrival in Melbourne--A tale of two champions--Rabbit
shooting extraordinary--I bag a laughing jackass--And am
hauled before the “beak”--Fined ten shillings and costs--I am
glad at having “got the bird”--The “interfering parrot” 90
CHAPTER VIII
MELBOURNE TO LONDON
The “Under the Earth” bar in Melbourne--A swimming challenge
spoof--The Australian Vaudeville Association--My connection
therewith--They present me with an Address--At Adelaide--
A cheery send-off--I bring to London with me Charlie Griffin,
the feather-weight Australian champion--Fix up a match at
the London National Sporting Club--I train him myself during
a pantomime engagement--He is beaten by Jim Driscoll--But
afterwards defeats Joe Bowker--My fight at the National
Sporting Club with “Apollo”--All the “pro.’s” present--A
great night--I am beaten by “Apollo”--Congratulations all
round--Only Mrs. “Carlton” does not approve--Other boxing and
sporting yarns 107
CHAPTER IX
SOME AMERICAN EXPERIENCES
To New York on the _Mauretania_--Gambling on ocean liners--A
“dear” old gentleman--Phenomenal luck--My suspicions are
aroused--I play the part of a private detective--A puzzling
proposition--The light that shone by night--My suspicions
are confirmed--An artful dodge--A new use for smoke-coloured
glasses--Doctored cards--The most beautiful American city--
Los Angeles--Tuna fishing at Santa Catalina--Monsters of 400
lb. weight--The Tuna Club--A record catch--Fishing with
kites--Wild goat stalking--Outwitting a gambler--Diamond
cut diamond--A ride on an ostrich--American police methods--
An unpleasant experience 121
CHAPTER X
MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES
Through the Great American Desert--A land of desolation--An
adventure at Santa Fé--“Hands up!”--Railway strike methods
in the wild and woolly West--At Kansas City--The Magicians’
Club--“Welcome to our city”--A disappointing show--In
the land of the Mormons--Salt Lake City--Brigham Young’s
seraglio--The Mormon Temple and Tabernacle--Something like
an angel--Brigham Young’s statue--My worst Press notice--A
journalistic tragedy--In New York--I am served a scurvy trick
--Hammerstein’s--A row with the management--Sharp Yankee
practice--I perform in the New York Synagogue in the presence
of the Chief Rabbi--A unique honour--Rubber-neck cars--The
almighty dollar--The Statue of Liberty--A suggestive pose--
New York hotels--A tip as to boots 136
CHAPTER XI
PANTOMIME SPOOFS AND JOKES
Harry Tate and I--Together we found the order of “The Beautiful
Swells”--The Birmingham spoof supper--A mouthwatering menu
--The “Beautiful Swells” anthem--Cockroach soup--Property
viands--A mysterious waiter--Ernie Lotinga’s little joke
--The spoofers spoofed--A pigeon pie that flew--A surplus
of farthings--Rehearsing for pantomime--My first rehearsal
--I am “fired” out of the theatre--Pantomime in Hoxton--
The gallery boy’s irony--A cutting retort--I get married--
Courting under difficulties--The married chorus-girl and the
lovesick manager--Supper for two in a private room--Hoaxing
the police--A sham tragedy and its sequel--The fat policeman
and the big lobster--Sold again 149
CHAPTER XII
AFRICA AND THE ORIENT
Bound for Cape Town--A pleasant voyage--Ships’ games--A
contrast in voyages--“Cock-fighting” at sea--“Chalking the
Pig’s Eye”--“Swinging the Monkey”--Marine cricket--A new
kind of golf--Cycling at sea--Sweepstakes on the vessel’s run
--Races on the ocean wave--Mock breach-of-promise trials--
By bullock waggon to Kimberley--I perform before Cecil Rhodes
--Get shot in a street row--Contrast on my second visit--
The great strike riots in Johannesburg--Fire and dynamite--
A night of horror--A gay but expensive city--Dear drinks--
Performing in the back veldt--Eggs for throwing--At Pretoria
--Kruger’s house--Where Winston Churchill swam the river--
A disappointing stream--My prize giant--A Jo’burg sensation
--Buying a forty-shilling suit to measure--A disgusted tailor
--Special railway travelling--My giant proves his agility--
In Colombo--Indian fakirs--Their conjuring skill overrated
--The boy and rope trick--Two versions of a similar story--
The whole thing a fake--The evidence of H.H. the Maharajah of
Jodhpur--I offer £100 to any native who can do it--No takers
--The mango seed trick--Outwitting a fakir--“Let me plant
the seed”--The camera in action--The Tree of Life--Cobra
and mongoose fight 166
CHAPTER XIII
WHEEZES AND GAGS
The social side of music-hall life--The Vaudeville Club--A
telephone wheeze--The swanking “pro.” and his mythical salary
--About “tops” and “bottoms”--Ring up “625 Chiswick”--“Big
Fred” and Fred Lindrum--A queer billiard match--An unexpected
_dénouement_--Roberts and the Australian billiard marker--I
make of myself a human telescope--Growing to order--Willard
the original “man who grew”--Puzzling a Scotland Yard “’tec”
--My most wonderful fall--I make a “hit” in a double sense
--A Wigan wheeze--The performer who got too much “bird”--A
blood-thirsty barber--My worst insult 183
CHAPTER XIV
THE BIGGEST NEWSPAPER SPOOF ON RECORD
How the great spoof first came into my mind--Hoaxing
the newspaper Press of two continents--Telepathy and
thought-transference--The incredulous reporter--I propose
a drastic test--A representative of the _Bristol Times and
Mirror_ hides a stylograph pen in an unknown quarter of the city
--I am blindfolded and find it--Amazement and enthusiasm of
the people--A column report in the newspaper--An insoluble
problem--Various theories as to how it was done--An
indoors test imposed by the Editor of the _Bath Chronicle_--
Blindfolded through the streets of Bath--Vast crowds--I am
again successful--Press and public alike bewildered--Hoaxing
the Yankees--The Oakland, California, _Tribune’s_ test--
Two hundred and fifty dollars in gold hidden--The Secretary
of the Oakland Chamber of Commerce is chosen to secrete the
treasure--Again I am successful--My best free Press “ad.”--
Congratulations all round 203
CHAPTER XV
HOW THE BIG SPOOF WAS WORKED
Muscle training on novel lines--How not to be blindfolded--
Artificially developed frontal muscles--The advantage of
possessing a prominent proboscis--Following one’s nose--I
study boots--A Sherlock Holmes of footwear--Acting blind
--Not so easy as it sounds--Queer happenings at Halifax--
A mishap at Leeds--Police stop the performance--A curious
mischance at Bath--Ingenious explanations to account for the
feat--Invisible wires--Guided by bugle calls--Following the
scent 213
CHAPTER XVI
TELEPATHIC AND MESMERIC SPOOFS
Real spiritualism and sham mesmerism--Spoof séances--I ring one
off on my landlady--The self-playing piano--The spirit that
walked upside-down--Some simple explanations--Manufacturing
a telepathist to order--Thought-reading extraordinary--The
colour test--Telepathy by wire--A brief dream of wealth--
A sleepy wife and a hidden match-box--The dead-head who was
spoofed--A disconcerting reception--Story of Houdini, the
“Handcuff King”--More telepathy--Over the telephone this time
--A puzzling link--And the explanation 226
CHAPTER XVII
SHARPS AND FLATS
Spoofing a mesmerist--The spoofer spoofed--Spoof card tricks--
Racecourse sharps--The “dud” diamond wheeze--I am beautifully
“had”--Three-card trick sharps--A Newcastle adventure--
Bunny’s spoof--Spoofing a “new chum”--The performing elephant
and the dude--Wheezes and gags 242
CHAPTER XVIII
FLOTSAM AND JETSAM
Sharing terms--Some tricks of the trade--Spoof telegrams--A
Bradford dispute--I engage to fight “The Terror of the Meat
Market”--A packed house--I enter a lion’s den--And am
glad to get out again--A trick the police foiled--Tricks of
trick swimmers--I learn a secret or two--Pigeon shooting
extraordinary--“Satan’s Dream”--Royalty at a side-show--My
mother hears me over the electrophone--At Wentworth Woodhouse
--A kind reception--My embarrassing mistake--An angler’s
paradise 263
CHAPTER XIX
IN EGYPT IN WAR-TIME
My trip to the land of the Pharaohs--Giants and dwarfs on a P.
& O. liner--We are ordered into Plymouth--Submarines--An
exciting experience--Destroyers to the rescue--The dwarfs
and the lifebelts--Sports at sea--My contortionist is taken
ill--Anxious days--Kindness of the Maharajah of Jodhpur--
Arrival at Port Said--Cairo--I engage another contortionist
--Pelted with money--Pigs at Port Said--Captured Turkish
pontoons at Cairo--Turkish prisoners playing tennis--Interned
enemy ships at Alexandria--Wounded soldiers--At the Pyramids
--Ammunition from India--On the way home--Across France
in war-time--The Channel passage--Elaborate precautions--
Submarine nets--Paris in war-time--Madrid in war-time 280
ILLUSTRATIONS
CARLTON--OFF _Frontispiece_
TO FACE PAGE
CARLTON--ON 20
CARLTON AND ONE OF HIS SATELLITES AT THE THEATRICAL GARDEN PARTY,
LONDON, 1919 50
CARLTON MESMERISING BOBBY DUNLOP 74
BOBBY DUNLOP, CARLTON’S AMERICAN “FAT MAN,” WHO DROPPED DEAD IN
BERLIN 78
CARLTON AND HIS TRAINER, DAI DOLLINGS, THE FAMOUS WELSH ATHLETE,
STRIPPED READY FOR HIS FIGHT WITH APOLLO 114
CARLTON AND JIMMY WILDE AT THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB 116
OFFICIAL PHOTOGRAPH OF A RECORD CATCH OF YELLOW FIN TUNA CAUGHT
BY CARLTON AND ANOTHER FISHERMAN JOINTLY AT SANTA CATALINA 130
THE “BEAUTIFUL SWELLS” SPOOF SUPPER--A PAGE OF CARICATURES BY TOM
WEBSTER 152
ARRIVAL IN JOHANNESBURG OF CARLTON, HIS GIANT, AND HIS DWARF 174
CARLTON AS A “HUMAN TELESCOPE” 192
PORTION OF FRONT PAGE OF THE “OAKLAND TRIBUNE” WITH REPORT OF
CARLTON’S TREASURE HUNT IN THAT CITY 206
CROWD IN BRADFORD WATCHING CARLTON’S SEARCH FOR THE HIDDEN
“TELEGRAPH” BADGE 222
CROWD AT OAKLAND (CALIFORNIA) WATCHING CARLTON’S SEARCH FOR
HIDDEN TREASURE 222
CARLTON AND BILLY GRANT, THE OPEN CHAMPION PIGEON SHOT OF
SCOTLAND
272
TWENTY YEARS OF SPOOF & BLUFF
CHAPTER I
EARLY EXPERIENCES
Work as a telegraph messenger boy--First attempts at “public”
entertainment--Small but appreciative audiences--I introduce
the cycle to the Post Office--Christmas-boxing on my own--I am
rewarded with the “Order of the Sack”--Hard times--A home-made
conjuring outfit--On tramp to Southend--Busking on the sands
--Wrathful “niggers”--“Stage” fright--“Best clear, kid”--I
clear--On the road back to London--Hunger and thirst--Four
shows for fourpence--A “welcome” home--No food in the house
and the brokers in--“Covering the spot”--Jimmy Jennings--I
win watches--Beat a game and gain a friend--“A quick way of
making money”--Learning to be a street patterer--Tricks of the
showman’s trade--Nearly a riot--Jimmy grows anxious--Good-bye
to London once more--A new pitch--And the beginning of a new
life.
My first experience as a public conjuror and card manipulator dates
back somewhere about five-and-twenty years. Sheer necessity drove me to
it. A slim, shy youth of sixteen, or thereabouts, I was out of a job at
the time, with no prospect, so far as I could see, of getting into one.
This was awkward, because I was practically the sole support of my
widowed mother, who was a cripple, and four young sisters. So, as a
last resort, I determined to tramp down to some seaside town, and try
and earn a little money busking on the sands.
As a boy I had worked for a while as a telegraph messenger, one of
those blind-alley occupations that lead nowhere, and I had frequently
watched peripatetic conjurors giving their shows at street corners and
elsewhere. These exhibitions had always had a great fascination for me,
and I presently started to try and copy their tricks.
It was difficult at first, for I had no one to teach or advise me, but
I persevered, and was able in time to do quite a variety of simple
stock tricks with cards, coins, etc. My audiences were small but
appreciative, consisting as they did of my fellow telegraph messengers
attached to the old Buckingham Gate Post Office in the Buckingham
Palace Road--long since done away with--where I was then stationed.
Afterwards I was sent to the Castelnau Post Office, Barnes, which was
situated at a chemist’s shop.
Here I had plenty of spare time on my hands, telegrams being
comparatively few and far between. The distances I had to travel to
deliver them, however, were often considerable, and this gave me an
idea. I was at the time the proud possessor of an ancient solid-tyred
bicycle. This I requisitioned in order to cover the ground more
quickly, a complete novelty in those days, when cycles for post-office
work were not even thought of.
My “boss,” the sub-postmaster, was particularly struck with the
innovation, and he wrote to the Postmaster-General about it, with the
unexpected, and to me very gratifying result, that I received from the
Department an extra allowance of three shillings and sixpence a week
for the upkeep, etc., of my machine. Afterwards the practice received
general official sanction, and in time became well-nigh universal. But
I can, I believe, truthfully lay claim to having been its originator,
and I was certainly the first telegraph messenger-boy to ride a cycle
for the Post Office in an official capacity.
From Barnes I was sent to Battersea, where our family had also gone
to live, and it was here that my too-enterprising spirit led to the
severance of my connection with the Post Office Service. It came about
in this way. When Christmas came round I was given a temporary job as
auxiliary postman. We boys used to hear the regular postmen talk a lot
about their Christmas-boxes and the fine harvest of tips they expected
to reap, and I did not see why, as I was doing my share of the work, I
should not share in the pickings.
So, very early on Boxing Day morning, before the regular postman
had started out to “box his walk,” I went round and collected the
gratuities, or at all events a considerable portion of them. I didn’t
say I was the postman, but simply knocked and asked for a Christmas
box, and being a tall youth the money was mostly handed over to me
without demur. Later on, of course, when the regular postman called
round, there was an awful row, and I was called upon to resign; a
polite way of investing me with the “order of the sack.” In this
dilemma, as narrated above, I purposed turning to account my knowledge
of conjuring in order to earn a livelihood, or try to.
As a preliminary I went and begged the lid of a cheese-box from a
near-by shop. This I covered with a bit of old cloth my mother gave
me, and trimmed it round with a yard or so of penny-threefarthing
ball fringe. Next I set my transmogrified cheese-box lid on top of
three thin bamboo canes, arranged tripod-wise, and behold I was in
possession of quite a pretty little table, such as street conjurors
affect.
Next I procured a rabbit--all conjurors had to have a rabbit in those
days--and some balls and tins for what is called the cup-and-ball
trick, together with a pack of cards, and a few other simple
paraphernalia, not forgetting half-a-dozen pennies--in conjuring
parlance “a pile of megs”--for palming and working disappearing coin
tricks. Thus equipped, I set out. I had been told that Southend was the
best place to go to, and as I had no money to pay my fare I had to walk
there, carrying my poor little “props” with me.
It was weary work. The long dusty road seemed endless. Several times
I was tempted to go into a public-house and try and do a show. But
directly I set up my little table, my nerve forsook me, and out I came
again. When night fell I chopped some wood for a farmer’s wife, who
gave me in return a glass of milk and a crust of bread and cheese and
permission to sleep in the barn.
Eventually I reached Southend, hungry, thirsty, and footsore. Also I
was penniless, having been forced to part with my six coppers in order
to keep myself in food on the road, thereby spoiling my best tricks.
All day long I prowled about, watching the buskers at work on the
beach, but never being able to pluck up sufficient courage to make a
start myself.
I had managed to get a room by promising to pay at the end of the
week, but after the first morning, when I ate a breakfast that I am
afraid astonished and frightened my landlady, I was denied further
board unless I paid something on account, which, of course, I was
unable to do. For three days I prowled around, living as best I could,
watching with hungry eyes the picnic parties on the beach, and greedily
devouring the scraps they left after they took their departure. I never
felt so famished in all my life before.
On the morning of the fourth day, a Bank Holiday, a letter came from
my mother. She wrote that she had got the brokers in, that my little
sisters were crying for bread, and would I please send her some money?
That did it. I felt that it was now or never. And, marching down to
the beach, I set up my little table, and soon had quite a respectable
audience--respectable in point of size that is to say--gathered round
me.
Then again the fatal shyness came over me; stage fright in its first,
worst, and most terrible form--only there was no stage. My legs shook
under me, my knees knocked together, my tongue felt as if glued to the
roof of my mouth. I almost think I would have made a bolt for it once
more, but for the fact that the crowd hemmed me in on every side.
Ten minutes passed by. My audience began to show unmistakable signs
of impatience. “Get a move on, kid!” they cried; “start your bloomin’
show.” Thus adjured I began. But just as I was in the middle of my
first trick, there was a commotion on the outskirts of the crowd,
people jostling and shoving, pushing and being pushed, and a moment
or two later four burly nigger minstrels burst through to where I
was. I got a punch on the back of my neck that sent me sprawling, and
when I scrambled to my feet I was just in time to see my poor little
cheese-box table go flying seaward, propelled by a vigorous kick from
the biggest and burliest of the niggers.
I was too weak from hunger to even try to retaliate, too flabbergasted
at the unexpected, and as it seemed to me unprovoked and unwarrantable,
attack to attempt to expostulate even. I just stood stock-still,
open-mouthed and trembling, while the leader of the buskers asked me,
in language the reverse of polite, what in thunder I meant by taking
their pitch, for which they paid, and which nobody else therefore had
the right to occupy?
There was some further talk, and then I learnt for the first time that
the sands at Southend belonged to the corporation, and that buskers
were not allowed to perform there without permission, and without
paying for the privilege. Naturally I was terribly downhearted at this,
and I suppose I showed it, for after the niggers had given their show
they clubbed round amongst themselves, and handed me two shillings.
“Best clear out, youngster,” they told me, not unkindly. “You can’t do
anything here without capital.”
Their advice seemed good advice. So that very day I started to tramp
back to London. I had retrieved my table, and although I had been
compelled to sell my rabbit in order to buy food during my stay in
Southend, I still had with me my pack of cards, and one or two other
trifles. With these, on the way back, I gave four shows at as many
separate “pubs.” One of these shows netted me fourpence, the other
three yielded nothing. I reached home after a week’s absence, weak,
weary, and ill, to find a welcome of words waiting for me, and that
was all. There was not a morsel of food in the house, not even the
proverbial crust, and the broker’s man had cleared out most of the
furniture.
For these reasons I am not likely ever to forget my first “provincial
tour.” That night I cried myself to sleep, the hunger gnawed at my
vitals, and I don’t believe there was an unhappier lad in England than
I was just then.
Next morning I felt a little better; but not much. However, it was, I
reflected, no good sitting down and repining, and I started out to look
for work. After a while I got a job as potman and under-barman at seven
shillings a week in a public-house in the Battersea Park Road.
One day a travelling conjuror came into the saloon bar, and did a few
tricks with coins. The proprietor was greatly interested in the show,
and the next day, when he and I were having dinner together in a little
recess behind the bar, he remarked:
“Clever chap that conjuror who was here yesterday. Those coin tricks of
his were wonderful.”
“Oh!” I replied, “I didn’t think very much of them. Why I could do
better than that myself. Look here!” And I took a penny from my pocket,
and palming it from one hand to the other I made it disappear before
his eyes.
To my unbounded surprise my employer promptly jumped up, his face
crimson with rage. “You young rascal!” he cried. “That’s quite enough
for me. I’ve been missing money from the till for quite a long while
now. Out you go!” And, suiting the action to his words, he seized me by
the scruff of the neck and the seat of my trousers, and threw me out of
the house on to the pavement.
When I got home and told my story, my mother was naturally very much
upset, and she went round and expostulated with the landlord; but all
to no purpose. He insisted that money had been missed, and that I must
be the thief, as there was nobody else who could have taken it except
the head barman, and he had been with them a long while and was quite
above suspicion.
This individual, who slept in the same room as myself, was, I may add,
a very great pet of the landlady, who was firmly convinced that he
could do nothing wrong.
Yet he was the thief all the while, as it turned out; for some little
time afterwards, and while I was away in the country, he was convicted
and sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, the stolen money having
been found in his box. My mother sent me a copy of the local paper with
the account of the police-court proceedings.
Some few years later I had succeeded in making a name for myself. I was
at the Palace Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue, and my name was blazoned
in letters a foot long on the buses, and on all the hoardings in
London. It was a hot day, and I felt thirsty. I turned into a little
“pub” in Wellington Street, Strand. There behind the bar was my old
“boss.”
I had grown a lot in the intervening years, and he didn’t know me; but
I knew him directly.
Over a whisky-and-soda we got into conversation, and presently he asked
me who I was.
“My name is Carlton,” I said, “I’m at the Palace Theatre this week.”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “of course. I saw you the other evening.
Wonderful good show, yours.”
“Glad you like it,” I said. “But say--do you remember the day when you
took me by the scruff of my neck and threw me out of your old place in
the Battersea Park Road, after accusing me of stealing money from the
till; money that your wife’s favourite boy afterwards got three months
for stealing? Do you remember that--eh?”
The landlord looked surprised. So did his wife, who was behind the bar
with him at the time. But they would neither of them admit that they
remembered anything about the affair.
Of course they did, though; only they would not acknowledge it.
Possibly they thought I might bring an action against them, even after
the lapse of all that time, for wrongful dismissal and defamation of
character.
But to resume the thread of my story. At the time I was thrown out of
the “pub,” and out of work at the same time, we used to live in the
neighbourhood of Clapham Junction, in a turning off the Falcon Road.
There was a man at a pitch near here who earned his living at a game
called “covering the spot.” On a table covered with white oil-cloth he
had painted several round red spots, each about as big as a plate. The
player was given five tin discs, for which he paid a penny, and his aim
was to drop these on one of the spots so as to completely cover it,
leaving not even a peep of the red showing. If he succeeded in doing
this he got a watch, which the proprietor of the game, if the winner so
willed it, would buy back again for three shillings and sixpence.
It was rather a fascinating game to watch, and having nothing else in
particular to do I stood and watched it for a long while. He was a
splendid patterer, was the proprietor, and he was simply raking in the
pennies like dirt all the while. The game was new then.
“Money for nothing!” was one of his stock phrases he kept shouting out.
So it was “money for nothing,” but he was the man who got the money,
I noticed. “If you don’t speculate, you can’t accumulate,” was another
of his gags. “This, gentlemen, is a scientific game of skill. Span your
tins and drop them on. Try it! Try it! Try it! Cover the red, and carry
off a watch. Hide the red you win; show the red you lose. Come along,
gents! Come along! Come along! Faint heart never won fair lady!” And
so on, and so on. And in between his patter, at intervals, he would
himself “cover the red” with the five discs to demonstrate how easily
it could be done.
I kept watching him closely, and I saw there was a knack in it. A man
who had tried twenty or thirty times, but without success, was turning
away. On the impulse of the moment I spoke to him. “I can do it,” I
said. “Lend me a penny and let me try; we’ll go halves if I win.”
The man looked at me rather dubiously. “Why don’t you risk your own
money?” he asked. “Because I haven’t got any,” I replied. “Oh well, in
that case here you are,” he said; and he handed me a penny.
I dropped the discs one by one, carefully, methodically, slowly, and--I
covered the red. A great shout went up from the crowd. Everybody
was delighted, including the proprietor. He wanted somebody to win
occasionally, but not too often, and he made a tremendous fuss.
“Hi! Hi! Hi!” he cried. “The boy’s won a watch. Come along, you sports,
now. Come and do likewise. Don’t let a lad like this beat you.”
He handed me the watch, and I gave it back to him, receiving in return
three-and-sixpence. This, he explained, was because the law would not
allow him to give a money prize direct. It was my first experience of
how simple a thing it is to get round an inconvenient legal enactment,
though not my last one by any means.
After sharing the cash with the “capitalist” who had financed my
venture, I still had of course one shilling and ninepence left, and I
invested a penny of this on my own account in another five discs.
Again I won. Things were getting lively. The crowd cheered louder than
ever. I was more than cheerful. The proprietor tried his best to look
cheerful also, but there was a glint of anxiety in his eyes.
For the third time I tried my luck, but this time I just failed. Or so,
at least, the proprietor asserted. Producing a pin, he inserted the
point between two of the discs without moving either of them, thereby
proving to his satisfaction, if not quite to mine, that the red was not
completely covered. Here was a new trick of the trade, I reflected;
no smallest patch of red was visible, but the pin’s point showed
apparently that it existed, therefore I had lost.
“Try! Try! Try again!” shouted the showman. “Faint heart never won fair
lady.”
I took his advice, and this time I succeeded once more. This made three
wins in four tries. “Clever lad!” cried the crowd. But the proprietor
looked glum. He leaned over the table and implored me in a stage
whisper to go away.
I went, taking with me my eight shillings and sixpence winnings. That
night the family sat down to a real, slap-up hot supper of tripe and
onions, the first square meal that any of us had eaten for many a long
day.
As for me, I was in high glee. I had, I considered, hit on a quick
and easy way of making money. Next evening I sauntered down to where
the showman had his pitch, and directly he had got his table set up I
marched in, and soon won another watch.
This was too much for the proprietor. He called me on one side.
“Look here,” he said, “you’re too hot for me. Come and have a drink.”
We adjourned to the “Queen Victoria” public-house, and he called for a
large rum for himself. I had a “small lemon.”
Over our drinks we discussed business, or rather he did. His name, he
informed me, was Jimmy Jennings.
“I have been in the business for years,” he went on, “but I’ve never
run up against a smarter lad than you are at the game. You’re hot
stuff, and no mistake. Tell you what now. There’s room for a couple of
stalls at my pitch. Will you work for me if I put another one up for
you to take charge of? I’ll pay you five shillings a night, and ten per
cent. on the takings. What do you say?”
Naturally, I was quite agreeable, and the following day, true to his
promise, Jimmy had a table fixed up all ready for me to start. Being
pretty well known in the neighbourhood I soon had plenty of customers,
and raked in a good lot of money. Here, too, I first learnt to do
the showman’s patter, for Jimmy, as I have already intimated, was a
splendid patterer, and I, being all the time at the next stall to him,
naturally picked up the art from him, almost without effort on my part.
Also I learnt many tricks of the showman’s trade, more especially
as regards the particular stunt we were working. I was shown, for
instance, that although the five red spots on the tables looked to
be all exactly of one size, they were not so in reality. As regards
four of them, although they could just be covered by the discs, the
task was so exceedingly difficult a one as to be almost impossible of
achievement. The fifth spot, however, was slightly smaller than the
others, and the feat of covering it, therefore, was comparatively easy.
But as it was impossible to detect the smaller spot without actually
measuring it, the chances were five to one against any player, picking
his spot at haphazard, as of course he invariably did, choosing the
easiest one. When either of us performed the feat for the benefit of
the onlookers, however, we naturally always used the small spot. It was
due to my sharpness in detecting this fact--though not until after long
watching--coupled with a natural dexterity and quickness of hand, that
had enabled me to win the watches in the first instance.
I might also mention that the flares which we used to illuminate our
stalls--we did not usually start performing until after dark--were
so arranged as to throw the light slantwise to our side of the table
where the smaller spot was. This enabled us, if we performed the trick
quickly--and this we invariably did--to leave a little bit of red
showing without the audience being able to detect the fact. This was
both handy and necessary, for even when working on the smaller spot,
and notwithstanding all our acquired dexterity, we were neither of us
so clever at it as to be able to bring off the trick with certainty
every time.
And one had to be very careful, and exercise plenty of tact. The main
thing was to keep the crowd in a good humour. That is where the art of
the patterer comes in. We should have stood but a poor chance without
it. Even as it was there were rows. One of the worst was on my account.
A man in the audience asserted that I was standing on a box, and that
that was why I was able to perform the trick. “Let me come round your
side of the table and mount your box,” he cried, “and I’ll do it as
easily as you can.”
In vain I assured him that I was not standing on a box, that it was
only my unusual height--6 ft. 2½ ins.--that made it appear to him as if
I were. He protested, began to get obstreperous, tried to force his way
round. The crowd took sides, for and against: mostly against. There was
something approaching a free fight, and we were afraid the stalls would
be mobbed and wrecked. However, a policeman appeared on the scene, and
things quieted down after a bit.
But Jimmy looked thoughtful that night after we had closed down.
“Look here, laddie,” he said presently, “this pitch is getting a bit
too hot. Tonbridge Fair opens next week. We’ll pack up and open there.”
Which we did.
So closed one chapter of my life. The next one was to open amongst far
different surroundings.
CHAPTER II
I POSE AS A SHOWMAN
Practising conjuring--Why I rarely play cards--The great
Maskelyne and Cooke box trick--I make a trick box of my own--
The “Flying Lady” who flew--away--In partnership with Gypsy
Brown--My life with the show folk--I begin to make money--
The kings of the fair grounds--Caravan life and cookery--The
Romany people and their ways--Gypsy Brown cheats me--How the
“bluers” work--Fights in the Fair Ground--The etiquette of the
showmen--In a boxing booth--Taking on all comers--A rough
life--“Do a slang to get a pitch”--The tricks of the travelling
boxing-booth proprietors--A gypsy duel with cocoanut balls.
During the period when I was working for Jimmy Jennings at his
“covering the spot” stall I had lots of spare time on my hands, for of
course we only occupied our pitches for comparatively short intervals
of an evening, and then only on certain days of the week, Saturday
being always one.
This leisure I utilised mostly in practising conjuring tricks, and in
card manipulation. In the beginning I used to use old tram and omnibus
tickets for the latter purpose, and found them very useful, for being
much smaller than ordinary playing cards they were of course more
easily palmed or otherwise manipulated, while at the same time they
afforded excellent practice to a comparative tyro, as I then was.
I may mention that at that time I rarely handled the cards themselves,
and still more rarely played a card game. Nor do I now, at least not
for money; and the same rule holds good, I have observed, with most
professional conjurors and card-manipulators.
The reason of this self-denying ordinance is, of course, not very
far to seek. Take my own case for example! If I should play cards
for money, and win, although I have as much right to win as any
other player taking part in the game, there is always the risk that
the others--even one’s own friends--may think I have utilised my
professional skill in order to take an unfair advantage of them; in
other words that I have cheated them. While should I lose, people are
apt to say: “Well, Carlton is not so smart with the pasteboards as we
thought him to be, after all; the man’s a bit of a mug.” So that’s why
I very rarely play.
It was, too, during my term of “apprenticeship” with Jimmy, if I may
so term it, that I first became interested in the great Maskelyne and
Cooke box trick. These two gentlemen were showing, at the Egyptian
Hall, Piccadilly, a trick which consisted in a man being corded up in a
locked box, and from which he freed himself in a few seconds.
At each performance they offered £500 to anyone who could make a
similar box, and successfully duplicate the trick. Two young men,
clever mechanics they were, set to work, and eventually succeeded in
making a box and performing the trick. I, being at the time a lithe and
supple youth, was placed inside the box at the trial exhibition, and I
released myself and appeared outside in three seconds.
I should add that after I was placed in the box, it was locked, and
then enveloped completely in a canvas cover, which was sealed and
corded, as Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke had stipulated. Notwithstanding
this they declined to pay the promised £500, and the case came into
the Queen’s Bench, and was eventually carried through the Court of
Appeal right up to the House of Lords.
Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke lost, and the two young men who had
made the box got their £500, but of course I received none of the
money. Nevertheless, I have mentioned the incident because it was
indirectly the cause of my getting my first real boost up in my present
profession. But of this more anon.
Suffice it for the present to say that I had learnt all there was to
know about that particular box trick. And not only that. I had set to
work on my own initiative, without saying a word to anyone, and had
made a similar trick box of my own, and in regard to which, moreover,
being a youth of an experimental and inventive turn of mind, I had
introduced one or two notable improvements; or at least so I regarded
them, and so, as a matter of fact, they eventually turned out. The
reason for my mentioning this here will appear presently.
On arriving at Tonbridge Fair Ground I became acquainted with a big
gypsy named Brown, a typical Romany lad, or diddyki, as these people
call themselves in their own dialect. He had a booth in which he was
giving a show with a so-called “Flying Lady.” She had been working
at other fairs with him on the basis of half the takings, but at
Tonbridge, greatly to Brown’s disgust and disappointment, she failed to
put in an appearance. The flying lady had in fact flown--away.
In this dilemma Brown suggested that I should take her place for a
week, which I did, and this resulted eventually in my performing my
box trick at his booth. I had, I should state, rehearsed the trick
many times with a performer who called himself “Lieutenant Doctor Lynn,
Junior,” and who was a son of the one-time famous conjuror, Dr. Lynn.
He it was who presented the trick for the two young men mentioned above
who successfully sued Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke. I was, therefore,
absolutely part perfect in the act, and with the improvements I had
made in my box I felt confident that I could hold my own with anybody
in the business.
[Illustration: CARLTON--ON]
At Faversham Fair Ground, to which we went from Tonbridge, I arranged
with Brown to share his booth, he paying the rent for the ground, or
the “tobee” as the fair folk call it, each to have half the takings.
I was also to help him by pattering outside the show, and performing
card tricks, in order to attract the people, and by interesting them
induce them to come inside: in showman’s parlance “doing a slang to get
a pitch.” This arrangement was certainly a by no means unfavourable one
for him, but he was not satisfied, as I shall have occasion to show
hereafter.
Prior to our opening at Faversham I had cut some paper letters, and
stuck them on a big, bright ultramarine blue banner, advertising my
show as follows:
CARLTON PHILPS
in a facsimile of the famous
Box Trick
that won £500 in the House of Lords.
This act went with a rush from first to last, and this was where I
began to make money. It was a novel experience to me, and need I say
it was as pleasant as it was novel. I was now able to send home a
substantial sum each week to my mother and sisters, put by a little
against a rainy day, and still have enough left over for my personal
needs, which, however, I may add, were at that time of quite modest
dimensions.
To go back a little, I should explain that the roundabout people are
the kings, so to speak, of the fair grounds; and it is these usually
who arrange for the pitches in advance, and pay the “dinari for the
tobee” (i.e. money for the ground) in a lump sum to whoever owns the
land, afterwards sub-letting it to the smaller showmen, the amount of
the rent paid by these latter varying with the size and position of
their individual pitches. The name of the roundabout firm who rented
the fair grounds at Tonbridge and Faversham was Messrs. Hastings and
Wayman, now well-known travelling showmen in Wales.
I got very friendly both with Mr. Hastings and Mr. Wayman. Though
wealthy men as show folk go, and very smart at a deal, they were poor
scholars, and I used to assist them in making up their accounts. I
also, at their request, acted as their advance agent in so far as I
used to go on ahead and arrange for the renting of the tobee.
In this way I got my first insight into the life of the road as led
by the Romany folk. It was, I have no hesitation in saying, the
happiest time of my life. When on the move I lived in one of their
waggons--caravans ordinary people call them, but to the gypsies they
are always waggons--and to travel slowly along through the beautiful
English country lanes behind the sleek, well-fed horses, was a
revelation in restfulness to a bred and born Cockney lad like myself.
We almost lived on the country. Our dogs brought us in rabbits and to
spare. Even pheasants for the pot were not lacking. For this I make
neither apology nor excuse. The true gypsy regards all fur and feather
that runs or flies as his by divine right, and the word “poaching” has
for him literally no significance whatever. When we pulled up at set
of sun by some wayside brook the odour of cooking was always quickly
wafted on the breeze--and such cooking!
It was on one of these journeys that I first tasted that famous Romany
dainty, a hedgehog rolled whole in clay, and baked in the hot ashes.
Believe me it is a dish fit for a king; tasty, succulent, juicy, and
possessing a delicious flavour--gamy but not too gamy--that is all
its own. We also used to cook birds, and even rump steaks, after the
same fashion, and very toothsome I found them. Of course care must be
taken to select the right kind of clay for an envelope, and it is also
advisable to pick out the worms from it before using it.
Heaven knows how long I might have continued leading this kind of life
had it not been for an untoward incident that happened later on, and to
which I shall refer presently. I might have even continued the vagrant
gypsy existence that fitted in so well with my tastes and inclinations,
and become in time almost one of themselves. As it was, after only a
comparatively short spell of it, I was becoming half a Romany, using
their dialect, and falling by degrees, and almost unconsciously, into
their ways of thought and methods of expression.
However, as I have already said, my career as an amateur gypsy was
destined to be cut short sooner than I had bargained for. I was, of
course, never really one of themselves. All the gypsy show folk are
related to one another more or less, either by marriage or descent, and
although they will show friendship to an outsider on occasion, they
never fully trust any such, or admit them to a real, close intimacy. My
trouble with them began, as so many other troubles begin, over money
matters.
My show, as I have said, was unusually successful, and for some time
it had been borne in upon me that I was not getting my fair share of
the takings. I mentioned my suspicions--they were in fact much more
than mere suspicions--to Mr. Wayman, and he was very much upset and
annoyed about it. At the same time he warned me that it would be as
well to avoid if possible having any open quarrel with Brown, who had
the reputation of being a violent man, and who would be certain, if
trouble arose between us, to have all the other gypsies on his side
irrespective of the rights or wrongs of the matter in dispute.
This of course was all very well in its way, and I quite recognised how
excellent was his advice, and how kind and well-meaning was the man
himself in giving it. But then, on the other hand, I did not see why I
should go on being cheated, nor did I intend to, if I could help it. So
one day between the shows I quietly slipped off up to London, without
saying a word to anybody, and bought an automatic pocket register; one
of those tiny affairs, not much bigger than a watch, which you can hold
behind you, or keep hidden in your pocket if need be, and tick off with
one hand the number of people passing in or out of the building.
That night when we came to settle up, I found, as I had surmised, that
Brown was cheating me. His count of the number of patrons visiting my
show was somewhere about fifty below that registered by my machine; and
which, by the way, he did not know I possessed. Nor did I enlighten him
even now on this latter point, merely remarking that I thought he must
be mistaken as to the number, for I had kept count, and I made it fifty
more than he did, which, at a penny each for admission, and reckoning
half the takings as mine, made my share 2s. 1d. more than he was going
to pay me.
“Oh, that can’t be,” objected Brown. “I’m sure my figure is the correct
one. Perhaps you counted the ‘bluers.’”
In order that the reader may be able to appreciate the full
significance of this remark, and also understand how little Brown
thought, or affected to think, of my intelligence, I ought here to
explain the meaning of the word “bluer”; a term perfectly familiar to
all the great host of peripatetic showmen, roundabout proprietors,
owners of cocoanut shies, and the like, but unknown probably to the
generality of people outside these professions.
Literally, then, to “blue,” in the Romany dialect, means to push or
shove, and a bluer, therefore, means a pushful, forceful individual,
one who shoves and elbows his way to the front.
Bluers work on fair grounds in gangs of from four to six or eight.
They hang about the outskirts of the crowd that gathers round the show
where, we will say, the fat lady is on exhibition, or the tattooed man;
and at the proper moment, that is to say when the showman has finished
his harangue and is inviting all and sundry to “walk up--walk up--walk
up,” the bluers start to elbow their way to the front from the rear,
pay their pennies with assumed eagerness, and enter the show. The
crowd, once the lead is set, follows like a flock of sheep, and the
trick is done.
Afterwards the bluers spread themselves amongst the crowd outside again
and discuss, of course in highly eulogistic terms, the wonders of the
particular show they have just visited, before proceeding to another
part of the fair ground, there to repeat their performance for the
benefit of some other showman. Or they will give a lead at the cocoanut
shies, where, being excellent throwers owing to long practice at the
game, they invariably down the nuts, thereby encouraging others to try
and do likewise.
Bluers are paid a shilling a day by each of the showmen having stands
at a fair, and manage to make a very decent living, following the shows
round from place to place all over the country, and from year’s end to
year’s end.
Of course each bluer is furnished beforehand with a sufficient stock of
pennies each day to pay for admission for himself to the various shows;
and, equally of course, these pennies have to be deducted from the
gross total of the takings at the close of the day, and allowed for.
The reader will be able to understand now, therefore, how exceedingly
nettled and angry I was when Brown accused me of counting in the
bluers; because it was obvious that I knew by sight every one of these
men, and that I was not going to count them in as ordinary members of
the paying public, unless indeed I was trying to cheat him, a course
which, needless to say, I neither intended nor desired.
All this I explained to him, but he still persisted in saying that I
was mistaken in my count; so, bearing in mind the advice given me by
my friend Mr. Wayman, I decided to let the matter drop just then,
hoping that he would take the hint, and treat me fairly for the future.
Instead, however, matters kept going from bad to worse. Every night he
docked me in sums running in the aggregate into quite a lot of money,
and I felt very sore about it. Besides, it was very unpleasant in other
ways, for the matter was a continual bone of contention between us,
leading to constant bickerings and quarrels.
And I wanted no quarrels just then, either with Brown, or with any of
the other gypsies. I had had quite enough to go on with already, if
the truth must be told. Indeed, before I had been following the fairs
a week I had fought no fewer than five pitched battles with the show
folk, and their hangers-on the bluers, and others. This, however,
was in a sense partly my own fault, and it was also partly due to my
ignorance of the unwritten law that govern the working of the fair
grounds.
For example, it is the custom for everybody to help in the setting up
and taking down of the various shows, roundabouts, cocoanut shies,
and so on. The bluers, too, gave a hand in this work without extra
remuneration, except that when a fair is finished they are given a
lift on the waggons as far as the next town to which the shows are
going. Now I, being ignorant of this custom, used to go off on my own
somewhere as soon as I had finished putting up or taking down Brown’s
booth, thereby, of course, giving offence. The others thought I was
trying to shirk my obligations to them, whereas nothing was further
from my thoughts. I simply did not know.
However, I had been used to taking my own part. Trust a Cockney lad for
that! So I was usually able to give a pretty good account of myself.
Besides, I got plenty of practice in the fair grounds. When business
was slack at our show, I used to go over to a boxing booth in another
part of the ground that was kept by one Alf Ball, an ex-champion
pugilist, and he put me up to many a pretty wrinkle.
In return I used to help him get an audience by “doing a slang” for
him, and would also, on occasion, put on the gloves outside his booth.
This meant taking on all comers, and I fought many a hard bout on his
account, for being tall and thin, in fact a typical light-weight,
people used to pick on me. “I’ll have ’em (the gloves) on wi’ yon long
fellow,” a burly rustic would say, and smile confidently to himself in
anticipation of an easy victory.
As a matter of fact, however, I always won, although not exactly on
my merits. What happened usually was this. Alf would keep a watchful
eye on our performance, and if my opponent turned out to be a bit of
a bruiser, and “out for a scrap” as we used to say, then the rounds,
instead of lasting the regulation three minutes, would be cut down to
one minute, or even less. On the other hand, if I was getting the best
of a round, then it would be made to last out to perhaps as long as
five minutes, or until the chap was finally knocked out.
There were other “tricks of the trade” too, all designed to make sure
that the booth’s champion won. For instance, all the boxing-gloves
looked alike; but that was all. My pair, weighing perhaps fourteen
ounces, were of solid leather. The pair lent to my opponent for the
bout were padded with horsehair, and as soft as a couple of sofa
cushions. With these “dud” gloves he could make little impression on
me, while if I got one home with mine it was all over with the other
fellow. “By gum, but that thin consumptive-looking chap _can_ punch,”
my discomfited opponent would remark, as he quitted the ring, a sadder
and sorer man than when he entered it.
I may add, however, that the gypsies, when fighting between themselves,
seldom “fight fair,” as the term is understood amongst boxers. They
“go for” one another with sticks, feet, hands, stones, anything. One
favourite way of settling their differences is by what may be called a
duel with cocoanut balls.
Everybody nearly is familiar, of course, with these round, hard wooden
balls, and the gypsy keepers of the cocoanut shies are naturally adepts
at throwing them. When two of them fall out, and agree to fight after
this fashion, two heaps of six or eight balls are placed about twenty
yards apart. The “duellists” then stand back to back midway between the
two heaps, and at the word “go” from their seconds each makes a quick
dash for the heap facing him, gathers up the balls, and then, turning
about, he races towards his opponent, throwing one or more balls as he
advances.
They do not, however, as a rule advance directly towards one another,
but zigzag and circle about, wary as two panthers, and every now and
again one or the other of them will let fly a ball with unerring aim,
which the other has to dodge, or run the risk of being put out of
action, for a blow from one of these missiles, when thrown by a gypsy,
is extremely apt to be a knock-out one.
I once indeed saw a man’s arm broken in one such encounter, and another
gypsy had his skull fractured. The interest of the spectators of these
curious duels increases as ball after ball is disposed of, and reaches
fever-heat when each combatant has thrown all his balls but one,
without any decisive result being attained; for obviously the holder of
the last ball, if he is not disabled, has his opponent practically at
his mercy. The other can only run, circle, and dodge, in order to try
and evade for as long as possible the blow he knows must come sooner or
later.
CHAPTER III
WITH THE GYPSIES
I start a show of my own--Gypsy Brown plays me a dirty trick--
The hunchback in the box--Bank Holiday at Cheriton Fair--I
plan to circumvent Gypsy Brown--And succeed only too well--
The crowd wrecks Brown’s booth--Pandemonium in the fair ground
--The gypsies attack my show--The fate of a peace-maker--My
fight with Gypsy Brown--£10 to £1 on my opponent and no takers--
A knock-out blow--Gypsy Brown vows revenge--My life in danger
--How I outwitted the gypsies--The last of my experiences as a
fair-ground showman.
Meanwhile all this time Brown was steadily robbing me. Again I confided
in my friend Mr. Wayman, telling him that I had by this time saved
enough money to buy a tent (but not a proper showman’s booth) and
asking his advice as to starting on my own. He thought it would be a
good idea, but again took occasion to warn me against incurring the
enmity of Brown, and his many friends and relations.
At this time we were performing at Sheerness on an open space in front
of the beach, and having made up my mind to act on Mr. Wayman’s advice
and chance it, I went to Messrs. Gasson & Sons of Rye, the big military
tent-makers, and bought from them a fairly large second-hand army
marquee, that I considered would about answer my purpose, at all events
for the time being. Then, after our last show at Sheerness, having
quite decided to sever all connection with Brown for the future, I made
shift to get my box away from his keeping; but unfortunately he was
able to retain possession of my banner, and my other “outside props.”
Our next destination after Sheerness was Cheriton, outside Folkestone,
where there was a big volunteer camp. We arrived here on an August Bank
Holiday, which, I should explain, is the showman’s day of days. All
was bustle and animation. I could not, I reflected, have chosen a more
auspicious occasion for my first venture as an independent showman.
Helped by the bluers, and a few others, I soon ran up my marquee, and
Mr. Wayman very kindly lent me a lorry for an outside platform. I had
previously engaged a big ex-army man named Sam Cliff as doorman, and to
take the money, etc. He was a fine-built chap, weighing over fourteen
stone, and by his own account a bit of a bruiser. I had also provided
myself with another banner, a duplicate of the first one I had made,
and which was now in Brown’s possession.
“Let him keep it,” I kept saying to myself. “Much good may it do him!
He’ll never dare to use it.”
But to my disgust and disappointment this is precisely what he did do.
Our two shows, situated almost directly opposite one another, each
flaunted an almost identical banner proclaiming to all and sundry that
Carlton Philps would give a performance of the famous box trick that
won £500 in the House of Lords.
This was, of course, intolerable, and I promptly went over to Mr.
Wayman and lodged a complaint. Whilst I was talking to him a little
hunchback chap came over to where we were, and asked:
“Are you Mr. Carlton Philps?”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s me. What do you want?”
“Well, sir,” he answered, “I hope you won’t be offended, but Mr. Brown
has engaged me to do a box trick. He fetched me down from London to do
it, and now I find that he is using your banner for my trick.”
“Oh,” I said, affecting an indifference I was far from feeling, “that’s
all right. Of course there are box tricks and box tricks. Now what sort
of a one is yours, may I ask?”
The hunchback gave me a description of it, from which I gathered that
his was a very ordinary show indeed, and far inferior to mine; his box
being about four times as big as mine was, and minus the canvas cover.
Also his trick was worked by means of a trap-door, whereas mine was
independent of any such adjunct. So, after turning the matter over in
my mind for a little while, I told him it was all right, and he was to
get on with his trick.
Well, by the time the fair ground opened, there were I should think
between fifteen and twenty thousand people present. The weather was
lovely, the crowd was in excellent spirits, and it looked as if we had
a record day in front of us.
Brown was ready before me, and he gave a first show under my banner.
“This will never do,” I thought. “I’ve got to queer him right here now,
or else he’ll queer me.”
So, after thinking hard for a second or two, I called to Cliff, and
told him to come up outside on the lorry with me, and to bring my box,
together with the canvas cover and the rope.
“Now,” I said, addressing the crowd, “I want some of you gentlemen to
step up here on the platform, put me inside this box after you have
examined it, lock it and keep the key, and then put on the canvas cover
and cord it up as tightly and securely as you can. Then, when you have
done all this, I want you to carry the box, with me in it, inside the
tent, and I will escape from it inside of ten seconds. Finally I will
guarantee that, as regards this my first performance here, everybody
shall get their money back which they have paid for admittance.”
“Hurrah!” cried the crowd, and before you could say “Jack Robinson”
half a dozen sailors had scrambled up on the lorry, and proceeded to
carry out my instructions as to locking me in the box, and roping it
up. Afterwards they carried me inside, followed by the rest of the
crowd, and I escaped from it, as I had said I would, within the time
stipulated.
Then I made them another speech, explaining to them that I was the one
and only original Carlton Philps, and showing them my photograph and
papers to prove it. “Now,” I concluded, “I promised that you should
all have your money back, and so you shall--but on one condition. I
want each one of you to take the penny my doorkeeper will give you,
and go over to the opposition show and see fair play. I ask you to
rope the other man up in the same way as you roped me, using the same
precautions. Then see whether he will be able to get out as I have
done.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the crowd once more. And off they went, sailors and
all, their pennies clutched tight in their hands, making a bee-line
for Brown’s booth. Then I began to get frightened. Cliff, too,
looked serious. But, as I pointed out to him, it was no good worrying
ourselves. What had to be, must be. Our business now was with our own
show.
By this time the fair was in full swing. The roundabouts were going
merrily, the steam organs were at full blast, and I had just begun to
gather another crowd round me when I suddenly noticed the central pole
of Brown’s booth began to wobble to and fro in a most alarming manner.
I could plainly hear, too, angry shouts, and cries of derision, coming
from the interior, and almost immediately the entire canvas edifice
collapsed with a crash.
“Good Lord! That’s done it!” cried Cliff. “Now we’re in for it. The
gypsies will never forget or forgive us for this day’s work.”
I began to think the same, for I quite realised what had happened. The
sailors had roped the hunchback in the box, and he had been unable to
get out. In revenge the crowd, led by the sailors, had wrecked the show.
However, I reflected, this was primarily Brown’s concern, not mine,
and I went on with my preparations for my own show. My marquee was
about half full of people, and more swarming in every minute, when
the expected happened. Brown, his huge face crimson with anger, and
bellowing like a bull, came charging across from the ruins of his
booth, followed by a score or so members of his tribe, all of them
obviously bent on mischief.
Nor did they come unarmed. Some carried iron tent pegs, others long
cudgels, and one big, brawny ruffian swung aloft a heavy iron-shod
oak capstan bar, used in the roundabout business. I also noticed, and
this caused me most misgiving, that several had round wooden balls
taken from the cocoanut-shy boxes. These are very dangerous missiles
indeed in the hand of the gypsies, for they can throw them, owing to
long practice, as straight as a rifle-shot. Many a time had I seen
men stretched senseless by a well-directed shot from one of them, as
narrated in the previous chapter, and I had no wish to repeat the
experiment in my own person.
However, there was neither time nor opportunity to do much thinking.
Calling to Cliff to follow me, I scrambled on the lorry, and with a
loaded revolver in one hand, which was ordinarily used in my show
business, and a heavy stake hammer in the other, I awaited the onset
of the gypsies. These surged round my lorry, a veritable sea of savage
humanity, shouting curses and execrations, and swearing that they would
have my life.
Sticking my revolver in my belt, I swung the heavy hammer aloft, and
threatened to dash out the brains of the first man who tried to climb
up on the lorry. This made them pause. Not that they were not plucky.
There was, I doubt not, many a brave lad amongst them. But none was so
brave or so foolhardy as to wish to court certain death.
By this time pandemonium reigned in the fair ground. All the shows
emptied, the roundabouts stopped, the cocoanut shies were deserted, and
everybody, showmen and public alike, came surging round my tent. At
this moment Sam Cliff, first throwing away a wooden stake he had armed
himself with, very pluckily leapt down amongst the gypsies, and tried
to parley with their leader. But hardly had he uttered two words, when
Brown, mad with rage, rushed at him and knocked him senseless with a
terrific blow in the face.
Poor Cliff was not expecting this. In fact he was purposely holding
his hands down by his sides at the time to show that his intentions
were peaceful. But Brown seemed to think he had done a very clever and
plucky thing in “outing” him for the time being, and elated by his
success, he came straight for my lorry, and made as if to climb up on
it. I raised my hammer aloft, and in my temper I should most certainly
have used it. But the crowd, fearing a tragedy, pulled him back.
Meanwhile Messrs. Hastings and Wayman, the managers, were talking to
the other gypsies, and trying to pacify them, pointing out to them
that they were wasting the best hours of the best day of the year;
that while they were quarrelling, money was being turned away, and
that people were even now commencing to leave the fair ground, fearing
a riot. “Yes, and as for the others,” put in Mr. Hastings, addressing
Brown and me, “they’re mostly climbing on the roundabouts and tents,
and damaging my property. Let’s to business, before it is too late.”
By this time I began to see that there was only one way out of it.
“I’ll fight Brown now,” I cried, “if the crowd will make a ring, and
see to it that I get fair play.”
“We’ll see to that, never fear,” yelled the crowd; and in a few
seconds a big ring was formed, and Brown, taking his place in the
centre of it, stripped himself to the waist. His huge hairy chest
heaved with excitement, and I noted, not without inward misgiving, his
powerful biceps, his brawny bull-like neck, and the closely cropped,
bullet-like head of the fighter by instinct and profession.
When I came to strip in my turn, a great roar of laughter went up from
the multitude, and no wonder. I was lean and lanky, and my skin, by
contrast with his, appeared soft as velvet, and in colour and sheen
not unlike to old ivory. “The lad’s beat before he begins,” said one
man in the forefront of the crowd, and who looked like a professional
pugilist; “I’ll lay £10 to £1 on the big ’un,” and he looked round
inquiringly. But alas! in all that crowd there were no takers. I don’t
blame them.
Directly I stepped into the ring Brown made a rush at me, his great
arms whirling aloft like the sails of a windmill. I stopped him with a
straight left on the nose, and down he went. He scrambled to his feet,
and came for me again, bellowing with rage. This time I caught him in
the eye with my right, more by luck than by judgment, and he tripped
and fell over a tuft of grass.
Now in a rough-and-tumble fight such as this was the strict rules of
the prize ring are, it is well understood, not exactly enforced. You
may not kick of course, and you may not hit a man when he is completely
down, and that is about all. Everything else almost is considered fair,
or at all events legitimate. So when Brown, having partially recovered
himself, raised himself on one knee, I considered that my turn had
come, and making a dive at him, and stooping down myself, I upper-cut
him under the chin, and down he went again flat on his back.
Moreover, greatly to my relief, this time he elected to stay down. He
wasn’t knocked out by any means, but he had had enough. The other
gypsies picked him up, and took him away. The crowd dispersed. The
roundabouts were restarted, the shows reopened, and all the fun of the
fair was soon in full swing once more. Only Brown’s one-time beautiful
booth remained lying where it had fallen, a tangled heap of rent canvas
and broken cordage. Brown himself spent the rest of the day presiding
at a cocoanut-shy, and nursing a bad black eye.
Every now and again he would turn and shoot a malevolent look in my
direction, nor did it need this to tell me that my trouble with him was
only now beginning. All day long, too, the other gypsies kept coming
up to my show in order to tell me of what was in store for me later.
“Brown,” they said, “swears he’ll kill you to-night, and he’s a man of
his word.” “Tell Brown,” I retorted, showing them my revolver loaded in
all six chambers with ball cartridge, “that I’ll certainly shoot dead
any man I catch prowling round my marquee after the fair closes down.”
This, I may add, was a bit of sheer bluff, designed to throw them off
the scent. I used to sleep in my marquee, there was nowhere else to
sleep in fact, and I knew full well that I could not keep awake all
the night long, and that once asleep it would be easy for one of them
to creep under the canvas and brain me with a stake hammer. True,
Cliff and I might have taken it in turns to keep awake and on guard,
one watching while the other slept; but even this, I reflected, would
only be postponing the evil day, or rather night. I knew too well the
fierce, vindictive nature of the gypsies, to imagine for one moment
that Brown and his tribe were going to forgo their revenge altogether.
No! I had another plan worked out in my mind, and soon after it was
dark I proceeded to put it into execution, with the help of Mr. Wayman
in whom I had confided.
He had slipped off to the station at my request, and had ascertained
that a fast train left for London at 10.20 p.m. The fair ground closed
at 11 p.m. Shortly before ten o’clock struck a man with a barrow, whom
I had engaged beforehand, took his position, silently and without being
observed, in a lane at the back of my tent.
Then I started the usual patter on the lorry outside in order to
collect an audience. I could see that the gypsies were watching me.
Possibly they had some suspicion of my intentions. But anyhow I
outwitted them.
We got the crowd inside all right, but these people did not get their
money back, nor did they see the show; for, instead of giving it, Cliff
and I made some excuse to the audience for a brief delay, as we put
it, and quietly slipped away out under the tent at the back, bearing
with us my box, which I had already packed with our joint personal
belongings. To hoist it on to the barrow was the work of a moment. Then
we trundled it off to the station. We had, of course, to leave the
marquee behind us, but as Mr. Wayman had promised me to look after it,
and sell it for me as soon as he got a fair offer for it, this did not
trouble me much.
As luck would have it, the train was on time. And as it steamed out of
the station, bearing our two selves with it, I was just in time to wave
my hand derisively at Brown and a lot of the other gypsies, who, having
found out too late the trick I had served them, came charging pell-mell
up the lane, cursing and shouting, with the object of trying to cut
off our retreat.
So ended my first, last, and only experience as a fair-ground showman.
I never went back to the business again; nor, if the truth be told, had
I ever the least desire to do so.
CHAPTER IV
THE TRICK THAT FAILED
Back in London--At the Westminster Aquarium--“The Pro.’s Casual
Ward”--Zæo’s Maze--“Oriental beauties from the Far East-End
of London”--“Fake” side-shows--A “fasting lady’s” prodigious
appetite--A lively subject for a coffin--I sell conjuring
tricks to visitors--“Uncle” Ritchie--An audience of one--
Annie Luker, the champion lady high diver--I find myself barred
from the Aquarium--The mysterious voice in the maze--Mr.
Ritchie investigates--And Mr. Wieland scores--Penny-gaffing
in London--Working the shops--Sham hypnotism--How to eat
coal and candles--And drink paraffin oil--The box trick again
--Venice in Newcastle--I offer a £1000 prize--The trick
that failed--My first engagement in a regular “hall”--My
absent-minded partner.
Returning to London after my exciting experiences at Cheriton Fair
Ground, I got into rather low water financially, and was glad to
accept an engagement at thirty shillings a week at the Royal Aquarium,
Westminster.
This famous place of amusement used to be known irreverently in the
profession as the “Pro.’s Casual Ward,” on account of the very meagre
salaries ruling there. At the time I went there it was the custom of
the management to pay in cash those artistes who were in receipt of
anything under £2 a week. Those drawing over that amount were paid by
cheque, which they had to cross the road to the bank to cash. Very few
crossed the road.
My engagement, however, was not with the Aquarium people direct, but
with Mr. Harry Wieland, the husband of Zæo, a once famous gymnast.
She was the lady who used to be shot out of a catapult, and perform
other sensational feats in mid-air, and concerning whose performance,
or rather, to be strictly accurate, the poster advertising it, which
was the first poster to appear on the hoardings of a lady in tights, so
tremendous a controversy raged in the public Press and elsewhere during
the spring and summer of 1890.
At the time I went to the Aquarium, however, Zæo had ceased to perform
as a gymnast, and was engaged in running a profitable side-show known
as “Zæo’s Maze,” and which consisted mainly of a lot of mirrors
arranged at different angles. There was also run in conjunction with
the maze what we called a Turkish Harem, the forerunner of the similar
type of exhibition afterwards made popular by the proprietors of
“Constantinople in London” at Olympia.
My job was to act as doorman and attendant at this exhibition, and by
my patter, etc., to induce the public to enter. “Pass in, ladies and
gentlemen!” I would cry. “Pass in and see the wondrous hall of mirrors,
and the bevy of dark-eyed Oriental beauties from the Far, Far East-End
of London.”
This sort of thing served to put the crowd in a good humour, and in
they would troop. The maze was a sufficiently puzzling place to be
in, owing to the arrangement of the mirrors, fifty-two in number.
But by swinging a certain double one round I was able, when I deemed
it expedient to do so, to close the exit altogether, so that it was
impossible for anybody inside to get out until I chose to let them.
Many a sixpence and shilling used I to receive for showing bewildered
wanderers round and round, how to escape from the trap I myself had
set for them.
Also, visitors were not permitted to take sticks or umbrellas inside
the maze, for fear they might poke the mirrors. I took charge of these
for them, and the fees I received from this source still further
swelled my income. It needed some swelling, I may add, to transform it
into a living wage, for I only got thirty shillings a week from Mr.
Wieland, and in return for this sum, in addition to all my other work,
I had to clean the mirrors, so it will be readily apparent that my job
was no sinecure.
Most of the Aquarium side-shows at this time were more or less of the
“fake” variety. I remember, for instance, a “fasting lady” who came
there. She was of quite Amazonian proportions when she first put in an
appearance, but when she left she was as thin as a lath. Afterwards,
however, I helped to clear out the room she had occupied during her
forty days’--I think it was--“fast.”
Then the mystery, such as it was, was solved. We found sufficient
horsehair padding to stuff a good-sized sofa, and then leave enough
over for a couple of armchairs. There were also a lot of thin pieces of
old iron, weighing in the aggregate pretty nearly half a hundredweight,
and these she had evidently used for the purpose of concealing about
her person under her clothes, when she was weighed prior to beginning
her “fast.” Furthermore, in a certain dark corner was a huge pile of
empty tins, that had once contained “bully” beef, salmon, sardines,
chicken, vegetables of almost all sorts, baked beans, and various other
toothsome comestibles. I came to the conclusion there and then that I
would not have minded “fasting” for forty days on the same diet as did
that lady.
Another “fake” show was performed by a girl who was supposed to be in a
trance in her coffin. She was called “The Sleeping Beauty.” As a matter
of fact she was not sleeping, nor was she beautiful. The coffin in
which she reposed was tilted at an angle, and muslin drapery was hung
over it. Through this she was able to see when a visitor, or visitors,
were ushered into the room, and she would then go “off” into her
trance. At all other times she was as lively as a kitten.
Quite near the maze was another side-show run by a conjuror calling
himself Professor Field. This was a genuine show so far as it went,
although Field, in my estimation at all events, was not much of a
conjuror. His business consisted in performing certain tricks, and
afterwards selling the “secret” of them, together with the simple
apparatus necessary to perform them, to anyone who was prepared to pay
him half-a-guinea for the same.
Now as it happened, soon after I came there, this gentleman joined
partnership with another conjuror named Carlton, the show being run
under the title of Field, Carlton & Co. This gave me an idea. If these
people could give lessons in conjuring for money, I didn’t see why I
shouldn’t do the same.
So when I got a likely-looking visitor inside the maze I used to
show him some tricks, and offer to sell them to him at half-a-crown
apiece, at the same time pointing out to him that I was the one and
only original Carlton, and that the same tricks sold by the Field &
Carlton firm outside--which I was careful to add was not connected
with me--would cost him half-a-guinea each. I did a fairly lucrative
business, and in a little while my total earnings, including the
standing thirty shillings weekly paid me by Mr. Wieland, averaged £7 or
£8 a week.
But of course it was only a matter of time before Messrs. Field &
Carlton got to know that I was undercutting them; and, not unnaturally,
they were very angry about it. Off they went to “Uncle” Josiah Ritchie,
the Aquarium manager, and lodged a complaint, pointing out that they
paid a big rent for their pitch, and that all the while I, who paid
nothing whatever, was stealing their business.
The result was that I was had up on the carpet, and somewhat severely
reprimanded, being made to promise not to sell any more tricks. As some
sort of a set-off against this, however, Mr. Ritchie gave me the job
to go up on the central stage and “announce” Miss Annie Luker, a young
lady who used to do a sensational dive from the roof of the Aquarium
into a tank sunk in the floor.
But to this arrangement, after a little while, Mr. Wieland objected.
He said that he paid me to look after his wife’s side-show, and that
while I was up on the central stage pattering for Annie Luker I was
neglecting his interests. This was of course true, for obviously I
could not be in two places at once; but it struck me as being primarily
a matter for adjustment between Ritchie and Wieland, and I left it to
them to settle.
The result of this arrangement was that what happened to me was
something like what happened to the earthenware pot in the fable when
it came into collision with the two iron pots. After a particularly
busy Bank Holiday, when I did my best to divide my allegiance between
Wieland and Zæo on the one hand, and Ritchie and Annie Luker on the
other, I lost my job. I didn’t get any notice either. When I presented
myself at the stage entrance to the Aquarium next morning as usual, I
was told by the doorkeeper there that he had orders not to admit me.
“Uncle” Ritchie, by the way, was something of an autocrat in his
dealings with the artistes, and his other employees; and especially was
he keen on seeing that he got his money’s worth out of them. I remember
that while I was at the Aquarium, the first turn there used to be a man
named Willis, who was also a conjuror. He had to appear three times
each day, an hour’s turn, for thirty shillings a week, and his first
turn was from 10 to 11 a.m., when the place opened, and when as a rule
there were very few of the general public present.
Nevertheless Mr. Ritchie always insisted on his giving his full hour’s
show, even although it was to a beggarly array of empty benches, and
he even used to make a practice of seating himself in front of the
conjuror and ticking off each item on his programme in order to be sure
that the unhappy man missed no single one of his tricks; and this, too,
on wet mornings, or off days, when possibly he (Ritchie) was the sole
“audience.” A more irritating or depressing experience for a performer
than this, I should imagine, it would be impossible to conceive.
Occasionally though “Uncle” met his match. For instance, he used to be
fond of prowling about the building at the times when it was supposed
to be closed to the public, in order to see if he could find anything
amiss; and on one of these occasions he heard, or rather he thought he
heard, human voices proceeding from the interior of the maze.
This, of course, was strictly against all rules and regulations, for
the interior of the side-show was at such times in pitch darkness. Mr.
Ritchie was on the alert immediately.
“Send for Mr. Wieland,” he commanded.
“There’s somebody inside your maze,” he said when that gentleman
presently appeared on the scene in obedience to his summons.
“Nonsense!” was the reply. “How can there be anybody in there? I locked
the maze up myself at closing time, and nobody has had possession of
the key since.”
“Well,” persisted Mr. Ritchie, “I’ll swear I heard voices there anyhow,
and I’m going to search the place.”
This he started to do, and as a preliminary, directly he got inside, he
struck a match.
“Here! None of that, Mr. Ritchie, if you please,” cried Wieland. “To
strike a light in there is against your own orders. Besides, if you
burn my show down, what redress have I got?”
Ritchie, although inwardly fuming with rage, had to recognise the
reasonableness of this, and he contented himself with groping about in
the dark, and calling to the supposed intruder to come out.
For a while there was no response. Then suddenly, from the innermost
recesses of the maze, a hoarse voice shouted: “Get out yourself. Who
are you?”
“I’m Mr. Josiah Ritchie, the manager of the Aquarium,” answered “Uncle”
wrathfully, “and I order you to come out immediately.”
“Oh, you go to hell,” was the polite rejoinder; whereat Ritchie came
outside hurriedly, his face aflame with rage.
“There you are,” he cried, addressing Wieland. “I told you there was
someone in there,” and he called a messenger boy, and ordered him to
fetch the Aquarium policeman and fireman.
The lad started on his errand, but before he had gone many yards
Wieland intervened, and called him back.
At this Ritchie, not unnaturally, was more furious than ever. Stamping
his foot, he asked how dare Wieland countermand his order?
“Well,” answered the latter quite suavely, “I called the boy back in
your own interest. If the policeman and fireman are sent into the maze
to lug out the individual you think is inside there, the only result
will be to make you the laughing-stock of everybody about the place.”
“Wait a minute, and I will show you,” he resumed. And going inside,
Mr. Wieland presently returned with a big cage, in which was a red and
green talking parrot.
Tableau!
After I got the “sack” from the Aquarium I started on my own, working a
conjuring show at various empty shops in and round London. That is to
say, I would bargain for the temporary tenancy of any likely-looking
shop in a main thoroughfare that chanced to be vacant, and having
secured it, I would then proceed to give a more or less continuous
performance, charging a penny for admission.
My show consisted in a combination of conjuring and (alleged)
hypnotism. With me as assistant I had a thin consumptive-looking youth,
by name Freddie Andrews, whom I used to pretend to mesmerise, and he
would then, on my commanding him to do so, drink paraffin oil with
apparent gusto, eat with relish lighted candles and chunks of coal, and
perform other similar antics.
This part of the show, I may state at once, was a fake. The upper
part of the candle, which the lad ate, was carved out of an apple, and
fitted with a wick made from an almond, and soaked in brandy to make
it burn. The particular portion of the chunk of coal devoured by him
was merely chocolate, deftly affixed to the genuine coal by myself
at the moment of its being handed to him. While the paraffin oil was
just plain water, poured into a bottle round the neck of which an oily
paraffin rag was wrapped to make it smell when it was handed round
amongst the audience for inspection.
Well, I was working a place on these lines in the Edgware Road one day
towards the close of the year 1901, in the basement of a shop in which
was a waxwork exhibition run by Mr. Louis Tussaud, when a man I knew
slightly came to me in a great state of exhilaration and excitement.
He had, he told me, secured a £35 a week contract for seven weeks
for a conjuring and illusion turn at an entertainment called “Venice
in Newcastle,” and which was to open at the Drill Hall there shortly
before Christmas.
The bother of it was, he explained, that he knew nothing whatever of
conjuring or illusions. He was under no illusion about that himself
at all events. He had, he said, answered the advertisement in the
_Era_ newspaper at haphazard, setting forth his (purely imaginative)
qualifications as an A1 wizard at great length, and very much to his
surprise he had secured the contract. “Now,” he concluded, “what am I
to do about it?”
“Do about it?” I exclaimed. “Why go whacks with me in the £35, and well
fix up the turn between us.”
“But,” he objected, somewhat doubtfully, “the ordinary stock card
tricks, etc., won’t do, except perhaps as a stop-gap. We must have at
least one really slap-up, first-class illusion.”
“Right ho!” I replied, struck by a sudden happy thought. “I know! We’ll
run the great Maskelyne and Cooke box trick. I know all about how it is
done, and what’s more I’ve got at home a facsimile of the box that was
used in the great £500 prize case.”
There was some further talk, but in the end we came to terms as I had
suggested, share and share alike.
Then, however, a new difficulty arose. Neither of us was able to
muster the fares to Newcastle. Eventually, however, struck by another
happy thought, I journeyed down to Ratcliffe Docks, and there I found
a captain of a tramp coasting steamer, who happened to be bound for
Newcastle, and who agreed to take the pair of us for fifteen shillings.
These we managed to scrape together, and in due course arrived at our
destination, penniless but hopeful. Our sole luggage consisted of my
precious box, in which was packed our wardrobes.
The show was to open on December 21st, and I spent most of the
intervening time coaching my partner in the part he was to take in our
“Great £1,000 box trick.”
I had christened it this because it sounded well to offer a good, big,
thumping reward. Those world-famous wizards, Maskelyne and Cooke,
had offered £500 to anyone who guessed the secret of their trick. We
doubled the prize, making the winning of it, however, conditional on
the winner escaping from the box.
[Illustration: CARLTON AND ONE OF HIS SATELLITES AT THE THEATRICAL
GARDEN PARTY, LONDON, 1919]
My partner demurred somewhat to this; but, as I pointed out to him, we
might as well offer a reward of one thousand pounds as one thousand
shillings. We hadn’t, as a matter of fact, got one thousand pence. So
what did it matter? “Besides,” I added consolingly, “no one in the
audience will ever succeed in getting out of my box. The thing is
impossible.”
This, I may add, was the literal truth; for, in order to make assurance
doubly sure, I had hit upon the expedient of having two keys made. One
of these simply locked and unlocked the box, allowing the lid to be
raised. The other one not only locked the box, but it also locked, at
the same time, the mechanism actuating the secret panel by which I was
enabled to get out of it. If the first key were used it was possible
for anybody inside who knew of the existence of the panel, and how it
was worked, to escape from the box’s interior. But if the second key
were used, the individual inside was as securely imprisoned as he would
be if sealed up in a living tomb.
Well, the eventful day came round at last. The town had been well
“billed” beforehand, and the hall was packed with curious spectators,
all of them eager to see for themselves the wonderful box trick, and
try and unravel the mystery of it.
We produced the box, and called up the usual volunteer committee
of inspection, while I expatiated at length on our generous and
unprecedented offer of “£1,000 in hard cash” to any lady or gentleman
who succeeded in escaping from its interior. A good many, I may add,
tried. But of course none succeeded. I saw to that.
Following these preliminaries, the box was placed open on a table in
the centre of the stage, and a threefold screen on legs was drawn round
the back and two sides, leaving the front facing the audience exposed
to view, and also allowing of a clear view underneath the table. This
was so that I could get inside the box, and be corded up in it, in full
view of the spectators, after which a curtain, falling only as low as
the top of the table, was to be drawn across the front by my partner,
who was to fire a pistol as a signal for me to emerge.
This was literally all he had to do; just draw the curtain tight,
shutting the box from view, and then fire his pistol. But he didn’t do
it. He fired the pistol all right, it is true, but in his flurry and
excitement he forgot to draw the curtain.
As a result I popped up out of the box in full view of the audience,
and every man, woman, and child in the building saw at a glance exactly
how I did it. I never felt so small in all my life. I wanted the ground
to open and swallow me up. If there had been a convenient hole anywhere
near I would have crawled into it. As it was I sidled off the stage,
followed by the jeers and laughter of several thousand people.
My partner was there before me. So was the manager of the hall. He was
furious. “Get out of my sight, you two!” he cried, “and don’t let me
ever see either of you again.”
We went. What I said to my partner when we got outside would not look
well in print. Suffice it to say that my language was neither kind nor
complimentary.
Next morning I went round to the theatre to claim my box. The manager
was there. To my surprise he was quite civil, even courteous.
“Carlton,” he said, “I’ve been thinking over last night’s business, and
I realise that it wasn’t your fault. The box trick, of course, is dead
as mutton. We should never dare to show it again. But you can, if you
like, stay on and give an ordinary conjuring and card trick turn. I’ll
pay you £5 a week. What do you say?”
Needless to say I promptly closed with the offer. It was my first
regular engagement at a proper hall, and to me at the time the terms
seemed sufficiently liberal; as indeed, under the circumstances, they
were.
For seven weeks I performed there, and was lucky enough to amuse and
please my audience. What became of my absent-minded partner I haven’t
the remotest idea. I never saw him again.
CHAPTER V
CLIMBING TO FAME AND FORTUNE
I give an impromptu show at the Palace Theatre--“Chuck him out!”--
I seek out Mr. Wieland again--At the Crystal Palace--I adopt my
present make-up--“The Human Hairpin”--Charlie Coborn and “Two
Lovely Black Eyes”--I do a trial turn at the Bedford Music-hall
--Billed as a star turn at the Alhambra and Palace Theatres--
And at the “Flea Pit,” Hoxton--My reception there--I work the
Alhambra, Palace, Middlesex, Metropolitan, and Cambridge together
--A record for those days--A Press “spoof”--Continental
engagements--Paris, Milan--An overdose of Chianti--And its
results--The night life of Milan--A blood-curdling adventure--
Murder most foul--Callous passers-by.
On my return to Town from Newcastle, and remembering how well my show
went there, I really did begin to think that I was “some conjuror,” as
our American friends have it, and I started to look round for a regular
London engagement.
Meanwhile I used to visit the galleries of the music-halls where
conjurors were performing, in order to observe their ways and methods,
and collect such information as I could. On these occasions I used
invariably to carry a pack of cards with me, and one day while I was
seated in the gallery at the Palace Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, a
conjuror and card manipulator came on and did a number of tricks, with
every one of which I was perfectly familiar.
Acting on the impulse of the moment, directly he had finished his turn,
I rose from my seat--I was in the front row of the gallery--and facing
about, and drawing my pack of cards from my pocket, I exclaimed: “I
can do those tricks; just watch me.”
Instantly there was a big commotion. Some of the people resented the
interruption, and there were loud cries of “Sit down!” “Shut up!”
“Chuck him out!” etc. Others among the audience, however, rather
welcomed my action, and took my part, applauding and laughing.
Meanwhile the next turn was spoilt, and Mr. Charles Morton, the
manager, sent an attendant to request me to leave, which of course I
did. But I had achieved what I set out to do, by giving what I suppose
was the only unauthorised show ever performed in public at the Palace.
Little did I dream as I took my departure, and still less, I suppose,
did Mr. Morton dream, that I was afterwards to fill at this same Palace
Theatre no fewer than forty-seven different engagements, ranging in
length from one to eight weeks, and thereby establishing a record, so
far as this particular house is concerned.
My next step was to seek out my old Aquarium “boss,” Mr. Wieland, who
was now running a variety agency in conjunction with Messrs. Oliver
and Holmes in Cranbourne Street, Leicester Square. I told him I was
the biggest card manipulator that ever was, and asked him for an
engagement. Mr. Wieland was considerably impressed by my cheek; but
not otherwise, I gathered. Anyhow I didn’t succeed in talking him into
booking me.
There followed more wearisome running round from one agent to another,
none of whom would listen to me, until in the end I managed to secure,
but off my own bat, a trial show in a Café Chantant company then
performing at the Crystal Palace under the management of Mr. Humphrey
E. Brammall. It was then that I first adopted my present make-up, and
I have never altered it since, except that during the first two or
three weeks I used to wear a long hairy wig, and whiten my face like a
clown’s.
At that time the regulation stage costume for all professional
conjurors consisted of ordinary evening dress, and the general opinion
amongst the audiences was that this attire in some way assisted the
conjuring performance; that the performer, in fact, had “something up
his sleeve,” both figuratively and literally. This gave me the idea of
dressing myself throughout in black tights, so that people could see
that there was no concealment possible.
This was really the only end I had in view in adopting this particular
costume. I most certainly never contemplated making my turn a comic
one. Consequently when I went on for my trial show at the Crystal
Palace, and at which I appeared in these tights for the first time, I
was considerably embarrassed because the audience roared with laughter
all through my performance, and I quitted the stage half believing that
I had made a mess of it. However, all the other performers saying how
funny I looked, and what a splendid patterer I was, and Charlie Coborn,
who was singing “Two Lovely Black Eyes” there at the time, being
especially enthusiastic about me, caused me to pluck up courage, and
I began to think that, after all, I was perhaps going to be a success
there at all events.
My surmise turned out correct. Next week I topped the bill there at
£3 a week, being billed as “Carlton Philps, the World’s Premier Card
Manipulator.” Following this I secured an engagement at the Hippodrome,
Brighton, then under the same management. This was a combined circus
and stage, and I did my show in the ring.
Returning to London, I again sought out Mr. Wieland, and told him of
the hit I had made. He was not greatly impressed even then, however; he
merely said, “All right, my lad, go over there in the corner, and let’s
see what you can do.”
Now my show needs now, and it needed then, a regular audience in
order to make it go properly. I did my best, but I could see that
Mr. Wieland thought precious little of my business. In fact he said
as much. Agents are not very particular as regards the feelings of
unknown artistes, and Mr. Wieland, although one of the best-natured
men in the world, was no exception to the rule. However his assistant,
a gentleman named Altree, was more cordial. He seemed to think that
there might be something in my show that was not readily apparent in
the drab surroundings of a variety agent’s office; and eventually he
got me a trial turn at the Bedford Music Hall, Camden Town, promising
at the same time to come down and see it for himself, which he did. As
a result he went back to Mr. Wieland, and reported to him that mine was
one of the best “acts” he had ever seen.
Still that gentleman was frankly incredulous, and he said so when I
again waited on him at his office on the following day. As luck would
have it, however, while I was talking to him a telephone message came
through from the Alhambra Theatre, Leicester Square, saying that their
star turn, Miss Ida Renè, was indisposed, and would Mr. Wieland please
send someone that evening to take her place?
Promptly I saw my chance, and as promptly I “butted in.”
“Send me?” I said.
Mr. Wieland stared at me in amazement; too flabbergasted at my audacity
for a few moments to speak. When he found his voice, it was to rate me
soundly for my impertinence. Did I realise, he asked, that they wanted
a star turn?
“Well, I am a star turn,” I replied, “or, at any rate, I’ve been one.
Topped the bill at the Palace, you know!”
“Palace?” snorted Wieland.
“Crystal Palace!” I corrected.
“Oh!” snorted the great man again, and wilted me with a look.
But now Mr. Altree joined in the conversation.
“Give the lad a chance,” he said. “You haven’t seen his show. I have. I
know. Give him a chance, I say. He’ll paralyse ’em.”
Well, there was a lot more argument; but the upshot of it was that I
went on that evening at the Alhambra, and was a big success, exactly as
Mr. Altree had predicted. Three or four times I was called before the
curtain at the conclusion of my performance, and all the while I was
giving my show the whole house was, I could see, pleased and amused.
When I quitted the theatre that night I knew that, barring accidents,
my future in the profession was assured.
Nor was I unduly optimistic. That Wednesday they were a turn short
at the Palace, and the assistant manager there, who had been to the
Alhambra and seen my show, asked me to come over there and deputise.
So here was I, a new and comparatively unknown performer, appearing
at two of the principal West End halls at one and the same time, and
that moreover at two establishments then running in opposition to one
another. My remuneration for the first week was £4 a week from each,
but I got a second week’s engagement to follow on, at £8 a week from
each. It was dirt cheap, of course, from their point of view. But at
that time I did not know my own value, and, anyway, it seemed to me
then a quite munificent salary.
While performing at these two halls, too, I was offered an engagement
at the Variety, Pitfield Street, Hoxton, then irreverently known as the
“Flea Pit,” at £4 a week. This came to me through Macdermott’s Agency.
It was a two-houses-a-night engagement, and I was at the bottom of the
bill; a position I was, of course, quite proud of. The contrast with
the Alhambra was most striking. There I had a comfortable dressing-room
and a refined and cultured audience to play to. At the Variety I had
to go down a spiral staircase to my dressing-room, which was a sort
of disused coal-hole, or something of the kind, and which moreover I
had to share with a troupe of performing dogs, and about a dozen other
artistes. As for the audience, it simply beggared description. Probably
there was no rougher one anywhere in London at the time.
It was about this period that I first began to be called “The Human
Hairpin.” Standing over six feet in height, I was exceedingly thin,
weighing less than nine and a half stone, and my all-black stage
make-up accentuated my lankiness, which I still further increased by
wearing “elevators,” and a high, padded wig, so that I looked to be
over seven feet. My appearance on the stage at the Variety was the
signal for so uproarious a scene as never before or since have I heard
or witnessed. The whole house roared and rocked with laughter, and
above the indescribable din I distinctly remember hearing a girl’s
voice from the gallery shriek out; “Blimey, ain’t he a coughdrop? Look
at ’is blinking legs!” It was the custom here, if the audience did not
like a “turn,” to throw “fish and chips” at the unfortunate artiste,
which they purchased at a shop opposite the theatre.
As for my performance, it had to be given in dumb show. I could not
hear myself speak. Yells, cat-calls, shrieks filled the air. I went
away disgusted, but of course I had to return and do my show again at
the second house. This was the same scene over again, only more so.
Never had I imagined such a pandemonium of noise.
Next day I went round to Macdermott’s Agency, told the manager there
I was a ghastly failure at the Variety, that the audience simply
wouldn’t listen to me, and asked to be released from my engagement.
“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I can’t believe it.” And he rang up the
manager of the hall. That gentleman telephoned back to say that so far
from my having been a failure, he had never heard such laughter in
his life, and that I had made a big hit--presumably, I suppose, from
the standpoint of the Variety, Hoxton. Anyhow, it wasn’t so from my
standpoint; and I again asked to be released from my contract. “The
audience was laughing _at_ me, not _with_ me,” I explained; “I couldn’t
hear myself speak.”
“My lad,” cried the manager angrily, “you’re too big for your boots.
Because you’re appearing at the Alhambra you’ve got a swelled head on
you.”
Then it was my turn to get angry. “Look here,” I answered, “I’ll not
go on again at the Variety, and that’s the long and short of it. I
wouldn’t go through again what I went through last night for fifty
pounds. I never was so insulted in all my life.”
The manager thereupon pointed to a clause in my contract, by which
it was stipulated that if for any reason I declined to fulfil my
engagement I was to pay him £4 in place of his paying me £4. This
meant, of course, a dead loss to me of £8. Nevertheless, I paid the
money, and I never went back to the Variety.
Next week was a record. My fame spread among the music-hall managers,
and I was offered, and accepted, engagements at the Alhambra, Palace,
Middlesex, Metropolitan, and Cambridge, the latter a two-houses-a-night
hall. This meant my doing six turns a night, and with a brougham, there
being of course no motor-cars in those days. It was a sufficiently
arduous task, but I managed it all right, and was, I need hardly say,
quite pleased with myself.
It was about this time, too, that I began to taste the joys of life.
One evening just as I had finished a late turn at the Palace Theatre,
a friend gave me a ticket for a Covent Garden Fancy Dress Ball. There
was not time to change into a costume, even if I had had one, so I went
just as I was in my stage make-up, and signed the book “Arthur Philps
[my real name] as ‘Carlton.’”
As a result, and greatly to my surprise, I was awarded first prize for
the best comic costume. People came up and congratulated me on what
they regarded as my “wonderful impersonation.” Others I heard passing
such remarks as, “Isn’t it like him?” “What a marvellous resemblance!”
and so on.
Only Mr. (now Sir Alfred) Butt, the Manager of the Palace, who chanced
to be present, was not deceived. “By gad, Carlton,” he whispered to
me, “you _have_ got a nerve!”
And, by the way, talking of Sir Alfred reminds me of a journalistic
advertising “stunt” I worked while I was playing at the Palace some
time back. In conjunction with a Press man I knew, I arranged to bring
off a “fake” rescue on Hungerford Bridge about two o’clock one morning.
At this time there was not a soul on the bridge, but I raced off the
Surrey end, and gasped out to a policeman that there were a couple of
hooligans up there assaulting an old gentleman. “I’ve given them a
pretty good hiding, officer,” I said, “sorry I can’t stop”; and I ran
off towards Waterloo Station, as though in a hurry to catch a train.
Next day there appeared in most of the London papers an account of the
“attempted outrage,” with the addition that the old gentleman who had
been assaulted was wishful to thank his unknown rescuer, and ask his
acceptance of a ten-pound note.
That night, at the Palace, I called Mr. Butt’s attention to the account
of the affair in one of the evening papers.
“It refers to me,” I told him. “I was the rescuer.”
“Good lad!” he cried, shaking me by the hand. “But what about the ten
pounds?”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t like taking that. After all I only did my duty
in protecting a harmless old man from a couple of ruffians. Suppose I
hand over the money to the Music-hall Benevolent Fund?”
Naturally he thought this was very kind and generous of me, and he told
several people about it. My Press man also let the story be known, and
the result was that I got the reception of my life when I appeared on
the stage later on.
It was a splendid “advert.,” and cheap at the price--£15: which was
what it cost me; £10 of which I had of course to find out of my own
pocket for the M.H.B. Fund, and £5 which I handed over to my friend the
Press man.
Once fairly launched on my career, the rest was comparatively easy.
Nevertheless, there were occasional spells of out of work, known
euphemistically in the profession as “resting,” and it was during one
of these intervals of enforced leisure that I first made acquaintance
with the Continent. I had been performing at the Empire, Hastings, with
the two Brothers Griffiths, well known in connection with their famous
Blondin donkey act, and as they, like me, were out of an engagement,
they proposed running over to Paris, in order to take a look round, and
see if they could not book an engagement or two there.
“Why don’t you come with us?” they asked. “You might succeed in getting
an engagement as well, you know.”
In saying this, they were, of course, only kidding me. I knew this,
too, quite well. But I also made up my mind that if I did go, I would
not go for nothing, at all events if I could help it.
However I kept my own counsel as to this, merely remarking that as I
was out of an engagement for the time being I might as well “rest” in
Paris as anywhere else, and that I would be glad to accompany them;
which I did.
Arrived there we took up our quarters at the Hôtel Franklin in the Rue
Baulfault, off the Rue la Fayette, then a favourite rendezvous for
English artistes staying in Paris. Next morning the Brothers Griffiths
went to call on their agents. I went sightseeing.
That night they started kidding me again, and suggested that I should
give a trial show at one of the Paris music-halls. I pretended to
think they were in earnest, but at the same time I feigned reluctance,
pointing out to them--what they knew full well beforehand--that I
neither spoke nor understood the French language. However, I said that
I would think it over, and they went off in great glee to let the other
English “pro.’s” staying there into the secret of the joke they fondly
imagined they were going to work off on me.
Meanwhile I got a friendly waiter at the hotel, who understood English,
to translate my patter, word for word, into its French equivalent. This
I wrote down phonetically, and used to practise it with him on the
quiet, and by myself at night after I had retired to my room, until I
was fairly perfect in it.
Well, my two friends kept kidding me, asking me how soon I was going to
pluck up courage to give my trial show; and at last I said that I would
give it if they could arrange the preliminaries for me. To this they
promptly agreed, and presently they came to tell me that they had fixed
it up through M. Marenelli’s agency for me to go on at the matinée at
the Olympia Theatre, first turn, that day.
The rest of the morning they spent in going round and telling all the
other English artistes then in Paris. Most of these did what are called
in the profession “dumb acts,” a term which explains itself, and they
were all quite sure that the joke was going to be on me, knowing that I
relied upon my patter, and that I spoke no French. To tell the honest
truth I thought myself that it was odds on them, but I made up my mind
to do my best to try and win through, and in order to assist my memory
I scribbled in pencil the tags of all my gags on the cuffs of my shirt
before going down to the theatre.
Needless to say all my fellow-artistes turned up there to witness the
fiasco they had made up their minds they were going to see. Not that
they really wished me any harm, or wanted to see me humiliated, but
it is our way in the profession to guy one another, and especially do
we delight to take it out of a beginner. Well, the curtain rang up,
and on I went. I was greeted with a regular tempest of cheers, mostly
ironical, I thought. Still, I managed all right at the beginning,
though afterwards I had to keep turning first to one shirt cuff, and
then to the other, for guidance and inspiration.
This amused the kindly French people immensely, and I soon had my
audience in great good humour, and I was rewarded with round after
round of hearty, genuine applause. In short, my “turn” was a success, a
big success indeed; and when I came off there were no fewer than three
managers waiting in the wings to interview me.
Naturally I let them bid against one another for my services, and
eventually I closed with the best offer, which came from an Italian,
Signor Caroselli. He engaged me to go to the Eden Theatre, Milan, at a
salary of one hundred francs a day for seven days a week, approximately
£28 a week in our money. Of course I was as ignorant of Italian as I
was of French, but I adopted the plan I had found so efficacious in
Paris, translating my English into phonetic Italian, and it worked
splendidly.
My original engagement with Signor Caroselli was for fifteen days,
but I remained working in Milan for eight weeks straight off. During
this period I did my show at the Eden in the evening, and at the Villa
Giardino--an open-air café chantant--in the afternoon, and also at
the Stablini Theatre; and during a part of my engagement I filled the
triple bill at all three places, a thing never done before in Milan.
On the very first day of my engagement, however, I nearly came a
cropper. It happened in this way. The Eden Theatre was a restaurant in
the day time, and even in the evening there were little tables dotted
about all over the place where people could come and eat a dinner while
listening to the performance. Working at the restaurant there was an
Italian waiter who had served for a long time at Pinoli’s Restaurant in
London, and who started out to help me by teaching me a sufficiency of
colloquial Italian for my business.
Well, I got there in the morning, and this waiter told me that the
proper thing to eat for dinner was a dish of spaghetti (fine macaroni)
washed down with a flask of chianti wine. I followed his advice,
and then, feeling tired, and as my turn, a late one, was not until
ten-thirty that night, I thought I would go home to my lodgings and
rest awhile.
Now in Milan chianti wine is very cheap. It is also, but this is a
detail, very potent. When serving it with a meal, it is the custom
there to place upon the table a huge flagon of it, holding, I suppose,
about a couple of quarts, and which is swung upon a pivot. The diner
helps himself to as much as he wants of this by tilting up the flagon,
thereby allowing the wine to run out into his glass, and he is charged
for as much of it as he drinks, and no more.
But I, of course, knew nothing of all this. I thought the entire flagon
was intended for my consumption, and the day being very hot, and myself
feeling very thirsty, I drank the lot. The natural result was that when
I reached my lodgings I felt horribly drowsy, so calling my landlady
I told her to call me at “otto d’ora” (eight o’clock) and lay down to
rest feeling quite proud at having been able so soon to air, to even
that limited extent, my newly acquired knowledge of Italian.
Alas! I was presently to discover that mine was the pride that goes
before a fall, for Italian time is reckoned right round the clock, and
I ought by rights to have told her to call me at “venti d’ora” (twenty
o’clock), eight o’clock there being in the morning. The result was that
I overslept myself, and when I at length awoke, of my own accord, the
performance at the theatre was over and done with for that evening.
I was in a terrible fever, and rushed round to find the manager and
explain matters. I expected nothing less than instant dismissal, but
instead, the manager, when I had explained matters, laughed heartily
after the good-natured Italian fashion, as if the being obliged to do
without his star turn for his opening performance was one of the best
jokes imaginable. Needless to say I took care to be on time the next
night. Also I was wary of the chianti for the future.
I thoroughly enjoyed my stay in the beautiful city of Milan, barring
one terrible incident, the memory of which is indelibly engraven on my
memory; and which I will now proceed to narrate. First, however, I must
explain that in order to reach my apartment in the house I lodged in,
I had to unlock no fewer than four separate doors. The first of these
doors opened from the street into a sort of passage, or corridor,
at the end of which was a second locked door giving admittance to a
quadrangle. A third door, one of several, and also locked, led from
this quadrangle to a common staircase, whence a fourth locked door led
to my bedroom. For the purpose of unlocking all these four doors, I was
provided with one key only, but that of the most peculiar construction.
It was in effect, indeed, four keys in one, being shaped like an iron
cross, the four separate arms fitting each its own separate individual
lock, and none other.
I should imagine that it would be hard to invent a more bothersome key
than this diabolical contrivance, especially to the roysterer returning
home late at night, and in the dark. The ordinary single latchkey is
sometimes sufficiently puzzling to the late comer at his own home
who has dined not wisely but too well. Try and imagine the effect in
similar circumstances of a fourfold key, each arm, or barrel, call it
what you will, looking exactly alike, but each quite different, in
that only one of the four is designed to unlock whichever particular
lock you may be at the moment negotiating, the odds being, of course,
exactly four to one against your picking out the right barrel in the
first instance.
Well, on this particular occasion I don’t mind confessing that I was in
a fairly blithesome mood. I had in fact been “out with the boys” seeing
the night side of life in Milan, and was returning home to my lodgings
in the early dawn feeling at peace with all the world, when, on turning
the corner of the street where I stayed, I was startled to observe a
man walking towards me, and being shadowed, at a distance in rear,
by another man, who was carrying in his hand a long, bright-bladed
stiletto.
I stopped suddenly, but before I had time to call out, or even to
collect my thoughts, the man in the rear suddenly bounded forward and
buried his weapon in the other’s back, between the shoulders. The
stabbed man uttered one single, terrible groan, and sank in a huddled
heap to the pavement, right in front of the door leading to the house I
was lodging in.
The murderer looked hastily round, listened intently for a moment
or two, then stooped to withdraw his knife, and strode off in my
direction. My first impulse naturally was to turn and run, but on
second thoughts I concluded that as he might not yet have seen me,
perhaps my safest plan was to keep straight on as if I had seen nothing.
I therefore started whistling in apparent unconcern; but the assassin
evidently suspected me. He allowed me to pass, then wheeled swiftly, as
if intending to go for me; whereupon I took to my heels, and he after
me.
Luckily I am a good sprinter, and on this occasion I ran like the wind,
doubling and turning through the maze of silent and deserted streets
for fully ten minutes. Then I stopped and listened. I had thoughts of
calling for assistance as I ran, and was even on the point of doing so,
when it suddenly occurred to me that I was just as likely to bring upon
the scene some other desperado, or desperadoes, friends or accomplices
very possibly of my pursuer.
I therefore refrained from giving the alarm, and presently, walking
very gingerly, proceeding by devious ways, and keeping a sharp look-out
round corners, I reached once more the street where the tragedy
occurred. There was the body lying where it had fallen, right in front
of the door I had perforce to enter in order to reach my apartment. I
tiptoed to the spot. The man was obviously stone dead, and a great pool
of blood had by now collected on the pavement, and run in red rivulets
to the gutter.
Shivering with fright and apprehension, I stepped over the corpse,
and started to unlock the street door. Of course I tried the wrong
key, and that not once nor twice. It seemed to me that minutes elapsed
while I was fumbling about with that beastly puzzle-key, and all the
while I kept nervously glancing back over my shoulder, fearing that the
murderer would return. Had he done so I had every reason to suppose
that my shrift would be a short one, for obviously the man had come to
the conclusion that I had been a witness of his crime, as indeed, of
course, I had, and for that very reason he would, I am convinced, have
had no hesitation in killing me also.
However, I presently got the door unlocked, and slipped inside, after
which I roused the concierge and told him what had happened. But,
greatly to my surprise, he refused to take any action.
“It is no concern of ours,” he said. “If the poor fellow were only
wounded now, signor?” he went on thoughtfully. “Well, we might be of
some assistance to him. But he is dead, you say?”
I nodded acquiescence.
“Very well then! In that case best leave matters as they are. The
police will no doubt find him later. Also, no doubt, they will come
here, seeing that the murdered man is lying outside this house. But
as for me, I know nothing. And best for you also, signor,” he added
significantly, “to know nothing. Police proceedings here in Milan are
apt to be long drawn out and troublesome.”
So saying, the concierge went back to bed, and I went off upstairs to
my room. Sleep, however, for me, was, I need hardly say, out of the
question. Softly drawing the curtains aside from the big front windows,
which opened, in continental fashion, on a little balcony overlooking
the street, I peered out.
There was the body, lying cold and still in the grey dawn. Presently
a man roughly garbed, probably a workman on his way to his day’s
toil, came along on a bicycle. He stopped on seeing the corpse, and
dismounted. But after a very cursory examination he mounted again and
rode off, shrugging his shoulders as if to intimate that it was no
concern of his.
A little later a man drove up in a cart, and he went off and
fetched the police. That day our house was invaded by inspectors
and detectives, and I, in common with all the other inmates of the
building, was subjected to a searching interrogation.
Acting on the advice of my friend the concierge, however, I replied
that I knew nothing whatever about the murder; and there, so far as I
was concerned, the matter ended.
But I have often wondered since what was the ultimate upshot of it all,
and what was the name and the station in life of the unhappy victim.
CHAPTER VI
PLAYING IN HUNLAND
Vienna and the Viennese--Churls by nature and instinct--How I
made “There’s a Girl in Havana” go down there--Chorus men and
waiters--Some innocent tricks of the music-hall trade--In
Berlin--Death of my giant--Official boorishness--German
sharp practice--I engage a Hun giant--Uncomfortable railway
travelling--At Buda-Pesth--More sharp practice--I throw up my
engagement and return to England in disgust--Litigation and worry
--My case is taken up by the Variety Artistes’ Federation--A new
“Battle of Prague”--Which I lose--A story of a “misspelled”
railway station--Back in Old England--A day’s rabbit shooting
--The two “Arthur Carltons.”
Later, during my professional wanderings through Europe, I could
not but contrast the treatment I received in France and Italy with
that meted out to me in Germany and Austria. Our allies, the French
and Italians, are gentlemen by instinct; kindly, considerate, and
courteous. The Germans I found exactly the reverse, and the Austrians
are not much better. Nor are either of them above snatching a mean
business advantage from an artiste if they get half a chance to do so.
As an example of their churlishness--I shall come to their sharp
practice later--I cannot do better than cite a little incident that
occurred in Vienna just before the war. I had been given a two months’
engagement at the Apollo Theatre there, and sharing the top of the bill
with me was Miss Ethel Levey (now Mrs. Graham-White).
She had never performed there before, and was a trifle nervous. Hers
was the turn before mine. She sang her first song, and came off. There
was practically dead silence throughout the theatre; she hardly got a
single “hand.”
Naturally she was very much upset, but by dint of coaxing her I managed
to persuade her to go on and sing her second song--“There’s a girl in
Havana.” She sang this first in English, and then in her pretty broken
German, which she had specially coached up for the occasion.
Miss Levey is, I need not say, an artiste to her finger-tips, and her
singing and acting on this occasion were absolutely faultless. Yet the
churlish Viennese would have none of it. There was no applause, or
at all events so little as made no odds, and the general tone of the
audience was, if not exactly hostile, at least not favourable.
Just try and imagine a London audience at, say, the Empire or the
Alhambra, behaving in this fashion to a continental lady artiste of
standing and repute on her first appearance! It made me mad. And I made
up my mind then and there that they had just got to hear Miss Levey,
and not only hear her, but applaud her into the bargain.
To this end I suggested to Mr. Ben Tieber, the manager of the hall,
that he should have a sheet put up at the back of the stage with the
words of the chorus on it in English and German. This he promised
should be done. He also fell in with my suggestion to have the waiters
(for on the Continent it is customary for people to dine in the hall)
taught the tune and words, and to engage half-a-dozen chorus men, and
put them in different parts of the building.
The result was that the next night the song went exceedingly well, and
within a week the lilting melody had taken Vienna by storm, and was
being sung and whistled in every café, on the streets, in the parks,
everywhere in fact. All the same, I can never forgive the churlish
Viennese for their first reception of the lady who popularised it there.
My own experience of German manners and customs was a far more serious
matter for me. It took place some three years before the war, and
when, therefore, our relations with Germany were supposed to be of
the best. I had been booked to appear, with my company, at the Winter
Gardens, Berlin. In my show was a dwarf, and also a giant. The latter,
an American named Bobby Dunlop, was a veritable mountain of flesh,
the fattest man in the world. He weighed over forty stone, and as he
could not pass his immense bulk through the door of an ordinary railway
carriage, he had to be accommodated in the luggage van.
Also he had to be taken from the station to the music-hall on a
lorry, drawn by two huge dray-horses, a source of wonderment to the
Berlin people, and likewise an excellent advertisement for my show.
I remember, too, by the way, that once, when we were performing in
London, I had him driven in a similar lorry down the Strand to a
tailor’s shop there, where they were advertising for sale thirty
shilling suits. Bobby marched in and ordered one.
Speaking of giants, one of mine (not Bobby) was an exceptionally bad
sailor, and on one occasion, during the crossing of the Bay of Biscay
on the voyage out to the Cape, his sufferings from sea-sickness were
atrocious.
[Illustration: CARLTON MESMERIZING BOBBY DUNLOP]
Aroused by his groans and gurgles one stormy night, I went to his cabin
which was next to mine.
“Can’t you keep anything on your stomach?” I said sympathetically.
“Only my hands,” moaned the poor giant.
Poor Bobby was a jolly fellow--for a giant. Giants are usually more or
less irritable and lachrymose. At all events this is my experience of
them, and I have had several in my employ in my time. But Bobby was
just the reverse of this, always singing and laughing. At least, he was
before he came to Berlin. Then a cloud seemed to come over him. His
cheerfulness departed. He got homesick. Kept on saying that he didn’t
like the country, and that he wanted to get back to America.
Consequently I was not greatly surprised when, a few days after we
opened in Berlin, my little dwarf came to me pulling a very long face,
and said: “Mr. Carlton, Bobby’s gone.”
I was playing billiards at the time, and intent on my game; so beyond
remarking that it was a good job too, I took little notice. I knew,
anyhow, that he could not get far without a passport, and that a man of
his dimensions could be easily traced, and brought back again.
“But, Mr. Carlton,” persisted the little chap, “I mean Bobby’s dead.”
“What!” I ejaculated; and dropping my cue, I ran off to his lodgings.
It was only too true. The big man was no more. He was, I was informed,
sitting on the side of his bed singing “Love me and the world is mine,”
when he suddenly gave a gasp and expired.
Knowing something from hearsay of the methods of German officialdom I
expected trouble. Nor was I disappointed.
For four days I was kept running about from police station to police
station, and from one official bureau to another. I answered about a
million questions and filled up reams of official forms and papers.
The police took possession of all the dead man’s effects, and but for
the intervention of the American Embassy I should have been unable to
recover a number of my “props” which he had in his room.
On the afternoon of the day he died they sent and took the body from
his lodgings to the public mortuary. It was about the biggest job of
the kind, I suppose, that they had ever undertaken. So heavy was he
that he broke the police stretcher, and about a dozen of them had to
carry the poor fellow bodily to the mortuary by grabbing hold of him
here, there, and everywhere, the best way they could. At his funeral,
too, about twelve men had to carry the specially made coffin in relays
by means of hooks attached to the bottom. It was rather a gruesome
“dead march.”
Towards evening of the day he died, tired out and dispirited, I sought
the manager of the Winter Gardens, and told him of my loss. I expected
sympathy, but I most certainly got none.
“Your giant has dropped down dead, has he?” remarked the manager. “That
is a pity, because he is the best part of the show. You will of course
now take very much less money to stop on? Is it not so?”
“Not much, I won’t!” I retorted hotly; for as a matter of fact the
giant had very little to do with my show, which is essentially a
one-man turn. He used to walk on at the end of my performance, in order
to seat himself on a chair, which broke down under his weight. He then
had to pretend to get angry and obstreperous, when the dwarf would
march in and persuade him to go quietly after everyone else--including
the stage hands--had failed. This always caused a lot of laughter,
and constituted a good curtain, but that was about all. It had really
nothing to do with my conjuring performance proper.
As a matter of fact, when I went on that night my show went just as
well as it had done before, nor was there any falling-off afterwards.
Nevertheless, at the end of my month’s engagement they stopped half my
salary.
This was a serious matter for me, because I was due to appear on the
Monday following at the Orpheum Fovarosi Theatre, Buda-Pesth, and what
with the expenses connected with my giant’s funeral plus a run of ill
luck at cards and racing, I didn’t have enough money left to pay the
railway fares for myself, my company, and my wife and eldest daughter,
who were accompanying me. Nor was there any time to get money from my
bankers in England. The only thing I could manage, and that with a lot
of difficulty, was to borrow just enough, at an exorbitant rate of
interest, to pay the second-class fares, leaving us not even sufficient
over with which to buy food on our long journey. I should add that I
had engaged another giant in Berlin, but he insisted at the last moment
on being paid £10 in advance before he would come to Buda-Pesth, and
this put the finishing touch on my impecuniosity. My only consolation
lay in the fact that the narrow wooden seats of the second-class car
incommoded him far more than they did us people of normal size.
However, I did well at Buda-Pesth, and from there I went on to Prague,
where I opened on a Sunday. I gave my first performance in the
afternoon, everything went with a bang and a flourish from start to
finish, and I came off feeling very pleased with myself. A few minutes
afterwards a messenger came up to me as I was standing in the wings,
and said that the manager wanted to see me in his private office.
Naturally I thought that he wanted to congratulate me. Nothing of
the sort. When I arrived there I found all the directors sitting in
solemn conclave round a big table, and before I could utter a word a
choleric-looking individual, whom I took to be the chairman, burst
forth as follows: “Mr. Carlton, your show is rotten. In fact it is not
at all the show we bargained for. Where is your other giant?”
“He’s dead,” I explained. “He died in Berlin, as you very well know,
for full accounts of the affair have been published in the papers. But
the giant I have now is an even greater draw here than was the original
one, for he speaks German, and can therefore make himself easily
understood by your audiences, which the other, being an American, could
not do.”
There was a lot more talk, the upshot of the business being that they
wanted to insist on my accepting half the salary I had contracted for.
I, however, was in no mood to repeat my Berlin experiences, nor did I
intend to. I pointed out to them that my contract said nothing about
giants, or, for the matter of that, about dwarfs either. These adjuncts
to my show were introduced by myself for my own purposes, and I had a
perfect right to dispense with them altogether, if I saw fit to do so.
[Illustration: BOBBY DUNLOP, CARLTON’S AMERICAN “FAT MAN,” WHO DROPPED
DEAD IN BERLIN]
I therefore declined to go on again unless they paid me my money as
agreed, and as they refused to do this I packed up my traps, and
returned to London. On my arrival I reported the matter to the
Variety Artistes’ Federation. This is, in effect, our trade union, and
amongst other benefits we derive, in return for our subscriptions, is
that of free legal advice.
Well, the V.A.F. decided to fight the Prague case through the
International Artistes’ Lodge, an association which before the war used
to protect and look after the interests of our artistes in Germany
and Austria, we, in our turn, doing the same by theirs over here. The
legal battle was waged long and fiercely in the Austrian courts, but
after nine months of litigation their judges decided against us, the
result being that I was done out of the sum that I ought by right to
have received for my Prague engagement, and the V.A.F. was called upon
to pay several hundred pounds in costs. Following these experiences I
decided to accept no more engagements in Germany or Austria, nor have I.
I should have mentioned that when I first went to Vienna my wife did
not accompany me, but followed me later on; she wiring me the date
and hour of her arrival, and asking me to be sure and meet her at the
station, which of course I did. Much to my dismay and perplexity,
however, when the train drew up at the platform she was nowhere to be
seen.
I looked everywhere for her, in the refreshment buffet, in the ladies’
waiting-rooms, etc., thinking she might have slipped past me in the
crowd. But all in vain. At length, and at the very last moment, it
occurred to me to search the train itself; and there sure enough I
found her, contentedly playing with our eldest child, then quite a baby.
“Why on earth didn’t you get out?” I asked, somewhat angrily I am
afraid, as I hustled the pair of them on to the platform just as the
train was starting.
“But this isn’t Vienna,” replied my wife, with a pretty air of
perplexity. “It’s Wien. Look, there’s the name on that big board over
there.”
Then I understood. The Austrians spell the name of their capital city
that way, i.e. Wien, and not as we spell it--Vienna. The mistake was
therefore a quite excusable one on the part of an English girl who had
never set foot in Austria before. Nevertheless it was lucky for both of
us that I happened to enter her compartment just when I did, for the
train she was travelling by was the Trans-Continental Express, and the
next stop after quitting Vienna was some three hundred miles down the
line towards Constantinople.
By the way, I cannot recommend Vienna as a place of residence for
married men who habitually stay out late at night, and who are not over
wishful to let their better halves know what hour they return home.
And for this reason. A householder in Vienna, or even the occupier
of a suite of rooms, or a flat, who is out after eleven o’clock at
night, has to put two coins, value about twopence of our money, in a
sort of automatic penny-in-the-slot contrivance which is affixed to
all the doors in order to obtain admission to his own domicile. And,
furthermore, the beastly little tell-tale machine actually registers
the time of your arrival.
Soon after my return to England, while I was playing at a certain
northern town, I was invited by the Chief Constable to go for a day’s
rabbit shooting on a big estate some few miles out.
There were about a dozen guns altogether. We motored to the place, and
before starting the Chief Constable addressed us somewhat as follows:
“Now, gentlemen, mind this is a rabbit shoot. No pheasants are to be
killed under any pretence whatever. Remember, all of you! it’s the
close season and it’s a very great privilege we have been accorded, and
it must not be abused.”
Of course we all promised to remember, and the shoot commenced. I was
given a place on the extreme outside of the covert, where I was hidden
from the remainder of the party by the thick undergrowth.
Presently I found myself within a few yards of the Chief Constable. I
could see him quite plainly, but he could not see me.
There were lots of pheasants about, and soon I saw the Chief peer
cautiously round to see if anybody was looking; then he let drive at a
fine cock bird, which he picked up and put in the inside pocket of his
shooting jacket.
A little later I also yielded to temptation, and bagged a bird for
myself. But before I could pick it up, the Chief Constable burst
through the undergrowth in a furious rage, and started to tell me off.
A lot of the others, attracted by the noise, gathered round, everybody
looking daggers at me.
I felt, I must confess, pretty small, though not nearly so small as I
should have felt if I had not known what I did.
Finally the Chief Constable, after one violent explosive volley of
objurgation, in the course of which he bade me clear off and never let
him see my face again, paused for lack of breath.
Then it was my turn. In his heat and excitement his jacket had become
slightly disarranged, and I saw, greatly to my delight, two ends of
tail feathers peeping out.
Edging closer to him by degrees, and muttering apologies all the while,
I suddenly put out my hand, and with an, “Excuse me, sir, but what are
these?” I whipped out the dead pheasant.
Never in my life did I see a man more completely taken aback. His face
changed from red to white from white to red again. He stamped up and
down. Then he essayed to say something, but a roar of laughter drowned
his voice.
Finally, putting the best face he could upon it, he picked up both
birds, and cried: “Put ’em in the car, and for God’s sake don’t tell
anybody anything about it.”
There is in England a theatre proprietor, the owner of several houses,
with the same name as myself--Arthur Carlton. One of his theatres is at
Worcester, where also his headquarters are.
This doubling of names has been the cause of some confusion. For
instance, once while I was at the Palace Theatre, London, I received
through the post a cheque--“Pay Arthur Carlton, Esq., £250.” It really
ought to have been delivered to him, and after a lapse of three days I
received a letter from him beginning “Dear Namesake,” inquiring about
it. Needless to say I sent it on to him by return of post.
At this time, and for some time afterwards, I had never met him; but
one year, when I was playing in pantomime at Newcastle, he wrote to
me saying he would like to make my acquaintance, and if I had a week
vacant at the close of the pantomime season, would I come down to
Worcester and do a turn at his theatre there?
As it happened I did have a week vacant, and I was naturally quite
agreeable. Now it is the custom among artistes on the last night of a
pantomime engagement to have a bit of a “flare-up,” and we did so on
this occasion, the champagne circulating freely.
We kept it up late, or rather, to be strictly accurate, early, so
that I had to hurry straight from the theatre to catch my train for
Worcester, which left at the unearthly hour of two-thirty on Sunday
morning.
On the Monday I met my namesake for the first time, and the first
words he greeted me with were, “Here’s a pretty go,” at the same time
pointing to a stack of letters about a foot high on the table of his
private room at the theatre, all addressed to “Arthur Carlton, Esq.”
I had arranged, of course, to have my correspondence forwarded to
the theatre in the usual way, never giving a moment’s thought to the
confusion that would arise. Now we neither of us knew which letters
were mine and which were his.
“Well,” I said at last, “I’ve no business that I am ashamed of. You’re
quite at liberty to open my letters.”
“All right!” he answered, and started on the topmost one of the pile.
He opened it, glanced at it, then threw it over to me.
“That’s yours!” he said.
Something in his manner made me feel uneasy. I grabbed the letter, read
the first few lines; then my face fell.
“Dear Mr. Carlton,” it ran. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, running
away without paying your bill? And me a poor lone widow, with three
little children to support, etc., etc.”
The letter was from my late landlady. In my excitement and hurry I had
quitted Newcastle without settling up with her for my week’s board and
lodging, the affair having, I need hardly explain, entirely slipped my
memory.
I don’t think I ever felt so small in my life. But of course I very
quickly explained to my namesake how the mistake had happened, and a
cheque to my landlady sufficed to appease that (justly) irate dame.
All the same, I reflected, it was a scurvy trick for Fate to play me.
Shortly after this I was at the Alhambra, Brighton, now a picture
palace. Sam Mayo, the “immobile comedian,” was also there, and it
happened to be the first anniversary of his wedding; so he invited me,
and three or four other “pros,” to a house he was staying at on the
front, with a view to celebrating the occasion. Amongst the company
was Malcolm Scott, the well-known female impersonator, and brother of
Admiral Sir Percy Scott.
There was champagne galore, and we were all very merry, when at about
2 a.m. I suggested, apparently on the spur of the moment, that we
should all go for a bathe in the sea to sober us up. The suggestion was
received with acclamation by all present, barring Malcolm; the fact
being that it was a put-up job between the rest of us to play a trick
on him, though of this he had no suspicion.
The weather was bitterly cold, it being mid-winter; nevertheless, we
all proceeded to the sea-front, including Malcolm, who naturally did
not care to be the only one to hang back. Then we started to undress,
but as none of us had the slightest intention of going into the water,
we naturally didn’t hurry over the operation. I especially, although I
removed my coat, and made great play with my boots, the laces of which
refused to come untied. I saw to that.
As a result Malcolm was the first and only one to make the plunge.
Immediately, I gathered up his clothes, and ran back into the house
with them; while Ernest Lepard, the manager of the Alhambra, who was
of the party, went and fetched a policeman whom he knew, and got him to
pretend to arrest Malcolm on a charge of infringing the local by-laws
by bathing nude on the front.
By this time our victim had come out of the water, and was standing
shivering and blue with the cold on the promenade. Likewise, despite
the unearthly hour, quite a small crowd had gathered, attracted by the
unusual spectacle.
I, for one, beginning to think that the joke had gone far enough,
fetched his clothes and asked him to dress himself. Not so, however,
Malcolm. Addressing the policeman, he said: “All right, constable, do
your duty. You’ve arrested me like this. Now take me to the station
like this.”
His insistence naturally put the policeman in a bit of a quandary;
and, probably fearing trouble with his superiors, and noting out of
the corner of his eye the gathering crowd, he quietly slipped away.
Whereupon, to our consternation, Malcolm announced his intention of
staying where he was until another policeman came along.
Eventually we had to carry him forcibly back into the house, where he
promptly collapsed. He came round after we had poured about half a
bottle of neat whisky down his throat, and piled a dozen blankets on
top of him before a roaring fire; but I have come to the conclusion
since that it was rather a silly joke to play. It might easily have
caused the death of our victim.
It was about this time that I started to work an illusion of my own
which I called “The Mysterious Cross.” It created a big sensation all
over the country, topping the bills wherever it was shown; but as I
am no believer in the saying about good wine needing no bush, I used
a device of my own to further advertise it at all the towns where I
showed it. Of which more anon!
The trick consisted in having a wooden cross, to which my sister Olive,
who has a very beautiful figure, was bound securely. Only one long rope
was used, this being fastened round her waist and neck, and finished
off at the wrists, which were extended to the ends of the arms of the
cross, the two ends of the rope being then held by two members of the
audience.
While the rope was thus being held, she used to vanish from under a
curtain that had meanwhile been drawn round her, and my assistant was
found, on the curtain being withdrawn, to have taken her place. The
whole thing was practically instantaneous, and the illusion has, I
may say, baffled some of the biggest experts in the world. I used no
mirrors, wires, trick scenery, or trap-doors, one or some or all of
which in conjunction form the basis of most illusions of the kind, and
the secret has never been found out by anybody to this day.
Now as to the advertising stunt I mentioned! I used to pay a man to
rise from his seat amongst the audience on my opening night, and call
out to me that he knew quite well how it was done--that I used a
trap-door in the stage. Of course I would pretend to be very surprised
and indignant, and protest that it was not so. But the man would insist
that he was right, and challenge me to prove the contrary by doing the
trick openly, without the aid of the enveloping curtain, so that the
audience could judge between us.
“No,” I would say, “I cannot do that, for this trick is my livelihood,
and if I let the people see how it is done, it will be no attraction
for the rest of the week and I can never come back here again with
it.” Then I would go on to say that if the interrupter could come
behind the scenes after the show, I would show him privately how it was
done.
But, no! The man would insist that what he wanted was a public
exposition. He knew there was a concealed trap-door. I had as good as
called him a liar. And so on.
By this time the place would be in an uproar. Some few of the audience,
possibly, siding with the interrupter, but the bulk of them, almost
invariably, being on my side. Then if the manager was a sport, I would
have him come on the stage from the wings, by prior arrangement between
us, and pretend to whisper a few words in my ear.
Whereupon, on his retirement, I would advance to the footlights and,
with a sob in my throat, hold forth somewhat as follows: “Ladies and
gentlemen, if I expose this trick now, on my opening night, nobody will
come here during the week, and business will be ruined. As I have been
publicly challenged, however, I as publicly promise that on Friday
night I will perform the trick openly without drawing the curtain, so
that everybody will be able to see with their own eyes how it is done,
and that I do not use a trap-door on the stage.”
The next day, and all through the week, the town would be placarded
all over with bills (previously printed) headed “Sensational Challenge
to Carlton,” and giving particulars of the forthcoming exposure of the
“Mysterious Cross” illusion. The result was that Friday, usually the
slackest night of the week, saw the theatre packed to suffocation at
both houses.
I kept my word, too, and performed the trick openly without the
curtain. But so quick were our movements, the whole thing only lasting
about two seconds, that even then the audience were quite unable to
detect how it was done. They could, however, see that there was no trap
door.
So good was this trick, and so great an interest did it arouse, that
I used almost invariably to get a return date. On my second visit,
however, I could not of course work the same advertising stunt, so I
evolved another one, as follows:
I used to announce from the stage that I would give £5 for the best
letter written by any member of the audience, after seeing the trick,
explaining how it was done. These letters, when received, I used to
read out from the stage at subsequent performances, thereby stimulating
the public’s curiosity and interest. Some of the explanations were very
ingenious, but none of the writers ever came anywhere near to guessing
the secret of the trick. If no real letters were forthcoming that were
sufficiently amusing I used to compose fake ones myself.
However, so as not to leave behind me the impression that I was trying
to shirk my obligations to the public, I always used to arrange with
somebody to appear on the stage as the winner, and claim and receive
the £5. Afterwards my manager would wait for him in the wings and get
back £4 of the money, leaving the recipient £1 as the reward of his
trouble.
But, alas! one day my man was called away to the telephone at the
critical moment, and forgot all about the business of retrieving my
fiver. He did his best to find the recipient, hunting high and low, but
it was not until late on the following day that he was discovered in a
local “pub,” surrounded and being complimented by his pals, whom he
had been treating--with my money--in the most lordly way conceivable.
All he had left of the £5 was a few--a very few--shillings.
I may add that it is difficult for me to explain in print, unless with
the aid of elaborate diagrams, precisely how this trick is worked.
CHAPTER VII
AUSTRALIAN EXPERIENCES
Eastward bound on the _Ortona_--Dinners and diners--Spoofing a
chief steward--A brush with the master-of-Arms--“Queering” a
poker game--Trouble in the smoke-room--We plan revenge--And
execute it--Potatoes as ammunition--The cold water cure--The
Captain sends for me--I decline to go--Trouble brewing--I run
my head into the lion’s mouth--And am frog-marched before the
captain--A stormy interview--I am threatened to be put in irons
--All’s well that ends well--A benefit performance at sea--
Arrival in Melbourne--A tale of two champions--Rabbit-shooting
extraordinary--I bag a laughing jackass--And am hauled before
the “beak”--Fined ten shillings and costs--I am glad at having
“got the bird”--The “interfering parrot.”
Of all my professional engagements outside the United Kingdom I look
back upon the days I spent amongst our Australian kinsmen with the
greatest pleasure and satisfaction.
I went out on the Orient liner _Ortona_, and my eldest child, a girl,
was born while I was upon the voyage, so I had her christened Ortona.
At Colombo the boat was surrounded by divers, who dived for silver
coins thrown into the water by the passengers, and very quick and
clever at it, too, some of them were.
Finally a one-armed chap offered to dive right under the bottom of the
vessel, going in on one side and coming up on the other, for a shilling.
“All right!” we said. In he went, and we all ran over to the other side
to see him come up.
Greatly to our surprise there were about twenty one-armed natives
there, all treading water, and each calling out loudly that he had done
the trick and demanding to be paid.
For a few moments we were utterly at a loss. Then the real one-armed
chap bobbed up, and the rest swam away, using both arms.
They had been holding one arm behind them, and in the water, against
their black skins, it was invisible to us.
On the Orient boats, both the first and second-class passengers dined
_à la carte_, a gastronomic system the advantages of which have always
appealed to me. I returned by the P. & O. liner _Moldavia_, and on
these boats, so far as regards the second-class passengers at all
events, we dined on the table d’hôte principle. This entailed a good
deal of waiting between the courses, while if one desired to miss, say,
the soup, or the fish course, there was more delay.
Some people are very quick eaters, some are very slow; and our pace at
dinner on the _Moldavia_ was set by the slowest amongst us. I, being a
quick eater, used to jib and fidget at this, and when we got to Colombo
I hit upon an expedient that resulted in my at least getting a little
bit of my own back.
I should have mentioned that at dinner the serving of each course was
ordered by the chief steward, a rather pompous and self-important
individual, who used to ring a small gong bell when everybody had
completely finished with, say, the soup course, as a signal to serve
the fish, and so on throughout the meal. Well, while I was on shore in
Colombo, I bought a small but very loud sounding gong bell, similar to
the one used by the chief steward, and when we went on board again I
fixed it underneath our table.
Most of us there were in the secret of the joke, and so no offence was
given, or any inconvenience caused to them, but I am very much afraid
that the diners at the other tables were at all events considerably
surprised when, half-way through the soup course, the bell suddenly
sounded, and the waiters began handing round the fish. Thereupon
confusion reigned supreme. The chief steward insisted that he hadn’t
rang the bell. The waiters insisted that he had, and bore one another
out. Shortly afterwards our bell sounded again, and at once the waiters
started on the third course, before some of the passengers had hardly
tasted their fish. Whereupon the chief steward seemed to go suddenly
stark, staring, raving mad, rushing from one group of waiters to the
other, storming, expostulating, threatening; while we guilty ones,
who were in the conspiracy, had hard work to prevent ourselves from
exploding with suppressed laughter.
I think it is Mark Twain, in his _Innocents Abroad_, who finds fault
with the self-assertiveness and bumptiousness that is so frequently
characteristic of a certain type of ship’s officer. I have noticed
the same thing myself. On the _Ortona_, for instance, on the way out,
I myself got into very hot water owing to my resenting what I chose
to regard as a piece of unwarrantable impertinence on the part of the
master-at-arms.
This individual is, of course, the chief of police on ship-board, and
is endowed with a considerable amount of authority, being answerable
to the captain only. Amongst his duties he has to see that the lights
are turned out in the public rooms at certain fixed hours, and to
this no one can reasonably take exception, provided it is done with a
due regard to the convenience of passengers and not in an offensive
or irritating manner. For, after all, passengers--even second-class
ones--have some rights on board ship. They pay their fares, and are
entitled to at least a modicum of courtesy and consideration.
The trouble on the _Ortona_ began in the smoke-room at ten o’clock
one night. A game of poker was in progress, and there was a “Jack
Pot” on the table with a considerable amount of money in it, when the
master-at-arms entered, and without saying so much as “By your leave,
gentlemen,” without in fact uttering a word, turned out the light,
leaving us in total darkness.
Naturally this made us mad, and as soon as he had gone, I got up and
switched the light on again. Whereupon the master-at-arms returned,
and, using a very foul expression, turned the light out for the second
time, and this time finally, locking the switch in such fashion that we
could not use it.
Amongst the second-class passengers were a score or so of hefty lads
going out to Australia to try their luck there, and they resented the
action of the ship’s officer as strongly as I did. Between us we made
up our minds to pay him out.
And we did. For several days and nights on end we made the poor man’s
life a misery to him. Going down the Red Sea the heat was terrific,
and everybody nearly--not even excluding the ladies--slept on deck;
although, of course, the fair sex were screened off. This was our
opportunity. The master-at-arms, going his rounds at night, used to
find himself lassooed by mysterious ropes that issued he knew not
whence, and vanished he knew not whither. Cords stretched taut across
gangways where no cords by rights ought to have been, tripped him
unawares. Once he was greeted with a fusillade of raw potatoes; big,
round, hard potatoes that bruised him black and blue.
Then, when we thought that possibly he had learnt his lesson, we let
up on him for a couple of days, and allowed him to see that we were
willing to call a truce, if he was. But no! He was as bumptious and as
disagreeable as ever; more so, in fact, and sought every opportunity he
could to annoy and molest us. So we held a cabinet council, and decided
unanimously that the situation called for a resumption of hostilities.
That afternoon, as luck would have it, I was walking on the afterpart
of the boat, when I spotted a partly open skylight, and peeping down
I saw our hated enemy lying below in his bunk fast asleep, his mouth
wide open and his face turned skywards. This I concluded was too good a
chance to be missed, so calling the others together I hastily informed
them of my discovery, and together we concerted a plan of action.
In a few minutes we knew that the bell would ring for tea, and that
then there would be nobody about on deck. This was our opportunity.
Twelve of us hurried below to our respective cabins, and returned with
a full glass of water apiece, carefully hidden about our clothing;
then, when the bell rang, we lifted the skylight and emptied all twelve
glasses simultaneously through the open space, and on to the sleeper
reposing peacefully below.
There followed a terrific spluttering and gurgling, and an angry roar
from the bunk. But we did not wait. Each man made a bee-line for his
cabin, and deposited the empty tumbler where it belonged, after which
we quietly filed into the tea-room and settled ourselves down at table
as if nothing had happened.
Somehow or other, however, the master-at-arms must have guessed that I
was the ringleader in the plot, for half an hour later I was approached
by one of the officers.
“Mr. Carlton,” he remarked, in quiet, matter-of-fact tones, “the
captain sends his compliments, and he wants to speak to you in his
cabin on the first-class upper deck.”
“Very kind of him I am sure to desire to make my acquaintance,” I
replied suavely. “But the desire is not reciprocated. Go and tell the
captain so.”
Another thirty minutes or so went by. Then the first officer,
accompanied by two others, marched up to me. “Mr. Carlton,” remarked
the spokesman of the deputation, “the captain desires to see you on the
first-class upper deck.”
“So I’ve heard,” I remarked in assumedly bored tones. “But I’ve already
explained that I don’t wish to see the captain. And anyhow, if he wants
to speak to me, I’m here. He knows where to find me. Let him come down
to me. Certainly I’m not going up to him.”
At this they began to turn nasty, explaining to me that the captain was
a magistrate on board his own ship, and that his expressed wishes must
be taken as being in the nature of commands, to be obeyed implicitly
and without question.
“Now are you coming, or are you not?” they concluded.
“No,” I repeated doggedly, “I’m not.”
“Then,” they said, “we shall have to use force, and take you.”
“Well,” I remarked, pointing to the others, who had by this time come
crowding round, “there are about twenty of us in it. If one goes, the
lot goes. You’ll have to carry us. It takes at least four men to
carry a resisting man against his will. That means that you will be
obliged to summon certainly not less than eighty sailors to do the job
properly. Meanwhile, I suppose, the navigation of the ship can go hang.”
They got angrier than ever at this, but judged it wiser, apparently,
to make no attempt to molest us, contenting themselves with going off
and reporting the matter to the captain. The rest of the day passed
uneventfully, somewhat to our surprise, and when the best part of the
following morning had elapsed without anything untoward happening, we
began to think that we had won hands down.
Towards midday, however, being by then lulled into a false sense of
security and completely off my guard, I went as usual to the barber’s
shop to get a shave. This necessitated my going down to the first-class
part of the ship, a fact of which the enemy was, of course, perfectly
well aware.
It was the opportunity they had been waiting for. I had hardly settled
myself comfortably in the chair, and the barber had just started to
lather me, when no fewer than four of the ship’s officers appeared at
the open door.
“When you’ve finished your shave, Mr. Carlton,” said their leader, “the
captain wishes to speak to you on the first-class upper deck.”
Now, thought I, they’ve got me, but at the same time I made up my mind
to stave off the evil moment as long as possible. If only one or two of
the others would take it into their heads to come down to the shop? But
no! Not a soul came near the place. And all the while the four stood
guard outside, completely cutting off my escape.
I had a shave. Then I had a hair cut and a shampoo. I had my nails
manicured. I bought shirts and collars, of which the barber kept an
assortment in stock for the convenience of passengers. I purchased
curios, and picture postcards, spending as much time as possible over
examining them and choosing them. But still nobody from our part of the
ship came down that way, and in the end I had to come out alone and
face the music.
“Well,” exclaimed the leader of the gang, as they closed round me, “are
you coming?”
“No, I’m not,” I replied; and as they made a grab for me, I threw
myself flat on the deck, and let out a yell like a hyena.
“Help! Help!” I shouted. “Help! Murder! Help!”
Instantly the ship was in an uproar. Passengers and sailors came
running from all directions. But the master-at-arms had taken up a
strategic position at the top of the staircase leading down from the
second-class part of the ship, and none of my friends were able to pass
him, and come to my assistance.
Single-handed, of course, I could do nothing. They frog-marched me up
on to the upper deck, and deposited me panting and perspiring before
the captain in his cabin.
I have never seen an angrier man than he was. He literally boiled over
with rage, and for ten minutes he told me off as hard as he could. In
the end, however, he was obliged to stop owing to want of breath.
Then it was my turn. I asked him how he dared to treat me in such a
manner? What had I done to deserve it?
“You know very well,” he shouted in reply. “You threw water over the
master-at-arms.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “You were not there.”
“Silence!” he roared. “I’ll have you put in irons.”
“How many sets of irons have you got?” I inquired.
“Oh! About six,” was his reply.
“You’ll want more than that,” I said. “There are about twenty of us
in it, all big, hefty chaps. We’ve sworn to stand by one another.
Besides,” I added soothingly, “I don’t think it will look very well in
the papers, or do you any good with your employers, when it comes to be
published broadcast that you could not maintain discipline aboard your
own ship without putting half your passengers in irons.”
“But,” he spluttered, “this is rank mutiny. I’ll put you ashore at the
first port of call.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Fremantle,” he replied.
“Well,” I retorted, “even if you do, I shan’t cry about it. I suppose I
can take a train to Melbourne.”
“Then you suppose wrong,” he snapped. “There is no railway
communication whatever between the two places.”
All this while the other officers had been standing respectfully at
attention, waiting further instructions. The captain now sent them
away, and closed the door.
“Take a seat, Mr. Carlton,” he said.
I sat down, wondering what was coming next.
“Have a drink?” he inquired, producing a decanter of whisky and a
syphon of soda.
“Now you’re talking,” I said; and we both laughed.
This was the end of the bother. And not only that. Next day the
captain came and had dinner with us in the second-class saloon, a thing
he had never done before; and we, not to be outdone in generosity,
gave a benefit show, half the proceeds of which went to the Seaman’s
Orphanage, the other half going to the Music-hall Benevolent Fund.
I should add that I had previously explained to the captain during
the latter part of our interview in his cabin, exactly how the bother
began; and he agreed with me that, although we might have been to blame
in regard to the method of our reprisals, the master-at-arms had only
himself to thank for the trouble he had brought down on his head, since
for him to have used the exceedingly foul expression he did towards us
on so very trifling a provocation was absolutely inexcusable.
By the way, while on the subject of disagreeable officials, there used
to be a certain ticket-inspector at Waterloo Station who was very
particular in regard to clipping each passenger’s ticket, and once
or twice he made me lose my train while I was searching for mine in
various pockets.
So one day I decided that I would get even with him, and I placed a
penny under my ticket, holding it in such a way that the coin was
invisible to him.
I shall never forget the surprised look on the man’s face when he found
that his nippers refused to clip my ticket. Try it yourself. Anybody
can do it. It is not necessary to be a professional conjuror.
On my arrival at Melbourne I found everybody there singing a song
the melody of which was exceedingly catchy, and the words of which
concerned themselves with various Australian notables, portraits of
whom used to be thrown on a big screen at the Opera House while the
song was being sung on the stage by the artiste. One verse of this
topical ditty ran as follows:
Australia! Australia! She has her champions too.
There’s old Bill Squires, and Georgie Towns,
They’ve shown what they can do.
In ev’ry land, in ev’ry clime,
She’s kept her flag unfurled.
Now, Australia can hold her own
With the wide, wide world.
Squires, I should explain, was the champion heavy-weight of Australia.
He had beaten everybody there. Not one could stand up against him. And
Australia, and the people of Melbourne more especially, were awfully
proud of him in consequence. George Towns was, of course, the champion
sculler of the world, and also an Australian.
Well, as luck would have it, the latter was beaten just about this
time by Dick Arnst, the New Zealander; and the very same week, I am
not certain that it was not the very same day, Squires was knocked out
in one round in America by Tommy Burns. (The Australian was knocked
senseless by almost the first real punch delivered by Burns in the
first round, and did not come to for half an hour or so. Then, seeing
all the people going home, he concluded he had won, and his first
words were: “Well, what do you think of your bloomin’ champion now?”)
This double disappointment greatly upset the Melbourne people. It also
completely spoilt the song, which had to be withdrawn, much to the
disgust of Harry Rickards, the manager of the Opera House.
Afterwards, just for a lark, I used to go into a hotel bar known as
“Under the Earth,” situated in Burke Street, and a favourite resort of
the sporting element of Melbourne, and start to hum over the song and
words to myself. This always led to a scene. “Go home, you long slab
of misery,” they would yell in unison. “Who do you think you’re taking
a rise out of?” “Why, what’s the matter?” I would ask, in assumed
surprise. “Can’t a man sing what song he likes in this God-forsaken
country?” Sometimes some of the boys there who didn’t know me very well
began to get really angry, but before things went too far I always made
it plain that it was only meant for a harmless bit of “kid” on my part,
and a hearty laugh and “drinks round” soon caused peace and harmony to
reign once more.
Nevertheless, some of the “boys” felt sufficiently sore about it to
want to get even with me, so they invited me to go rabbit shooting.
This is a joke that is frequently worked off on a “new chum,” rabbits
out there being looked upon as vermin. Nobody dreams of shooting them,
for sport at all events.
But I, of course, knew nothing of all this. I thought it awfully kind
of them, and accepted the offer with alacrity. We motored out into the
bush on Saturday night after my show, slept in the car, and when day
dawned I found myself surrounded by millions of rabbits. They covered
the earth to the horizon as far as the eye could reach; they were
gathered in myriads against the wire fences; the car had even run over
quite a number of them. And so tame were they, I was able to kick them
out of my way. I never saw such a sight before, or imagined any such;
no, not in my wildest dreams. The other members of the party were in
fits of laughter. “Go on!” they cried. “Have a shot. See if you can hit
one.”
Of course to shoot them was not sport, in the sense that we in England
understand the word. Nevertheless I killed half a dozen or so. I
couldn’t help it. Then I wandered away from my companions into the
bush, looking for something else to shoot that would be really worth
while.
Presently I heard a loud “Ha! Ha! Ha!” from somewhere behind me. I
wheeled quickly but could see no one. “Some of the boys having a lark
with me,” I thought, and walked wearily on in the direction whence the
sound had seemed to come.
Presently another peal of loud laughter rang out, this time from the
bush away off on my right rear. Again I wheeled, and was just in time
to catch sight of a bird, about the size of a magpie, flitting from
one gum tree to another, and from whose throat the sound had evidently
emanated.
I knew then at once what it was, for I had often heard the bird
described. The laughing jackass, a big kind of kingfisher peculiar
to Australia! It is also known as the cuckaburro, which is probably
a corrupt native rendering of the name bestowed upon the bird by the
early voyagers from Spain, “burro” being, of course, the colloquial
Spanish for “donkey.” Yet another name for it amongst Australian
backwoodsmen is the “settler’s clock,” because it invariably starts to
utter its peculiar gurgling laugh precisely at dawn and dusk each day.
These birds, by the way, are strictly preserved, it being forbidden
to kill them under heavy penalties. One reason for this is that they
kill the snakes, which are the pest of the farmers out there. This feat
the bird performs by darting upon the reptile and carrying it aloft in
its talons, afterwards dropping it on the ground from a considerable
height. It then flies down and pecks out the snake’s eyes, leaving it,
if not already dead, to perish miserably.
But unfortunately I was not aware of this, and I followed the bird up
some distance, and eventually shot it. Possibly I should not have been
so keen on getting it, for there was nothing strikingly remarkable
about it, but for the fact that the wretched thing seemed to my excited
imagination to be bent upon mocking me with its irritating raucous
laugh. Every time I got within range, and raised my gun to my shoulder,
he would emit another loud “Ha! ha! ha!” and fly off to another tree.
These tactics he repeated perhaps a dozen times, and when at last,
hot, angry, and thirsty, I succeeded in bagging him, he had led me
such a dance that I had not the remotest idea where I was, or in which
direction to seek the other members of the party. I was, in fact,
bushed; and wild visions of my fate if I did not succeed in attracting
the attention of my friends rushed into my throbbing brain.
In vain I “cooeed,” and fired off my gun again and again. There was
neither answering shout, nor shot, nor any sign of human life or
habitation; only all around and about me the waterless, foodless,
shadeless bush. I was beginning to get really frightened, for I had
fired away my last cartridge, when greatly to my relief I heard in the
far distance a faint call, and by “cooee-ing” back, and following the
answering sounds, I was at length able to rejoin my friends.
But there was more trouble awaiting me. In shooting the laughing
jackass I had committed a crime in the eyes of the Australian sporting
people, akin to that perpetrated by a man over here who has the
temerity to shoot a fox, and when I returned to Melbourne and emptied
my bag proudly on the floor of the “Under the Earth” bar, consternation
reigned supreme. My “crime” was explained to me in language more
forcible than polite. The rabbits I had shot, and which by this time
were exceedingly odoriferous, were the cause of much merriment. I had
also shot two or three rosella parrots, and these were passed round,
and duly admired. But the laughing jackass was quite another matter.
However, in the end, Mrs. Hill, the genial proprietress of the
establishment, consented to smuggle it over the bar, and even went to
the length, after a lot of persuasion, of promising to have it stuffed
for me. This, I may add, she did, and I have the bird now. But the
affair got talked about, and in the end I was summoned before the
magistrate for my breach of the Australian game laws.
“Why did you shoot the bird?” asked the “beak” sternly.
“Because he laughed at me,” I answered on the impulse of the moment.
At this the Court roared, and the magistrate inquired blandly whether
I wasn’t used to being laughed at? “Would you shoot me if I laughed at
you?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
I knew then that I was all right, and was immensely relieved, for I
had visions of a heavy fine staring me in the face, or even possibly a
term in the local gaol. In the end I was fined ten shillings and the
costs, and I of course paid up cheerfully, glad to have been let down
so lightly; and glad also, for probably the first and last time in my
life, at having “got the bird.”
Speaking of birds reminds me that just before leaving Australia I
bought a talking parrot from a dealer.
I was strolling through a turning off Burke Street, Melbourne, when my
attention was particularly drawn to the bird owing to hearing it repeat
two or three times, “Marie! Marie! I love Marie!”
Now Marie happens to be my wife’s name, and it at once occurred to me
that it would please her very much indeed if I took the parrot home,
and when I presented it to her explained to her how I had caught it in
the bush, and toiled hard through many weary weeks to teach it to speak
these beautiful words, always present of course in my own mind--“I love
Marie.”
I bought the parrot fairly cheap, the dealer explaining that it spoke
no other words. This, I reflected, suited me admirably, and I bore my
prize away in triumph, inclosed in a handsome cage.
Directly we embarked for home I gave the parrot in charge of the
butcher, telling him to look after it well, and promising to tip him a
sovereign for his trouble when we arrived at Southampton. During the
voyage I didn’t bother much about my purchase, beyond inquiring now and
again as to the bird’s welfare.
The day before we were due to reach England, however, I went down to
have a good look at it. Imagine my horror when I was greeted by it (in
addition to its stock phrase “I love Marie”) with a perfect flood of
the most awfully profane language it is possible to conceive.
The wretched bird simply turned the air blue with a string of
full-blooded sailormen’s oaths, coupled with certain other phrases
that, besides being profane, were shockingly indecent.
Naturally I was furiously angry, but the butcher vehemently protested
that he was not to blame. The deck hands and stokers, he explained,
were constantly at the bird, teaching it all manner of bad language
while his back was turned.
Of course, to introduce the now hopelessly depraved parrot into a
decent household was altogether out of the question, and in the end I
turned bird and cage over to the butcher in lieu of the promised tip;
an arrangement, I may add, with which he was well content.
CHAPTER VIII
MELBOURNE TO LONDON
The “Under the Earth” bar in Melbourne--A swimming challenge
spoof--The Australian Vaudeville Association--My connection
therewith--They present me with an Address--At Adelaide--A
cheery send-off--I bring to London with me Charlie Griffin, the
feather-weight Australian champion--Fix up a match at the London
National Sporting Club--I train him myself during a pantomime
engagement--He is beaten by Jim Driscoll--But afterwards
defeats Joe Bowker--My fight at the National Sporting Club
with “Apollo”--All the “pro.’s” present--A great night--I
am beaten by “Apollo”--Congratulations all round--Only Mrs.
“Carlton” does not approve--Other boxing and sporting yarns.
Our Australian cousins are fine sportsmen, and they dearly love a joke,
even if it is against themselves. When I was performing in Melbourne
in 1907 I became very chummy with Jack Trenby, at that time one of
the best-known jockeys in Australia, and one day we got talking about
swimming. I told him that I rather fancied myself that way, and that I
used to swim the hundred yards in sixty-four seconds in the days when
the record for the English Championship (held by J. H. Darbyshire) was
only one-fifth of a second under the sixty-one seconds.
“Good!” cried Trenby. “There’s a chap here named Murphy who thinks he
can swim. We’ll have a lark with him, and unless I’m greatly mistaken
we’ll rope in a few others of the ‘wide ones’ into the bargain.”
In those days--it may be so now for aught I know--the sporting element
in Melbourne were wont to meet together in the hotel bar known as
“Under the Earth,” situated in Burke Street, mention of which has been
made in the previous chapter. A lot of us used to go swimming in the
public baths every morning, and foregather here for a livener and a
chat afterwards.
Well, for a whole week I went swimming with the rest, and, acting
under Trenby’s instructions, I made no end of an exhibition of myself;
diving in awkwardly flat on my stomach, and panting and splashing and
puffing and blowing after I was in, like a maimed grampus. All the
while, however, I pretended to think I was getting on famously, and one
day when we were all enjoying our drinks in the “Under the Earth” bar
Jack purposely switched the conversation on to swimming, and referred
somewhat slightingly to my efforts in that direction.
Thereupon I pretended to get huffed, and offered to swim Murphy the
length of the public bath and back again for a five-pound note.
Murphy snapped at the bet like a hungry dog at a bone, and every
“bookie” there, and nearly every other man in the bar, rushed at me
with their money, imploring me to raise my stakes and let them in. Jack
Trenby, I may add, was loudest of all in asking to be given a chance
to win my money, and although he must inwardly have been bursting with
laughter, he never showed a trace of it on his countenance.
At first I feigned reluctance, but in the end I accepted their bets
up to a total of £50, and the money was put up with Mrs. Hill, the
proprietress of the hotel, the race being timed to come off at eleven
o’clock on the following morning. After a little while, however, I
pretended that I was only bluffing, and wanted to call the bets off.
“You know, boys,” I said, “that I’m no swimmer. You’ve all seen me at
the baths. I’m only a novice. I was just swanking. Tell you what I’ll
do! Call the bets off, and I’ll set up wine for the crowd.”
But they only laughed, and told me that I had asked for it, and that I
had got to go through with it. They, of course, thought that the £50
was as good as won.
Then, after a while, I changed my cue, and told them the truth. “Look
here, boys,” I said, “I’ve been kidding you all for over a week. Take
my tip and call the bets off. I’ll show you in the morning how easily
I can beat Murphy, and for nothing. Why, I can swim the hundred yards
within a second or two of the record time. I only wanted to show you
all how easily I could have you. I don’t want your money.”
But no! They wouldn’t have it at any price. Not a man there, barring of
course Jack Trenby, but imagined that I was bluffing, and though I went
up to each one separately and offered to call his individual bet off,
not one would agree to it.
Next morning all sporting Melbourne was at the baths. The Press, too,
was represented. Murphy had seen to that.
We stripped, and then, turning to the crowd, I made a last appeal.
“Boys,” I cried, “I’m going to win--sure. Will you call all bets off?”
“No!” roared everybody in unison; and in we plunged.
Well, I beat Murphy by half a length, and everybody crowded round me,
wanting to shake hands, and patted me on the back, saying that it
was one of the smartest things ever done in Melbourne. And I dressed,
and the crowd escorted me to the White Hart Hotel, where I spent my
winnings, or the major part of them at all events, on a dinner for the
boys. Alf Squires, who is now the proprietor of the Colonial Bar, Savoy
Street, Strand, was the landlord of the “White Hart” at the time, and
he did us well and no mistake about it.
It was while I was in Melbourne during this tour that I was
instrumental in founding the Australian Vaudeville Association,
now a large and flourishing organisation, and on my departure
they presented me with an illuminated address on vellum, with the
following inscription: “Presented to ARTHUR CARLTON. Sir--We the
undersigned members of the Committee of the New South Wales branch
of the Australian Vaudeville Association convey to you our sincerest
thanks and hearty appreciation for your untiring efforts and valuable
assistance to us in our infancy. We extend to you the glad hand of
fellowship, and deeply regret your departure from Australia. No pen
can describe how grateful we feel for the valuable services you at
all times have rendered us, often at great personal inconvenience.
You have paved the way for a bright and glorious future for our young
association. You leave our native land with the good wishes of every
true artist here. In conclusion we trust that your sojourn amongst us
has been a pleasant one, and we sincerely hope you will at no distant
date pay us another visit, for though thousands of miles may separate
us we will always keep you in memory. With every good wish for your
future health and prosperity, we beg to remain.”
Then followed the signatures of a large number of prominent men in
the Profession, all of whom I am proud to call my friends. I was
very pleased and touched at the reception of this quite unexpected
testimonial, and equally so by the fact that when I quitted Adelaide,
en route for England, the famous “Besses o’ th’ Barn” band came down to
the quay, with their instruments carefully hidden under their coats,
and, as the ship made ready to cast off, struck up the air “For he’s a
jolly good fellow.”
While in Melbourne on this occasion I met Charlie Griffin, the
feather-weight champion of Australia, and brought him to London, where
I arranged with Mr. “Peggy” Bettinson, of the National Sporting Club,
London, to match him there against Jim Driscoll for £200 a side and
the feather-weight championship of the world. I trained him personally
myself in Edinburgh during my pantomime engagement there, and seconded
him in the ring, with the assistance of the famous Tommy Burns, then
heavy-weight champion of the world. He put up a good fight, and looked
like winning, but greatly to my disappointment he was disqualified in
the fifteenth round for a foul. However, a little later on, I matched
him against Joe Bowker, the ex-bantam-weight champion of the world, for
£100 a side and the club purse; and this fight Griffin won, knocking
Bowker out--for the first time in his life--in the ninth round.
This leads me up to my own fight at the National Sporting Club, which
came off on May 4th, 1914. The beginning of it was this way. Mr. Walter
(now Sir Walter) de Frece (husband of Miss Vesta Tilley), and one of
the Committee of the N.S.C., is well known in the profession for his
love of a joke; and one day, knowing that I rather fancied myself as a
fairly good amateur boxer, he offered to put up a silver cup, value 25
guineas, if I would box Mr. William Bankier, better known by his stage
title of “Apollo,” the Ideal Scottish Athlete.
No doubt Mr. de Frece counted on my declining, for Apollo was supposed
to be at that time probably the best all-round athlete in the world.
His strength was prodigious. He will be remembered by patrons of the
music-halls as the man who used to have placed upon the stage, as an
item of his performance, an enormous sack of flour. This he used to
challenge anyone in the audience to remove, offering £50 to whoever
succeeded. Nobody ever did, although many tried, but at the end of
each performance Apollo would lift it, and carry it off the stage,
apparently with the most perfect ease.
When I add to this that his weight in training was 15 st. 10 lb. as
against my 11 st. 10 lb., and that he is all brawn, bone, and muscle,
the reader will be able to appreciate that in tackling him I was
up against a pretty tough proposition. In fact, as I have already
intimated, Mr. de Frece made his offer originally more by way of a joke
than anything else, and he was considerably surprised when I took it
on, merely stipulating that the club purse should, no matter which of
us won, be given to the Music-hall Artists’ Benevolent Fund, the cup of
course going to the victor. To this, Apollo, like the good sportsman he
is, at once agreed.
The weights were announced by Mr. Bettinson as follows: “Apollo, the
Ideal Athlete, 15 st. 10 lb.; Carlton, the Human Hairpin, 11 st. 10
lb.” My opponent had for his seconds Charlie Mitchell, ex-heavy-weight
champion of England, and Jake Hyams. In my corner were Jim Driscoll,
the feather-weight champion of the world, Dai Dollings, and the club’s
second.
The battle looked like being over before it had properly begun. I had
thought that my opponent would have sparred for an opening. Instead,
however, directly the gong sounded for the start he rushed across the
ring like a mad bull, and landed me a terrific punch under the heart.
Down I went, and I knew no more until I heard “nine” counted, and
realised that I had to struggle to my feet before the fatal “ten.” I
did it, but that was about all; and how I managed to last out the round
I don’t know to this day. I dragged myself to my corner at the end of
it feeling more dead than alive, and the sixty seconds that elapsed
before the gong sounded for us to begin again seemed the shortest
minute I ever spent in my life.
Curiously enough, though, once I was on my feet for the second round I
felt much better. I watched carefully that Apollo did not again get in
a blow under my heart, and about half-way through the round I managed
to split his lip with a lovely straight left. This made him wild,
and he forced the pace, using all his weight, but did me very little
further damage, although I felt pretty tired by the end of the round.
Driscoll bucked me up during the interval, telling me that I was
winning easily on points, which was the truth.
He also made me promise that in the next round I would give Apollo an
opening, and wait until he led a straight left. Then I was to take a
half step back, and counter with my right.
This was all right in theory, but in practice, in my case at all
events, it didn’t work “worth a cent,” as our American cousins would
say. I did my best from the moment when I stood up for the third round
to do as I had promised, but Apollo seemed to know all about it, for I
got a terrible pasting waiting for the straight left that never came.
Being so tall and thin, I caught the majority of his punches on my
shoulders and arms, and mighty glad I was when the round ended.
Well, they massaged me in my corner, and Driscoll kept on saying, “He’s
bound to lead a straight left directly, then down he’ll come, and,
don’t forget, the bigger they are the heavier they fall.” I smiled
rather sickly, for I was not so sure.
Towards the end of the fourth round Apollo made another of his mad,
tearing rushes at me, and this time he got me over the ropes. I am 6
ft. 2½ in. tall, and the new, thin, wire-like rope cut me right across
the small of the back. His whole weight was on top of me. I slid and
slithered along the rope, scraping all the skin off the hollow of my
back. It was like being flayed alive; far worse than all the punching.
This was practically the end of the fight. Almost directly afterwards
Apollo shot out with his right, catching me full on the nose, a
terrific punch, and down I went, covered in blood.
My head hit the floor--whack. I saw stars. I also heard “stars”--the
“pro.’s” applauding. But I was by no means “out.” I heard the
timekeeper counting. “One--two--three--four”--and so on!
[Illustration: CARLTON AND HIS TRAINER, DAI DOLLINGS, THE FAMOUS WELSH
ATHLETE, STRIPPED READY FOR HIS FIGHT WITH APOLLO]
All the while I was thinking what a mug’s game it was; so far, that
is to say, as I was concerned. My hands were paining me terribly;
and they, I reflected, were my capital--my livelihood. I came to the
conclusion then that I had done quite enough for one night for sweet
charity’s sake, and that the cup might go hang for all I cared. I had
no money interest in the contest personally, be it remembered. So I
stayed down for the fatal ten seconds; when, of course, Apollo won.
Then the cheering burst forth, and lots of people crowded round me,
slapped me on the back, tried to shake me by the hand, and told me
I had put up a regular game, plucky fight against a far heavier and
stronger opponent. Amongst those foremost in congratulating me was
Charlie Mitchell, Apollo’s second. “By God, Carlton!” he cried; “but
I’m glad it’s all over. Why, he might have killed you.”
When I went up to my dressing-room my seconds rubbed me down with
embrocation, and after ten minutes’ rest or so I felt all right; but my
left arm and shoulder were black and blue, and my nose didn’t properly
stop bleeding for three days afterwards. This, as I pointed out to my
wife at intervals after I returned home, seemed a rather unusually long
time. “Yes,” replied she soothingly, “but then yours is an unusually
long nose.” Which was true, but not flattering.
Women, however, I have long since discovered, are not sympathetic,
except in the story books. When I reached home that same evening, for
instance, not wishing to disappoint my wife I told her a fib.
“Marie,” I said, “I’ve won the fight.”
“You look it,” she said, eyeing me stonily. Then added: “Where’s the
cup?”
I had forgotten for the moment all about this item in the programme,
and so had to tell another fib in order to cover up the first.
“Somebody’s pinched it,” I said. “Tell you all about it in the morning.
Just now I want to go to bed.”
I went.
Next morning the pillow was red instead of white.
But all the same I performed as usual that evening.
I was once asked by Mr. “Peggy” Bettinson, the manager of the National
Sporting Club, to box Jimmy Wilde, fly-weight champion of the world,
on the occasion of a benefit performance in aid of the Music-hall
Benevolent Fund. These sort of performances are not easy for the
amateur, for most professional boxers hit hard even when they are not
“out for blood,” and on this occasion I had to let Wilde show his
ability, while also letting the audience see that I too knew something,
at all events, about boxing.
Roars of laughter greeted our appearance in the ring, the contrast
between me, standing 6 ft. 2½ in., and the diminutive Wilde, who only
stood 5 ft. 4 in. and weighed 7 st. 2 lb., being a striking one. And
when we started off boxing, and I allowed Wilde, on his making to hit
me, to run between my wide-opened legs, as under an arch, the merriment
of the onlookers knew no bounds.
[Illustration: CARLETON AND JIMMY WILDE AT THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB]
One of my spoofs, however, very nearly miscarried, and had it quite
done so Wilde would have known it, for I can hit hard on occasion. It
was during the third round. I had got him in a corner, and made up my
mind to raise a good laugh. So, watching my opportunity, I put out my
left arm in front of him, and upper cut with my right, my intention
being that the blow should be delivered at least a yard wide, and that
then I would look up into the air, as though pretending to wonder where
he had gone to.
This, I say, was my intention. But such was Wilde’s marvellous,
cat-like agility, that he, knowing nothing of what was in my mind,
slipped from under my left, and bounded a full yard on one side, with
the result that my blow, delivered with all my strength, actually
grazed his ear.
After it was all over “Peggy” Bettinson said to me, “Carlton, old man,
you nearly caught him with that upper cut in the third round.” “Yes,” I
said, “I nearly did.” But I never told “Peggy,” or indeed anybody else,
that I had really intended missing him by a yard.
Another time I was asked to box with Jim Driscoll, the retired
feather-weight champion of the world, for the Hero Boxers’ Fund. The
affair came off at the Middlesex Music-hall, and in order to raise a
laugh I had arranged with my second to hand me a bottle of Bass to
drink in the interval after the first round, to bring me a cigar to
smoke in the second, and to squirt a syphon of soda water over me at
the conclusion of the third round.
These tactics certainly made the audience laugh. But th
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