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.
The social side of the music-hall artiste’s life centres largely round
the Vaudeville Club in the Charing Cross Road, and which is owned and
run by the Water Rats, of which I am proud to be a member.
I recall a very funny little incident that happened here not long
since. A lot of us were in the place, some playing billiards, some
chatting together, etc., when there entered a certain well-known “pro.”
who was notorious for swanking about the big salaries he commanded.
Going into the telephone-box, and carefully leaving the door ajar, so
that we could hear what he was saying, he rang up a number, and the
following one-sided dialogue took place.
“Hello!--Hello, I say!--Is that you, Mr. So-and-So?”
(We pricked up our ears at this, for the name he mentioned was that of
one of the biggest men in the music-hall world.)
“Oh, it is?--Good!--About Monday next. I--eh? I say about Monday next.
I got your letter this morning. Thanks! But two hundred pounds a week
is no good to me.”
(We gasped, and looked at one another.)
“Eh!--What’s that?--You’ll make it two hundred and fifty pounds? Not
good enough, old chap. Ha! Ha! My terms are three hundred pounds a
week, or nothing doing.”
(Everybody craned forward their necks, listening intently.)
“What? I can’t hear you very plainly. That’s better. Oh! You’ll make it
three hundred pounds? Very well. Have the contract ready to-morrow for
me to sign.”
Ring off.
Exit Mr. Swanker from the telephone-box. He strolls nonchalantly to the
bar.
“Have a drink, boys?”
We assent.
Enter the then manager of the club, Mr. Case. “Excuse me, sir, but that
telephone has been out of order since yesterday; we’re expecting a man
in to see to it directly.”
Sudden and complete exit from the club of Mr. Swanker, followed by a
roar of laughter from all the other members.
I may add that a “pro.’s” salary, his _real_ salary that is to say, is
always a jealously guarded secret. Ask, and you generally get told a
lie. The public hardly ever knows, in fact I might almost say it never
knows. Newspaper “pars” are no criterion. Neither is the position of
an artiste’s name on the bill. “Tops” and “bottoms” are supposed to be
the “star turn” positions. But I myself have topped the bill at £5 a
week in my early days, with artistes getting £50 a week in very much
smaller type below me. In fact the very first bill I ever topped I got
£5 only, and it cost me about £3 in tips to stage hands and others to
live up to my that week’s (supposed) reputation.
Another little Vaudeville Club telephone wheeze! We were sitting in the
smoke-room one day, when a member was smitten with a sudden brilliant
idea. Going to the box he rang up about a score of well-known “pro.’s,”
and told each one who answered his call to ring up “625 Chiswick.”
“You’re wanted there badly,” he explained.
When he had finished we made a dive for the telephone directory, and
turned up “625 Chiswick.”
Then we did a grin. It was the number of Wormwood Scrubs Prison!
After an interval our club telephone-bell started a perfect crescendo
of violent rings many times repeated, and I’m told that the language
that came on the wire from the victims of the joke ought to have
shattered the receiver.
What the Governor of Wormwood Scrubs thought (or said) about the affair
I have no means of knowing. But I can guess.
Yet another amusing happening at the Vaudeville Club occurs to me.
There chanced to saunter in there one afternoon a member known as “Big
Fred,” a Leeds man, who rather fancies himself at billiards. There was
also in the club at the same time Fred Lindrum, the Australian champion.
The latter was known to everybody there--excepting Big Fred. The
conversation was purposely switched on to billiards, and presently
a match, for drinks round, was got up between the two Freddies, the
champion having previously let it be known to the rest of us that he
would not attempt to show his real form until his opponent and he had
each made about seventy, when he would wade in and run out.
“Seventy all!” called the marker.
We rubbed our hands, and smiled. “Cod” bets flew round as thickly as
bees in a clover-bed in summer. Big Fred, suspecting nothing, was quite
proud of the sensation the match was creating. Lindrum winked at us
solemnly behind his opponent’s back. It was his turn to play.
“Now the fun begins,” we whispered to each other.
The champion played several perfect shots in succession, scoring twenty
or so. Then he tried an exhibition stroke, and missed by a hair’s
breadth.
Big Fred took up the running, scoring eighteen, an unusually big break
for him, and leaving the balls in a well-nigh impossible position.
Lindrum did his best, but failed. Then Big Fred ran out.
We looked at one another in blank amazement. The impossible had
happened. The Australian champion had been beaten, and by a third-rate
amateur.
“Have another game?” said Big Fred.
“I don’t mind,” answered Lindrum.
Big Fred was beaming all over, immensely pleased with himself. “I’ll
give you ten start this time,” he said.
There was a perfect roar of laughter at this. We simply couldn’t help
it. Big Fred was a good deal puzzled. Also he was somewhat nettled. He
couldn’t understand what we were laughing at.
“I’ll bet any of you chaps a quid I win this game also,” he cried.
“Done!” exclaimed half a dozen voices simultaneously, mine amongst them.
Of course the bets were “cod” bets in a sense. That is to say, we
should not in any event have taken Big Fred’s money. But he, on the
other hand, had a perfect right to demand ours--if he won. But we did
not stop to consider that side of the question. We were so perfectly
cocksure that he would lose--this time.
But he didn’t. By one of those million-to-one chances that do
occasionally come off, he beat Lindrum a second time. Whereupon the
champion broke his cue across his knee in a sudden gust of temper.
Big Fred regarded him in amazement. “Why, whatever’s the matter?” he
inquired. Then we told him who his opponent really was.
“Well, I’m d----d!” was all he could say.
The next day Lindrum made over eight hundred in one break in an
exhibition match against a brother professional at Thurston’s, and Big
Fred, who was present, called out rapturously at the conclusion of the
play: “That’s the chap I gave ten start to and beat.”
Chorus of sceptics, who knew nothing of the previous day’s incident:
“Liar!”
Here is another billiard story, which so far as I know has never before
appeared in print, but which was being retailed in all the bars in
Melbourne at the time I was there, and which I was assured relates an
actual fact.
Roberts was going to Melbourne to play Inman, and found himself
stranded at Perth (Australia) with two days to wait for a boat.
Accordingly, with an eye to business, he went into the billiard-room
of the principal hotel there to see whether there was any chance of
arranging an exhibition match.
Boy Marker (a smart, well-set-up lad): “Have a game, sir?”
Roberts: “No, thanks!”
B.M.: “Oh, come, now. Be a sport. I’ll give you fifty in a hundred.”
R. (with dignity): “I’m Roberts.”
B.M. (genially): “Doesn’t matter, sir, who you are. I give fifty in a
hundred to all the folks round here.”
R. (with increased dignity): “I’m Roberts, I tell you. The champion.”
B.M. (after a pause for consideration): “Oh, well, sir, if that’s so I
can only give you thirty in a hundred.”
Speaking of billiards, I was once playing principal comedian at the
Prince of Wales’ Theatre, Birmingham, when Inman and Stevenson--the
latter of whom was then world’s champion--were there, and we got very
pally together.
At this period George Gray had just come over from Australia, and was
creating a big sensation in billiard circles by his wonderful breaks
off the red.
I noticed that whenever I introduced either Stevenson or Inman to
anybody, the first words they uttered almost invariably were, “What do
you think of George Gray?”
Now it happened that on the termination of my engagement in Birmingham
the three of us, Stevenson, Inman, and myself, travelled up to London
together. It was a corridor train, and quite a number of “pro.’s” I
knew were aboard it, though not in our compartment.
“Now look here, you two,” I said, “I’ll bet you five shillings a time
that anybody I happen to present to you will ask you what you think of
George Gray.”
“Agreed!” they said, and a minute or two later a man I knew happened
along the corridor. I called him into our compartment, introduced him,
and sure enough he promptly rapped out the usual question.
So did the second man, and third. I had won fifteen shillings.
Thereupon Stevenson suggested that the next bet should be one for a
sovereign.
Of course I raised no objection, and soon another professional friend
of mine was roped into the compartment and introduced. He was an
enthusiast on billiards, and he talked at great length about the game,
recalling many big breaks made by the two players in days gone by. Not
a word about George Gray, though! I began to get uneasy. By the terms
of our bet I was not allowed to mention the young Australian player
by name, but I did my best to lead the conversation in his direction
by making such remarks as, “You made a break off the red yesterday,
Stevenson, didn’t you?”
All to no purpose, however; and my two travelling companions both
laughed heartily when my friend eventually left without having asked
the required question.
But when we reached London, Stevenson proposed that we should pool the
£1 15s. and buy a couple of bottles of wine, explaining that he had
previously squared the last friend to whom I had introduced him--and
who also happened to be a friend of his--telling him on no account to
ask him “What do you think of George Gray?”
This story, by the way, reminds me of another concerning Reece, who
was equally good at swimming and billiards. He, too, got very tired of
hearing the same query addressed to him; but the climax was reached one
day when he was training for his attempt to swim the Channel. He was
swimming about twelve miles out when a stranger swam up to him and,
treading water vigorously, called out, “Hullo! You’re Reece, aren’t
you? What d’ye think of George Gray?”
Somewhere in the Bible is the following text:
“Can a man, by taking thought, add one cubit unto his stature?”
The Hebrew chronicler who propounded this query evidently thought that
there could be but one answer to it. In fact he did not really regard
it, I suppose, in the nature of a query at all. He meant to say that
the thing was utterly impossible a feat that could not be accomplished
under any conceivable circumstances.
Herein he was right. For the Hebrew cubit, according to the best
authorities, was probably not less than about eighteen inches long; and
one may say at once that it is still impossible, as it was then, for a
man--either by taking thought or in any other way--to add a foot and a
half to his stature.
On the other hand, it is quite possible to temporarily increase one’s
height between seven and eight inches. I know, because I have done it;
and, moreover, the increase in height, though it cannot be sustained
for any great length of time, is perfectly real while it lasts.
It is accomplished mainly by stretching the muscles of the knees,
hips, chest, throat, and other parts of the body, and maintaining
them rigidly in that position by what is more or less an exercise of
will-power. Of this feat I do not pretend to be the originator. A man
named Willard, an American, did the same thing in the States. I learnt
the trick from him, or rather I should say that I got the idea of it
from seeing him do it; and so far as I am aware I am the only man,
other than Willard himself, who has succeeded in accomplishing it.
For it must not be imagined that it is an easy thing to do. On the
contrary, it is exceedingly difficult. It is also apt to be dangerous.
Willard, not long since, overstrained himself while practising it one
day; and I myself have found the ill effects so pronounced that I never
produced the feat--as was my original intention--in public, and I now
only perform it very occasionally in private for the benefit of my
friends.
How I first came to know about it was this way. Inman, the billiard
champion, was visiting my house, and he brought Willard with him.
After lunch we strolled out on the lawn, and I suddenly noticed that
my American guest had apparently grown taller; as indeed, of course,
he had. Naturally, however, I put it down to my fancy. But a minute or
so later, on looking up suddenly from a flower I had been examining, I
saw that he was taller than ever, and I suppose I looked the amazement
I felt. Anyway, Inman and he burst out laughing, and the former then
introduced Willard as “The Man Who Grows.”
Afterwards Mr. Willard was good enough to explain his method to me, and
that night, after my guests had gone, I started practising on my own
account. While I was at it, and still more after I had finished, I felt
something of the sensation experienced in the olden days by criminals
on the rack. Every bone, muscle, and sinew in my body ached; every
nerve seemed on the quiver. But I persevered; and in time I succeeded.
I found, however, that the difficulty of the feat, and incidentally
its attendant pain and discomfort, increased enormously with each
additional inch. The first one was not so bad. But putting its
difficulties, etc., at, say, ten, then those inseparable from the next
inch of increase were fully one hundred; the third inch was represented
by one thousand, and so on. In short, it resolved itself into a case of
what mathematicians call, I believe, geometrical progression.
For these reasons I should not recommend the ordinary man to attempt
the feat. He may easily do himself a serious inquiry. The strain told
hardly on me, as I have already said.
I may mention that I have succeeded in mystifying a good many people
by this growing feat, including at least one famous Scotland Yard
detective. I was playing billiards with him, and an argument arose as
to our relative heights. He was a tall man, measuring over six feet
in his stockings, which is also my normal height. His impression was
that he was taller than I, and to settle the point we adjourned to a
police station and were measured by a machine that they kept there for
recording the heights of criminals.
He, of course, measured his ordinary six feet odd. I stretched myself
ever so slightly, and of course without any apparent effort, and beat
him by two inches. “Well,” he exclaimed, “I should never have thought
it!” “Oh,” I retorted, “I believe it’s the fault of that old machine of
yours. It doesn’t record accurately. I’m taller than that.”
[Illustration:
NORMAL HEIGHT THREE INCHES TALLER SIX INCHES TALLER
CARLTON AS A “HUMAN TELESCOPE”]
“Oh, that’s nonsense!” he replied hotly. “Thousands of criminals
have been measured by it, some of them several times over and on
different occasions, but the measurements never vary by more than the
minutest fraction of an inch. I’ll bet you anything you like you’re
wrong.”
Of course, I wasn’t going to bet on a certainty, so I simply said that
I thought he was mistaken, and, placing myself on the platform of the
machine, I invited him to readjust the measuring-arm. This time it
stood at six feet four inches.
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he ejaculated, in blank amazement. “This beats
everything. I can’t understand it.” “Nor can I,” I replied gravely,
“because by rights I should measure six feet six inches. Will you
please try again?”
Too astonished to reply, he proceeded to do as I had asked. The
measuring-arm registered six feet six and a half inches. “Half an inch
too much,” I said. “Your machine’s no good.”
By this time my detective friend hardly knew whether he was standing on
his head or his heels. He was dumbfounded--flabbergasted. So, taking
pity on him, I explained to him how it was done.
“Well,” he remarked thoughtfully, after he had recovered somewhat
from his astonishment, “I hope the knowledge of how to accomplish the
feat won’t spread among the criminal fraternity, for if it does the
Anthropometrical Department at Scotland Yard may as well close down.”
As I have previously intimated, I don’t perform the above feat in
public for fear of straining myself. There are plenty of ordinary ways
in which a man can hurt himself in my business, without looking about
for extraordinary ways. For instance, I once came an awful cropper on
the stage through no fault of my own.
It was at the Victoria Palace, London, where I was performing for the
first time with a giant. I had also with me my contortionist, and I
thought it would be a good gag for me, on my being suddenly confronted
with the big man, to throw up my hands above my head, utter an
exclamation of surprise, and fall over backwards.
This I did, having previously instructed my contortionist to be behind
me, so as to catch me as I fell. But he didn’t do it. He forgot all
about it, and walked away to the wings. The consequence was that I
turned a half summersault, and alighted on the back of my head with a
resounding thwack that was heard plainly all over the theatre.
There were shrieks of laughter from everywhere--pit, stalls, and
gallery. I didn’t laugh though. Neither did my contortionist later
on, when I got him by himself. Meanwhile I was suffering from slight
concussion, and reeled to and fro about the stage like a drunken man.
This caused more laughter. I had hardly ever made such a hit before; a
“hit,” I may say, in a double sense.
I went through the rest of my show with a lump on the back of my head
that was really the bigness of a hen’s egg, and which seemed to me to
be about the size of an ostrich egg, and “still growing.” When I had
finished, George Barclay, who was then my agent, and who chanced to be
in front, came round on purpose to congratulate me.
“It was great,” he said. “I never saw a funnier or more natural fall in
my life.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I replied airily. “Didn’t you ever see me do that
before?”
“No,” he said, “I never did.”
“No,” I thought to myself, “and you’ll never see me do it again.”
After that I cut that part of my show, nor did I ever again rely on
being caught behind my back by a man I couldn’t see, and who might or
might not be there.
Of course it is easy enough for a trained athlete to fall, if he knows
he is going to fall. I myself can fall twenty or thirty feet without
hurting myself. Only on this occasion I didn’t know. A man can give
himself a nasty jar, or even injure himself pretty severely, by merely
stepping off a kerb, if he doesn’t know the kerb is there.
There are other directions in which an artiste’s life is not exactly
all beer and skittles. A young friend of mine found this out on his
first visit to Wigan. His was not a bad turn of its kind, but Wigan
is notoriously a “hard” town to work for artistes hailing from the
south of England, and the people there didn’t at all appreciate his
particular business. Monday night was a dead frost. He didn’t get a
hand.
He couldn’t make it out, and he went round to the front entrance
as the people were streaming out in order to try and overhear what
the audience really thought about his show. Of course, they didn’t
recognise him without his make-up. Not that it would have mattered
much, probably, if they had.
The poor chap heard enough. Those who weren’t slating his performance,
were asking each other what Wigan had done to have such a “dud” as he
was dumped down there. Next night he got the bird. On Wednesday he got
more bird. On Thursday he got most bird. On Friday morning he decided
to take a long walk into the country, and try and forget it all.
He walked, and walked. Presently he came to a village. A barber’s pole
sticking out caught his eye, and he turned into the shop to get a shave.
Barber: “’Ast bin t’Empire at Wigan this week, laad?”
Pro. (shortly): “No, I haven’t.”
Barber: “Well, aw did. And aw saw a turn there, worst aw iver saw. If
he comes in here aw’ll cut his bloomin’ throat!”
Personally I think the worst insult I ever suffered was rubbed into
me while I was performing at Glasgow, very early in my career. I was
working at the old Tivoli and Queen’s, a very rough house. I had to
give two shows a night for £5 a week, and the return fare from London
cost me £3 6s.
Friday was amateur night there. That is to say that on that evening
the first performance commenced an hour or so earlier than usual,
and all sorts of budding “pro.’s,” or people who imagined themselves
“pro.’s” were encouraged to come on the boards and make exhibitions of
themselves.
Well, the people there didn’t approve of my show. My prize jokes were
received in dead silence. My best gags evoked no responsive laugh.
Finally a voice from the gallery rang out clear and shrill:
“Gang awa, hame, mon, and come agen on Friday nicht.”
Another time I was touring the provinces with a cinematograph show
depicting the destruction of Pompeii. In between I would give
exhibitions of conjuring, card-manipulation, and so on.
These latter, however, were more in the nature of fill-ups. The moving
pictures was supposed to be the real attraction. It had cost a lot
of money to film, and in those days it was thought to be a wonderful
production.
It is the custom of showmen running these sort of mixed entertainments
in small provincial towns to stand at the entrance to the hall at the
conclusion of the show and be introduced by the manager to the people
he knows as they are leaving the building.
One evening I was introduced after this fashion to a typical old
Yorkshire farmer.
“Good evening, sir,” I said, using the accepted formula for such
occasions, “I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“Well,” he replied dubiously, “I don’t know about that. The conjuring
was all reet. But that there moving picture wur a fraud.”
I explained to him that it represented the very last word in
cinematography, and had cost a small fortune to produce, as indeed it
had.
“Garn!” retorted the old chap, “tha can’t kid me. They never ’ad
cinematographs in them days.”
In 1912 I was appearing at the Palace Theatre, Lincoln. I was running
the show with my own company on sharing terms, so that it was to my
interest to draw as full houses as possible.
At this time the “hidden treasure” craze was at its height, and the
idea struck me that I might as well utilise it for my show.
So I used to announce, prior to opening, that instead of paying £50
for “turns” on my bill, I proposed to give away this sum amongst my
audiences during the ensuing week.
To this end I had a number of vouchers printed announcing that “the
finder will receive £1 on presenting this paper to Carlton at the
Palace Theatre during the evening performance.” These I would take
out secretly at dead of night, and hide in various likely and unlikely
spots, my usual method being to fold them up into quite a small
compass, and run a drawing-pin through them. By these means I was able
to pin them underneath a seat where I happened to be sitting, say in
a park, for instance, or any other public place, without attracting
attention. At other times I would pretend to hide the vouchers in
various places where I knew people were watching me and then watch them
vainly searching for the thing that was not there. It was great fun.
Of course I did not invariably pin them under seats. I hid them here,
there, and everywhere, all over the place. People used to follow me
about in the day-time, in order to try and spot where I put them. But,
needless to say, they were never successful. I saw to that. Still, it
was all good advertisement, and it was fun for me to watch them digging
and searching for my vouchers miles away from where I had hidden them.
I used to give out clues from the stage at each performance, giving
very easy ones the first night or two, and making them more obscure and
difficult as the week wore on. Whenever a voucher was found, I used to
have the finder up on the stage, and get him to sign it with his name
and address, and these were afterwards pinned up outside the theatre,
so that the public could see that my offer was a genuine one.
Well, it so happened that at Lincoln, while I was working this stunt,
the late B. C. Hucks, the famous _Daily Mail_ flying man, who, it will
be remembered, was the first Englishman to loop the loop, was holding
an aviation meeting there. I invited him to the theatre, and suggested
that I should have him up on the stage and introduce him to the
audience. “It will be a good ‘advert.’ for you,” I told him.
Hucks willingly agreed. But he did not know what was in my mind.
Otherwise, perhaps, he might not have fallen in with the suggestion so
readily. For when I got him on the stage, and after introducing him
to the people in front, where needless to say he received an enormous
ovation, I went on to say that “Mr. Hucks had very kindly consented
to take me up in his aeroplane on the day following, and that I would
throw down ten £1 vouchers for the crowd to scramble for.”
“That’s so, isn’t it, Mr. Hucks?” I said at the conclusion of my
speech, turning to him and shaking him by the hand; and poor Hucks,
taken off his guard, could do no more than nod a smiling assent. But
all the while, under his breath, he was addressing remarks the reverse
of complimentary to me.
Next day I was at the aerodrome to time. Hucks was there. I half hoped
that he wouldn’t have been. I had had time to reflect overnight, and
I didn’t at all relish the experience I was up against. For flying in
those days, the reader must remember, was not by any means the safe and
easy thing it has since become. Nor were the aeroplanes then what they
are now. In fact the early types were just big, power-driven box-kites.
However, I was in for it, and up we went. I was in a blue funk, and
when Hucks, after circling round two or three times, asked me if I had
dropped the vouchers, I replied that I had forgotten all about them.
Which was the fact.
So round we went once more, and I threw them out. “There goes ten
pounds,” I said to myself, and groaned in spirit. But I need not have
worried. We were several thousand feet up, and the wind caught the
flimsy pieces of paper and blew them heaven knows where. Not one of
them was ever presented.
A story occurs to me as I write, which I will call “The Biter Bit.”
It concerns the brothers Egbert, better known as the “Happy Dustmen.”
These two are probably about the most confirmed practical jokers on
the music-hall stage. They are for ever playing tricks on somebody.
Everybody in the profession knows this, and consequently tries to avoid
sharing a dressing-room with them.
Well, these two found out somewhere how to make a substance which,
smeared on anything, will explode on being touched, even ever so
lightly. They tried it first on Bransby Williams at the Sheffield
Hippodrome, smearing a quantity on a seat. When he sat down, it
exploded with a report like a bomb, and poor Bransby leapt about six
feet, imagining that there was an air raid on.
But this was only a trial spin, so to speak. The following week the
two practical jokers were at the Hippodrome, Portsmouth, where they
shared a dressing-room with Harry Claff, known as the “White Knight.”
Harry had not, as it happened, heard of the Sheffield incident, but the
reputation of the Brothers Egbert in the matter of practical joking
was, of course, well known to him, so that he was on his guard.
The brothers tried hard to get him away from their dressing-room
after rehearsing together on the Monday, so that they could put some
of the explosive stuff on his seat, his grease paints, his make-up
box--anywhere, in short, where he would be sure to handle it or come in
contact with it. But try as they would, they could not succeed. Harry
stuck to them too tightly.
At length the three of them left the theatre to go to their respective
diggings. The brothers saw Harry to his. Then Seth Egbert slipped
hurriedly back to the dressing-room, and started smearing the stuff all
over Claff’s various belongings. Now every theatrical dressing-room
is provided with a mirror, and just as Seth had finished baiting his
trap he happened to glance up into this mirror, and there, clearly
reflected, was the face of Harry Claff, an amused grin on his face.
Suspecting that the brothers were up to something, he had followed Seth
back to the theatre, and caught him in the act.
I had the curiosity to inquire of the brothers how they made the stuff.
Here is their formula; but if any of my readers contemplate making any
of it, with a view to playing tricks on anybody, I warn them to be
very, very careful, as the compound is exceedingly dangerous, being one
of the most powerful explosives known, and used extensively in the late
war.
You take sixpennyworth of flaked iodine and one pennyworth of 88
ammonia, together with a sheet of filter paper. Put a small piece
of iodine on the filter paper held over a tin can, and pour over it
enough ammonia to dissolve it into a paste. This, smeared while wet on
any hard substance, such as the handle of a door, for instance, will
explode--when dry--with quite a violent report directly anyone touches
it. But no more than the tiniest piece, about the size of a pin’s head,
must be used.
Which reminds me, by the way, that a small piece of metallic sodium
thrown into a bath of water, or into a river where anyone is
fishing, will zigzag about all over the place in the most erratic
fashion. Only, don’t use too much sodium; a piece about the size of
a threepenny-piece will work wonders, causing great astonishment and
roars of laughter amongst the uninitiated.