straight out for advice,” Lord Carnarvon said to me in relating
the story. “He gave me sound advice, after listening to me most
courteously. He advised me in a friendly way not to touch the stocks
on any account. I looked at him, thanked him, and then drove straight
to a telegraph office near Wall Street, and advised my friend to buy
eagerly. I went across to California, where I fished for a month,
and then when back in New York I found that the shares had soared
upwards, and my London friend had cabled me his sincere thanks. I
called on the financier and told him that I could not leave America
without returning thanks for the advice he had so kindly given me, as
in addition to the profit my friend had made it had defrayed all the
expenses of my trip. The financier was puzzled, and remarked that he
had advised me against buying. I told him that though he had given me
that advice, yet I felt sure he wished me to buy, and I had done so.
The American looked at me shrewdly for a moment, and then he burst
into laughter and said, ‘Pray consider my house your home whenever
you return to America!’”
Lord Carnarvon was a man of indefinable charm that, when he chose to
exert it, attracted the confidence of all sorts and conditions of
men. He was gifted with a wonderful memory and the scholarly instinct
of thoroughness in any work or recreation he undertook. We were both
interested in Egyptology, and that was the basis of our friendship.
* * * * *
The first motor-car that arrived in England was shown one summer’s
evening at the Imperial Institute, and was followed by a dinner. The
car was hailed as something marvellous. I attended the dinner with
Lord Northcliffe, who almost immediately afterwards ordered one of
the new road vehicles, and I was his companion on many of his early
runs, both in England and on the Continent. I was one of the first
to make the trip by road across France to Monte Carlo, and well do
I recollect the excited crowd that assembled before the Casino to
watch the arrival of the weary travellers from London. And we were
very weary and fed up with breakdowns, I assure you.
In aviation I have, also, taken a keen interest, for I acted as
judge at the first British aviation meeting, held on the Doncaster
racecourse.
The secret history of this--which has never yet been published--is
worth recounting. In France, many flights had been made by Bleriot
and others. Cody was busy with his experiments, but it remained for
my big, burly, fair-haired American friend, William Caspar, to bring
aviation to England.
Caspar was a bright, cheery optimist, a much-travelled man, and a
cosmopolitan to his finger-tips, but, like many men who dabbled in
foreign “concessions” and interested himself in “wild-cat” schemes,
he was often hard pressed for money. He had had a most adventurous
career--cowboy, manager of a Wild West Show, manager of a well-known
orchestra, principal proprietor of the Gaming Casino on the Island
of Corfu, professional gambler, and lots of other things, before he
determined that “England _must_ have aviation!” as he put it to me.
For years I had constantly met him in various places widely scattered
throughout Europe. Thus I knew the vicissitudes of his fortune. In
London he was well known at the Carlton, Savoy, and Cecil hotels. He
had been staying with me at the Cecil before he went again on the
Continent, determined to bring aviation to England.
For nearly three months I heard nothing of him, till one night he
burst into my room, and, in his bluff American way, said:
“Boy! the trick’s done! England is really going to have aviation
after all!”
“How?” I asked.
“Because I’ve got the money here,” and he pulled out a cheque for a
large amount. “It’s like manna from heaven--eh, boy? I tell you I’ve
been broke for a long time. For the last fortnight I’ve been at Spa,
in Belgium, unable to get away because I couldn’t pay my hotel bill.”
“Which is frequently the case,” I laughed.
“Yes, that’s so,” he went on, “but mine was a very bad plight. I
couldn’t raise any money in Paris, or in Brussels, but I heard of a
wealthy Baron and his brother who lived at Spa. So I went there and
saw them. Nothing doing! If England wanted aviation, let the English
put up the dough. I gave them details of my scheme, painted a pretty
picture of the thousands of people who would go to Doncaster just to
see what an aeroplane was like, and so on; the races, the crowds, and
the money that might be made. But it didn’t appeal to them. Twice I
saw the brothers, but they declared that there was no money in it,
so I left them and wondered how, with five francs in my pocket, I
was going to get out of Spa and back to Paris and on to London. The
other night, after dinner, I went out for a stroll down the Avenue
to think it all over, and not having any money, even for a cup of
coffee, I walked about for hours. At last, on returning to my room,
I saw on my dressing-table what I expected--an envelope that was
part of the hotel stationery. It was, I was certain, a polite note
from the management requesting immediate payment of my account. So
I let it lie there for an hour before I tore it open. Then judge of
my delight, boy, when I found that the Baron had called during my
absence and had written me a note to say that he and his brother had
reconsidered the matter and had agreed to put up the money. So!” he
added, flourishing the cheque, “England is to have aviation!”
Caspar was a hustler. Next day he went up to Doncaster, where, posing
as a wealthy financier, he quickly enlisted the co-operation of
the Mayor and Corporation. Hangars and pylons were erected on the
historic racecourse, while he sped back to Paris, to engage at any
cost aviators to bring their machines to England.
The fees he paid were most generous. To Cody he paid two thousand
pounds to bring his machine--which some wag named “The Cathedral.”
With him came Le Blon, Sommer, Delagrange, and several others--all
of whom, except Sommer, by the way, met within a year, their death
through flying. The reason for this hustle was that the Corporation
of Blackpool had got wind of Caspar’s scheme, and was running an
opposition attraction three days after ours was announced.
Harry de Windt, Basil Tozer, and myself assisted our friend Caspar,
who, being an ex-showman, knew well how to advertise and how to treat
the Press. He always did things on a lavish scale. The less money
he had in his pocket, the more expensive the restaurant at which he
dined. He often used to say to me:
“When William Caspar has money, then the whole world has money!”
It was so in the case of the Doncaster aviation meeting. He was
generous in his payment on every hand. He not only invited the
English Press, but the foreign Press also, and on the day of the
opening a grand luncheon was given, at which stirring speeches were
made by Doncaster’s Mayor and by others.
The affair proved a great success in every way--except for flying.
As the judge, I was perched up on a high wooden tower in the centre
of the racecourse. I had a stop-watch, and a telephone to the
Press-room, in the grandstand, where there were telegraph machines in
connection with the various London newspaper offices. The event was a
national one.
Nobody had timed aerial flights before, therefore out of my windows
I gazed at Le Blon circling the pylons, and forgot to take the time
when he started. When he had finished, I spoke over the telephone to
Harry de Windt at the other end, guessing the time he had taken from
start to finish, and giving the time by my stop-watch.
A few minutes later the telephone rang, and I heard Harry’s familiar
voice say:
“Look here, Billy, what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Why?”
“Well, the boys have just reckoned it out and found that according to
your time Le Blon finished before he began!”
Then I heard Caspar’s voice exclaim:
“Say, Le Queux, do you want any assistance with the timing over
there? Fellows can’t very well win before they start!”
That first aviation meeting, which extended over four days, was
full of humour. It could not be doubted that Caspar did the Press
well, since in three days it was found they had consumed over three
thousand seven hundred cigars, to say nothing of the amount of wine
and spirits--which had better be omitted. All the meals were free,
and people, pressmen or not, went into the great dining-room, ate and
drank what they wanted, and came out again. The Corporation, which
was bearing part of the expenses of entertainment, suddenly awoke to
the fact that it must attend to the matter. So, one morning, supplies
were cut off, not, however, before many boxes of cigars had been
distributed unopened.
William Caspar himself was the most prominent figure at that meeting.
His get-up was calculated to impress the public. He had a wonderful
pair of bright yellow boots that laced up to the knees--which he
called his “flying boots”--a marvellous suit of check tweeds, a cap
to match, and huge gauntlet gloves. But he never flew!
Huge crowds came each day, and thousands paid their half-a-guinea
merely to be allowed to walk around the hangars and inspect the
various types of machines--mostly inventors’ freaks that could not
fly and never did. The weather, however, was gusty and entirely
against the aviation of those early days. Everyone who attempted to
go up came to grief, Cody’s machine turning a complete somersault.
Thus the meeting was unfortunately not a financial success. It cost
the Doncaster Corporation a considerable sum, and the Belgian Baron
and his brother lost their money. Caspar made not a halfpenny,
for I had to lend him some money a few days later, and the only
satisfaction we gained was that we had all thoroughly enjoyed
ourselves.
And so it was that aviation first came to England!
Cody constructed a second edition of the celebrated “Cathedral,”
and when he took it to Shoreham one day he and my friend Clarence
Winchester, the aviator--who wrote that entertaining book _Flying Men
and Their Machines_--made a perilous ascent on it. But their altitude
never reached above six hundred feet, which in those early days
seemed something of a miracle. They came down quicker than they went
up. But all this seems strange after the latest gliding experiments.
Winchester tells this story of Cody. The pioneer also invented a
monoplane. This machine flew so fast when Cody first tried it that,
on descending, he admitted he was a bit scared by the speed. He
was asked what he thought of his own invention. “Well,” he replied
thoughtfully, “I fancy it would be a trifle easier to fly a streak of
lightning!”
One day William Caspar played a practical joke on me. He had had a
sudden wave of prosperity, and was running a gaming casino at Rimini,
on the Adriatic, in combination with certain English financiers; I
being a member of the Syndicate.
I had met him in Milan, and we were travelling together down to Rome
on business connected with the Syndicate. One of the best of good
fellows, Burbidge, of Harrod’s, now alas dead, was with us. Caspar
had with him in the train a new and very expensive dispatch-case, in
green leather, with double locks, and I noticed he took extreme care
of it, fearing lest it should be stolen.
He took it with him into the dining-car, both at luncheon and dinner,
and when we arrived in the Eternal City, he would not allow the
voluble porter to handle it.
At the Grand Hotel, on our arrival, he carefully handed it over to
the cashier with a request that he would place it in the safe and
give a receipt for it, which the sleek obsequious Italian cashier
did. His precaution did not strike me as very strange, for I knew
that sometimes my friend carried with him confidential documents
and considerable sums in cash. It was, also, his custom to carry an
automatic pistol in his hip-pocket, and he was a dead shot.
We went to our rooms, for it was late at night, and next morning all
three of us met in the hall of the hotel. We were just about to go
forth, when he suddenly said:
“Oh! Wait a moment, Le Queux, I want something out of my
dispatch-case.”
He crossed to the brass grille of the cashier’s desk, and presented
his receipt, whereupon the sleek young man went to the great safe,
unlocked it with his keys, and carefully brought forth the precious
case. Caspar just as carefully unlocked both locks, with the little
Chubb’s key on his watch chain, while the cashier and several others
standing by, including myself, peered in to see what the precious
case contained.
Caspar drew forth a pair of ebony hair-brushes, brushed his hair very
carefully in a long mirror at the side, replaced them, relocked the
case and handing it back to the cashier said, without a suspicion of
a smile:
“Thank you very much. Will you please put it back again?”
* * * * *
I suppose this rather disjointed record of an erratic life would not
be complete without some reference to the interest I have taken
in wireless ever since years ago, in Leghorn, where I lived while
Senatore Marconi was engaged in his early experiments, and long
before the marvellous discovery was launched on the world.
For a number of years I have been a keen experimenter, and have
often been dubbed a fool for my pains. Certainly we had very crude
apparatus till the outbreak of war set many persons experimenting
and conducting research-work, as result of which the apparatus has
been brought to greater perfection, and the transmission of the human
voice by wireless accomplished.
In the latter field I was one of the first experimenters, and to
those who nowadays delight in listening to broadcasting it may be of
interest to know that I was the first person to broadcast speech and
music to amateurs and experimenters. This I did for one hour each
evening during the first seven months of 1920--the early days of
radio-telephony.
Many amateurs, I believe, know my call and my voice, 2AZ, for fully
a hundred in all parts of the country were good enough to write from
time to time and report on the strength and quality of my signals.
The set in question I started to establish in Guildford early in
1919, and was fortunate enough to have the advice and assistance of
Mr. Duncan Sinclair, now of the Wireless Section of the Air Ministry,
and Mr. E. P. Brown and Mr. F. A. Love, both land-telephone experts
and well known in the wireless world. With the exception of the small
radio-telephone sets used on aeroplanes and then being “scrapped”
by the Disposals Board very little was known at the time concerning
long-distance radio-telephony. It could be accomplished, we knew. But
how? That was the problem we set ourselves to solve.
For six months we worked daily with various apparatus and circuits,
burning out expensive transmitting-valves, piercing condensers,
ruining microphones, and other almost daily misfortunes. At last,
just as we thought ourselves within an ace of success, our generator
broke down, and we could get no firm in London to undertake its
rewinding--not even the makers themselves! It had to be scrapped, and
after considerable delay and expense a new one was installed in its
place.
Still no result! A second single-line aerial had been erected at
right angles to the transmitting aerial--a twin one--in order to
be able to listen to our own telephony and gauge the strength and
modulation of what was being sent out.
From listeners in London and in various towns reports came in that
mumblings could be heard, but no word was distinguishable beyond
“Hulloa! 2AZ calling!” Weeks went on, valve after valve was tried,
condenser after condenser, choke after choke, till I confess that
more than once I stood in my wireless-room in despair. Indeed, so
many disappointments did I have that one night I declared to my
friend Ernest Brown, that I felt like smashing up the whole bag of
tricks with a hammer.
He counselled patience, so we continued. My Morse could be read by
Mr. L. Meyer in Amsterdam, and was also reported from Paris and the
south coast of Ireland, but telephony seemed as far off as ever. Then
I resolved to alter the wave-length to a thousand metres. This meant
a new inductance, in the testing of which I was assisted by Mr. Frank
Phillips, who is associated with the “Burndept” Company.
The Marconi Company, who were taking great interest in my
experiments, kindly lent me certain apparatus, while from the
research department at Chelmsford some highly valuable suggestions
were made, based upon their own experience.
A further three months of costly failure passed, till one day I
received a letter from an amateur in Manchester, whom I did not
know, telling me that my speech on the previous night--the weather
forecast from the evening paper--was perfectly clear! Imagine my
joy! Next day came letters from Mr. T. W. Higgs at Bristol, Mr. G.
Woods of Liverpool, and Mr. F. T. Townsend, secretary of the Ipswich
Wireless Club, all congratulating me on both speech and music. These
were followed quickly by reports from such research-workers as Mr. W.
A. Ward at Sheffield, Mr. L. C. Willcox at Warminster, Captain E. J.
Hobbs at Wareham, Mr. W. W. Burnham at Blackheath, Mr. W. J. Crampton
at Weybridge, Mr. H. H. T. Burbury at Wakefield, and a number of
others.
Naturally, on meeting with such sudden success, we persevered
enthusiastically, in order to get the set to function more perfectly
and to attain greater distances, till one day we received a report
from the operator at Inchkeith, on the Firth of Forth, four hundred
and twenty miles from Guildford, and lastly from the well-known
amateur, Mr. G. W. G. Benzie, of Peterculter, Aberdeen, five hundred
and fifty miles distant.
A curious incident occurred one evening while transmitting
a selection of jazz music. My second aerial was switched on
to my receiving set--Marconi 7 valve, with the new double
note-magnifier--when by mistake the Morse “inker” was switched on,
whereupon the printing machine began to respond to the music, and
recorded all the higher notes on the tape! It ticked and printed,
keeping time with the music, greatly to our amusement.
Another laughable incident happened one night when I called by
telephony 2HX, and mentioned my friend Mr. Love by name, whereupon
some unknown amateur in Rotterdam called me by Morse, and asked in
French: “What is that about love? Please repeat.” And next moment
another message was flashed out to me, I believe by a professional
operator, saying: “Love to the girls also!” This created quite a
disturbance in the ether concerning love, one man tapping out “Love
to 2AZ!” This continued till a Government station--I believe it was
Aldershot--grew angry, and told the delinquents to “shut up.”
Whilst on the subject of wireless, my friend, Colonel C. G. Chetwode
Crawley, the Deputy Inspector of Wireless Telegraphy of the General
Post Office, has from time to time told me some humorous stories of
radio. The other day an applicant for a wireless receiving licence
filled in the particulars of his experiments as “home comforts.”
Another man applied to the G.P.O. for a licence to experiment with
“crystal detonators!”
One of the best of Colonel Crawley’s stories, however, concerns a
business man, who had had so many differences with his wife that the
conjugal life became almost impossible. One day recently he suddenly
left Victoria for the Continent, and on board the Channel boat sent a
message by radio, which was received at Niton, in the Isle of Wight,
and said, “Going for good.”
The wife, on receiving it, “saw red.” In a few days she sold up her
furniture, let her flat, and went to live with her mother. She wrote
to an address in Spain, but without receiving a reply. A month later
her husband turned up. He had been to the flat only to find it let to
another family, and angrily demanded an explanation. His wife showed
him the radio message.
“But there’s a word left out, my dear!” he gasped. “I sent you a wire
to say that I was going for a good trip. The word ‘trip’ has been
omitted.”
Furious correspondence ensued between the G.P.O. and the aggrieved
pair. The G.P.O. sought out the original telegram as despatched from
the ship, but the word “trip” did not appear upon any form whatever.
Nevertheless, the well-organized and “brainy” G.P.O. apologized for
their “error,” and the home is a happy one again.
Did the gentleman cast off the matrimonial fetters and then repent?
Who knows?
A further story which I heard from another source concerns the
famous American wireless hero Binns, who was once an operator at
the Crookhaven Wireless Station, where it was a standing joke that
all his breakfasts for three hundred and sixty-five days every year
consisted of two hard-boiled eggs. During the war he was an operator
in a very important position in the Grand Fleet, and a certain most
secret signal was required to be sent ashore.
He puzzled for a moment, and then with his hand upon the Morse key
tapped out the extraordinary words which no doubt puzzled the Germans:
“Two hard-boiled eggs transmitting. Urgent.”
He rapped this out half a dozen times, and all the stations around
the coast were much puzzled.
But Crookhaven sprang alert at once. They knew it was Binns. They
took his secret message for the Admiralty, and replied,
“O.K.! Two hard-boiled eggs.”
It is said that the result of that code message was the sinking of a
German cruiser!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Adventures in Journalism--How I Became a Journalist--Reporting
in the House of Commons--Humours of the _Globe_
Newspaper--Stanley: the Explorer’s Great Secret Revealed
for the First Time--Mr. Gladstone’s Kindnesses to Me--The
Lord Chancellor and my Books--The Mysterious Person Who
Sent the _Globe_ the First News of the _Victoria_ Disaster
Twelve Hours Ahead of the First Intimation--I Nearly Lose
My Life at Bow Street during the Police Strike--How I
nearly “Killed” Queen Victoria--Cardinal Manning Becomes
My Friend--He Takes a Drink with the Reporters--I Go
with George Augustus Sala to Describe the “Holy Coat” at
Treves--We Become Pilgrims from Metz--The Editor of the
Berlin _Punch_ is Sent to Prison for Six Months for Copying
my _Globe_ Article.
_Who’s Who_ states that while studying art in Paris I forsook the
Quartier Latin and became a journalist.
It happened in this way. I had met the great _feuilletonist_, Emile
Richebourg, the dark-eyed, serious, bearded man whose domestic novels
ran for years in _Le Petit Journal_, and it occurred to me, tired
as I was of the art school, to try and write a short story. I wrote
many without success. One day I completed one of fifteen hundred
words that I called _La Pipe Cassée_, and it was published. Zola read
it, and I suppose it met with his approval, for he sought me out in
my shabby rooms, _au troisième_, off the Boul’ Mich’, and his great
encouragement urged me to continue.
I did, and achieved some success. So much, indeed, that one day I
forsook art, and after a tour of Europe, mostly on foot, became a
clerk in a silk-weaving factory in Genoa, and later on arrived in
London, where, after some adventures, I became a journalist. I was
subsequently appointed on the staff of the _Globe_, the Government
organ which at that time was in the zenith of its popularity.
At first I was a reporter in the gallery of the House of Commons, my
seat being beside H. W. Lucy, or “Toby, M.P.,” as he was known in
_Punch_ in the days of Gladstone and Parnell. Then very soon I was
promoted to be sub-editor, and began the journalistic and literary
career that I have pursued till to-day.
I do not think that I ever took myself seriously, as did some of my
fellow-craftsmen, mostly untravelled novelists of both sexes. I have
ever regarded novel-writing as a sea of adventure, where very often
the best writer finds himself stranded while the mediocre teller of
stories struggles safely into port.