More odds and ends. How I was rescued from “drowning” at Douglas. The
mock medals. A night sensation at sea. I act as a race-course steward
at the Manx “Derby.” A good old “gag.” I personate another actor at
Warrington. Dan Leno’s champion clog dancing. Eccentric lodging house
keepers. Selling the “deadheads.” Advertisements introduced into
performing. A mean firm. Curried fowl and the disappointed supers.
Advertising an electric bell. The audience “sold.” I play at the
Cirque Nouveau, Paris. My excess of zeal.
I recall an unrehearsed incident at Douglas, in the Isle of Man.
Hengler’s Circus was situated on the quay and while it was there the
maiden voyage of the steamship _The Peveril_ from Liverpool to Douglas
took place. Thousands and thousands of people waited on the pier to see
this new boat arrive and all were agog to give it a hearty reception.
It would be about noon when Connor, the manager of the circus, said to
me chaffingly,
“I’ll bet you a bottle of champagne you don’t fall in the water.”
“Done,” I said.
I went into my dressing room in the circus and prepared for the plunge.
Connor hired a boat for himself, his wife and children, and I was to
have gone with them. I followed them down the steps and they all got
in the boat. I was the last and I was just going to put my foot on the
boat when I slipped and fell into the water. Amid loud yells of “A man
overboard!” two fishermen put off and dragged me into their boat, I
making myself as heavy as possible, as though I’d been half drowned. I
was put into a carriage and driven to the circus, which was only about
100 yards away, and underwent the process of first aid, the best part
of which was the liberal dose of brandy administered.
The “accident” caused intense excitement and no end of talk, and
hundreds of people came to the circus to see if poor dear old Whimmy
was all right. Everybody breathed much more easily when they saw a
board with a bill on it announcing that I should appear “Every evening
at half past seven.” It was a huge advertisement for both me and the
circus, and what was more, I won my bet!
The thing was too good to let drop without making the most of it and as
it was about the time for my benefit to come off, we were looking about
for something startling to draw the public.
“Why not make use of your ‘narrow escape from drowning,’” said Mr.
Connor. “What about giving a medal to each of the fishermen who pulled
you out of the water and saved your life?”
“Splendid!” I replied.
Bills setting forth the heroism of the fishermen and a good deal of
flummery besides were printed, and I needn’t say the house was crowded.
The medals (made in Birmingham) cost me about 1s. 3d. each, and the
moment came for me to present them to the brave fishermen. The medals
were beautifully wrapped up in tissue paper and the audience applauded,
doubtless thinking they were solid gold. The fishermen looked at these
two medals--awfully common things they were--contemptuously and threw
them in the sawdust.
Then turning to me one of them growled indignantly:
“What the thingummy do you mean by insulting us with things like this?
I wish to what’s-his-name you’d drowned.”
And they walked out disgusted, muttering all the uncomplimentary things
about me they could think of.
Everyone knows that the Isle of Man is the place for sprees. I was
an actor in one of them at the Douglas races. The Douglas “Derby,” I
may remark, is a lovely burlesque of the Epsom festival. The course
consists of a run over about nine fields for a quarter of a mile, and
the grand stand is made out of orange boxes. I was made one of the
stewards and wore the biggest of rosettes, of which I was not half
proud, or pretended to be.
For the first race five horses were entered. I only saw one come in--I
think the other four must have fallen over the cliff, as we never found
them from that day to this. No race!
Just before the second race started one of the horses bolted, knocked
a poor old gentleman down, smashed his teeth, and he had to be taken to
the hospital.
There were eight or nine horses in this race and when the first horse
passed the post my impression was that it had won, and I gave my
decision accordingly. It was pointed out that I was quite wrong, a
fearful row sprang up, and the stewards were threatened with instant
death if they didn’t give the race to the third horse that came in. I
said, of course, that it was wrong, but a horrible fate was held out to
me and I threw up the sponge.
The third race was the big event--the Manx “Derby.” A man whom I didn’t
know came up to me and whispered:
“The man who has been taking the money at the gate has disappeared with
the cash. The best advice I can give you is to take that rosette off,
and get away to Douglas as soon as possible, or they’ll have your life.”
It turned out that the story of the theft was true and the thief made
good his escape to Liverpool. I lost no time in getting back to Douglas
and suffered no harm. It was otherwise with a man named Williams, who
had something to do with the committee. An angry crowd broke every
window in his shop.
After this experience, no more steward business for me!
The great spectacle at the circus just then was a series representing
incidents in the Zulu War, and there came a time when the show wanted
livening up a bit. Now a little way outside Douglas beach is what they
call a “tower of refuge,” and when the tide is out you can walk to it.
Mr. Albert Hengler and I put our heads together for some new “business”
and we decided that we would have some fun on the “tower of refuge.”
To make our scheme successful we had to wait till it was a bit misty,
and on a suitable night when the tide was up about five minutes past
eleven, as the hotels were letting out the people, there was a fierce
glare in the sky over the “tower of refuge” and everybody rushed out
into the streets and on the sea shore in great alarm. Our plan for
amusing the Manx visitors had started.
We had collected some forty supers and planted them on the “tower of
refuge.” We had ready a large fishing smack on the opposite side and
this we boarded and were taken out to sea. The supers, supposed to be
Zulus, had been provided with guns, which at a given signal they fired,
at the same time making a fearful noise with their war cries. Rockets,
squibs and red fire added to the picture.
Never was there such a hullabaloo in the Isle of Man, what with the
panic and the preliminary drinks. The trippers thought the end of the
world had come. The police were at their wits’ end to know what to make
of it. They suspected foul play, and running for boats they set out
for the tower to capture the offenders. We had reckoned for something
like this and hence our selection of a misty night. Of course we were
invisible, for by the time the constables were at the tower we were in
the sailing boat and were right out to sea. They could not find out the
offenders, and it was some hours before the truth oozed out--all to the
good of the show.
The stage methods of getting in a wheeze to make the audience laugh
are infinite. I remember one in connection with an engagement I was
fulfilling in a big English provincial city. I was clowning in the
centre of the ring, and after the lady rider had completed one of her
paper hoop breaking circuits, I, by previous arrangement, entered into
a fierce altercation with a groom for not holding his hoop properly.
When the altercation was in full blast, he gave me--or pretended to
give me--a heavy blow, and I fell on the sawdust in an apparent fit of
hysterics.
“Brandy!” cried the ringmaster, as he rushed to my assistance. “Brandy!
The poor fellow is in a fit.”
A groom hurried from the ring entrance with a bottle--which, by the way
didn’t contain the real stuff--and I seized the bottle and began to
drink feverishly. Then I yelled for “More brandy! More brandy!”
“Very sorry, Walker,” said the ringmaster, soothingly, “but there’s no
more brandy left.”
“No more brandy?” I cried. “No more brandy? Then if there’s no more
brandy there are no more fits!”
Of course, the gag is an old one, and has been done many times; but
that ringmaster, with quiet sarcasm always afterwards addressed me as
“Mr. Fitz-Walker!”
I was once on a visit to my son, who was appearing at Ohmy’s Circus,
then performing at the Court Theatre at Warrington, and I was strolling
up the town when I met Harry Leopold, who was my fellow clown in
the Drury Lane pantomime, “Beauty and the Beast,” in 1890. Said he:
“Whimmy, you’re the very man I’m looking for.” “Oh, what’s up now?” He
told me that his brother John had gone to Leeds on some very important
legal business, that John could not appear at the “Court” that night,
and that the manager of the theatre (a Mr. Potter) had intimated that
if he did not appear the engagement would be cancelled. Would I take
his place and save the situation? As I was very much like John--in
fact, we were often taken for twins--the thing might be done, but there
was one objection. I knew nothing about the play. “What’s that to do
with it? All we have to do with it is to have a rehearsal,” said Harry.
This got over the difficulty. I consented. I went through the business
just to see what it was all about, and at 5 o’clock, Mr. Potter was
informed that John had arrived. The theatre opened, the show commenced,
and I got on all right in the first act, what with falling about, going
up and down water spouts (the pipes, not the water), etc., to the
delight of the audience. The second act was a schoolroom scene and in
one part I had to hit the schoolmaster on the head with a tray. I did
it so effectually that I laid him out; the schoolmaster acted no more
that night, but the audience were greatly pleased; they thought it was
all in the show.
I played the part all through the week, and then came Saturday
night--settling up night. John had arrived by this time, and went
into Mr. Potter’s room to draw his salary. When the money had been
handed over, Mr. Potter said solemnly, “John, if you had not appeared
on Monday night I should certainly have had to close the theatre, as
I never like to disappoint my audience. Now here are two returning
dates for you.” John thanked him and suggested a glass of wine. They
adjourned to the hotel next to the theatre, with myself and nearly all
the company. When there, John introduced me to Mr. Potter and told him
how he had been had. Oh, the language that followed! Mr. Potter raged
and stormed in such a fashion that the proprietor sent for a policeman,
who gently but firmly led him out. Mr. Potter never forgave either of
us.
The mention of Ohmy’s Circus brings to my mind that it was when this
circus was at Accrington my dear old friend Dan Leno had the start in
life which first brought him into fame, though no one at the time could
have foreseen what a wonderful dramatic career he was destined to have.
Everyone knows that he began as an astonishingly clever clog dancer. He
defeated competitor after competitor, but in a contest for a champion
belt, the referee gave it against him--a notoriously unfair decision.
Dan said nothing, but some little time later he issued a challenge of
£400 to the alleged champion, which challenge had never been accepted.
The champion made no reply, but contented himself with buying the belt
from the donor for £10 and conveniently losing it. Dan took no more
notice of the champion and at a contest which was arranged between
him and another expert he so conclusively proved his superiority that
no one after that ventured to question his right to be the best clog
dancer in England.
The ways and manners of many of the ladies who cater for theatrical
and other professional lodgers are sometimes not such as to awaken
much affection for them. I am led to the belief that they are a race
apart, and that they look upon the professional, whether he be from
the theatre, the music-hall or the circus, as a kind of lemon to be
squeezed dry.
During a visit to the north, two of us were in lodgings, on the
customary understanding that we provided our own food. We suspected
that the landlady had taken a particular fancy to our potatoes, which
when served were usually very deficient in number, as cooked, as
compared with the number when raw. Consequently, one morning before we
went out, we decided to count the potatoes, and afterwards compare the
numbers with those served, when we returned and they were placed on the
dinner table. Accordingly we took a record of the number of “murphys,”
went to rehearsal, and then returned to dinner. The potatoes were duly
served up--but they had been mashed! The landlady knew something!
Here is an illustration of the strange notions which some Scottish
landladies have of English tastes and customs. When fulfilling an
engagement in a well-known Scottish city I went out for a stroll one
afternoon and purchased some watercress, which I thought would form
a fitting accompaniment to the cold ham which I was to have for
tea. I sent the watercress by messenger to my lodgings, which were
not far distant, and when I returned I was amused and astonished to
find the landlady had decorated every small vase in the room and the
china ornaments on the mantelpiece with the watercress. She evidently
imagined it was a kind of fern!
I believe Charles Dickens once said or wrote that the ruling passion
in the human breast was the passion of asking for orders for the play.
Anyhow, when people whom I have only met in the most casual manner
unblushingly ask me to give them passes for any show I may be connected
with, I often wonder how they imagine the manager pays his way. I
should like to know what they would think of a performer who went into
a butcher’s shop and asked the butcher for a joint of beef, or a motor
car dealer for a Rolls-Royce? It is a curious thing, but I have noticed
that the deadheads or “non-payers” are always the hardest to please,
and the very first to run the show down. This leads me to something
which occurred in a town up north, where I had a two hours’ wait. I was
going into an hotel and in the passage accidentally knocked down a bill
that evidently had just been stuck up by the billing man from the local
theatre. I took it with me into the smoke room and read it by a better
light, and found it was a bill of a Shakespearean company visiting the
town on the following week, and I hung it up on the wall.
While I was so doing the landlord came in and said he supposed I was
the advance agent for the company. I felt so flattered that I let him
think so, and extolled the players and the dresses in my most exuberant
and convincing style. His wife came in and I went all over it again,
warming to the task. Never had anything like it visited the town; the
artistes were the pick of the London theatres, playing under assumed
names, so as to account for them not having been heard of before. The
scenery had been designed by Royal Academicians and painted by the
leading scenic artists, Telbin, Hawes Craven, Bruce Smith, etc., while
the ladies’ dresses came straight from the Rue de la Paix. I was in my
glory; I commenced to believe it myself. Thousands had been spent on
the production, and so on and so on. The other customers commenced to
sit up and take notice, and the climax I’d been working up to arrived.
Could I give the landlord and his wife and daughter a pass for early
closing night? That did it. I wrote them a pass “Admit three, Box B,
Thursday night,” and signed myself “Hookey Walker.” Then the customers
jumped at the chance; they all had a go at me; I gave them passes
signed with different names. I felt I’d done my best, so I caught my
train to Leeds, where I was playing the following week. I have often
wondered what happened to those people when they turned up at the
theatre on early closing night, the best night of the week, with the
bogus passes!
Not infrequently approaches are made to the simple-minded “pro” through
the ready method of “standing treat,” and really I’ve had foolish
people spend more money in this way than the seat would cost. Once,
however, the boot was on the other leg. I was having a glass at my own
expense when an insinuating person entered into conversation which
I made sure was going to lead up to the usual request, especially
as from one or two words he let fall--he evidently took me for an
agent in advance. He was so excessively complimentary and flattering
that I could hardly do less than ask him to join me in a drink, and
he accepted my invitation at once. After he’d drained his glass he
enquired “Are you having another?” I was; whereupon he remarked calmly:
“All right then, I’ll wait outside for you.” His impudence so took me
aback that I didn’t know whether to be angry or amused.
Some of the oddest things happen in connection with the advertisements
which enterprising firms arrange to have introduced into the pantomime.
It generally falls to the lot of the unhappy clown to have to engineer
the introduction. Sometimes they get directly or indirectly a small
remuneration. Sometimes they don’t. Once when I was with Hengler’s in
the provinces, Mr. Powell, the circus manager, told me that a Liverpool
firm wanted their “beautiful two-shilling tea” brought in somehow,
and that they would make it worth my while if I could do it. I did do
it--for all it was worth and perhaps more. But the firm were silent
over my recompense, and chancing to be near Liverpool, I called at the
shop, which was a kind of universal store, and saw the manager on the
matter.
In those days I prided myself on my swagger tailoring, and especially
on my tall silk hat, which was always of the best and glossiest, and
the manager, after listening to my representations, offered me and
the member of the company who was with me two of the cheapest and
commonest bowler hats they had in stock. We walked out of the shop,
leaving the hats behind us. That night and for several other nights I
had my revenge. I introduced my packet of the “beautiful two-shilling
tea,” and after a suitable wheeze opened the packet and poured out the
contents--sawdust! I don’t think the firm was pleased.
Another experience was of a different kind. The article to be
advertised was somebody’s tinned curried chicken and rabbit, and to
stimulate my imagination, I suppose, they sent me samples, which I
needn’t say I tasted, and found very good. Accompanying my samples was
a quantity of other tins exactly similar and having the letter “D”
marked on the outside. The Israelites got tired of quails, and I began
to tire of curried chicken and rabbit, so I turned the lot over to the
property master, who picked out one and was perfectly satisfied. But,
like me, he did not care for curry every day, so he distributed the
rest among the stage hands, who were only too pleased at the prospect
of a dainty supper for once. But delight turned to rage when they
opened their tins. They were all dummies and this was what the letter
“D” stood for! They went for the property master, who they thought had
sold them. But the poor man was blameless. He had by the merest chance
picked out a genuine tin.
A droll business was that of the much advertised Harness electric
belt. It was believed to be a fraud, and time showed that this belief
was justified. As people were talking about the exposure it seemed to
be a good subject for burlesque, and I worked out something. I solemnly
told the audience that my donkey’s surcingle (the girth that went round
his body) was electrified, and attaching a rope to it with a bell at
the surcingle end I pattered a lot about electricity being life, and
invited anyone who wanted a shock to step upon the stage.
First one and then another obliged me, and soon there was quite a queue
all holding the rope. I asked them to pull. The bell rang, but nothing
else happened. They looked very blank and I pretended to be much
surprised. “What--no shock?” said I. They shook their heads. “Strange!”
I murmured. “Try again.” They did try, but no shock followed. I
scratched my chin as if much puzzled. “Try once more. There ought to be
a shock, you know.” Evidently the queue thought so too, and they made
another effort. “Oh well,” I exclaimed despairingly, “if that’s the
case it’s no use going on any longer. I’m much obliged to you gentlemen
for your kind assistance, but you see how it is.” They dropped the
rope, looking much disappointed, and were about to file down to their
seats when a confederate among the little crowd indignantly demanded to
know what I had been up to? “Oh,” said I carelessly, “I only wanted to
know how many fools I could draw to the donkey’s Harness belt.” The fun
was seized upon instantly and the audience shook with laughter. I don’t
know whether those who had been taken in liked the joke or not. But
this was of no consequence.
When I was engaged at the Cirque Nouveau in the Rue Honoré, Paris,
I was the victim of excess of zeal. In Spain I found I was able to
overcome the difficulties of the language by making myself master of
four or five words. I could say “good-day,” “good-night,” “sing” (this
was to my donkey), “wine” (I needn’t mention how useful this word was);
this was all, but it sufficed. The Spaniards said I spoke Spanish like
a native--but this might have been out of politeness. Recollecting my
linguistical success in Madrid, I thought I would try to do the same
thing in Paris. I employed a French schoolmaster to teach me. I hadn’t
too much time in which to acquire proficiency and I set to work to
cram myself, especially with the French equivalents of the various
wheezes which went down well in England. It was all a job and meant
two or three sleepless nights. However, at the end I was under the
impression I spoke French like a Parisian, and I proudly displayed my
accomplishments in the ring.
Somehow the audience did not seem to laugh so heartily as I expected,
and at the end of my show the manager sent for me. “What the deuce (or
a word to that effect) did you mean by talking French?” he demanded
angrily. I explained my reasons and represented how hard I had studied.
“Hang it,” was his reply, “didn’t I engage you as an _English_ clown?
The people who came to see you were nearly all English and American,
and you do nothing but talk French. They don’t understand a word you’re
saying.” I admitted that this might be so and for the future I went
back to my Cockney tongue, doubtless to everybody’s relief. But I was
rather upset at having wasted my energies.