His Original Assets Consisted of a Shirt,
a Pair of Shoes, a Trunk, and
Much Cheerful Impudence.
The other day I happened to run across Raymond Hitchcock at lunch in the
Players' Club. I reminded him of the request I had made him for material
with which to enrich this department of THE SCRAP BOOK.
"Yes, you'll get it," he assured me, in that rugged intonation which does
so much to infuse fun into his remarks on the stage, "I spent a good hour
over the typewriter yesterday, pouring into it the story of my life. May
you survive the reading thereof."
He had "poured" to such good purpose that not only did I survive the
reading of his autobiography, but the screed itself was found worthy of
survival in its original form, and I am giving it to the reader herewith.
The Actor's Own Story.
I came down from Auburn, New York, with twenty-five dollars in my clothes,
and the "absolute certainty" that New York was clamoring for me--as I had
been a hit in an amateur performance in Auburn and everybody said I "just
ought to go on the stage." The twenty-five dollars was soon only a bright
spot in my memory, and I found that, while I was well known in Auburn, not
even the street-car drivers knew me in New York.
After a bit, I fell in with a fellow who was a regular "theatrical
agency." He had just about as much money as I had, and as we were doubtful
pay in the boarding-house where we were stopping, we were relegated to the
attic, where we roomed together, at five per week, which was charged
against us on Saturday night.
He took me over and introduced me to Colonel T. Allston Brown, who had an
office on Union Square, and from his office I received my first
postal-card telling me "to call." Of course, I applied for nothing but the
"leading part." Knowing nothing of the business I, naturally, was a
"leading man."
I called promptly. I think I was there a little early. The card said ten
o'clock, but I think I got there at nine. I was engaged by a man by the
name of Davidson to play in a Western drama the leading part, at a salary
of twenty-five dollars per week. I packed a shirt and a pair of shoes in a
trunk, which I managed to get hold of somehow, but just how I don't
remember. I had come down to New York with only a satchel, and later had
to leave my satchel for unpaid board.
When I arrived at rehearsal the next morning, I found it was a
"ten-twent-thirt" repertory company, and that the Western drama had not
yet been written. I was cast for _Ingomar_, _Pygmalion_, in "Pygmalion and
Galatea"; _Hardness Craig_, in "The Colleen Bawn"; _Hawkshaw_, the
detective, in "The Ticket-of-Leave-Man"; and _George Markston_, in "The
Pink Domino."
I could see at a glance I was not suited for _Ingomar_, as I only weighed
about one hundred and fourteen pounds, with the sun shining on me. In
spite of all my confidence as to my ability as an actor, I could not see
myself as _Ingomar_, and I don't think the management could either. I only
rehearsed three days, when I found out that we were not suited to each
other. Then, I was all alone in Philadelphia without a nickel.
I went to work in Wanamaker's store, stayed there a year, and then found
myself once again on the street without a cent.
I made some acquaintances in the musical line while in Wanamaker's, and
one of these chaps, knowing my desire to go on the stage, took me over to
William T. Carleton, who was then rehearsing the opera "The Brigand." I
applied as a chorus tenor, and was asked to sing the scales.
I got half-way up the ladder and went all to pieces, but informed Mr.
Carleton that I had been ill, and after he had looked me all over he
engaged me "on general appearances," so he told me, at sixteen dollars per
week.
We went on the road doing one-night stands, and during such journeys on
the train I used to play on the banjo and sing little songs which amused
Mr. Carleton very much. He would frequently call me and ask me to get out
the banjo and sing to him.
Takes Bigelow's Place.
Our first week's stand was in Montreal, and here the comedian, who was
Charles A. Bigelow, was taken ill and unable to play. After having
rehearsed all the possible understudies, and none of them being competent
to take the role, it was first thought they would have to close the
theater, when Mr. Carleton said: "Where is that chap who plays the banjo?
I think he could do it."
I was, fortunately, blessed with a wonderful memory. I knew every song,
every number of the music and every word of the dialogue in the opera; in
fact, starting from the opening lines I could read it right through. They
found me about half past five in the afternoon, and I went over to the
theater.
Mr. Carleton met me, and came at me with the rather surprising question:
"Can you play Bigelow's part?"