CHAPTER VII

I join Hengler’s Circus at Liverpool. Mr. Charles Hengler’s peculiarities. A black or red nose? An unlucky ride in the early morning after a late night. I break my ankle. Incapacitated for two years. I go with Hengler’s to Dublin. My popularity. A favourite song. I experiment with performing cats. They have stage fright. A Dublin reporter taken aback. “Billy Gladstone.” The reporter’s revenge. My awkward experience on the boat to Holyhead. A “Dick Turpin” impromptu ride to York.

When I arrived at Liverpool, Hengler’s Circus chanced to be there, and as Mr. Hengler and myself were old friends I called upon him and was engaged. Some years before at Hull I had made Mr. Hengler’s acquaintance and had got to know his peculiarities. I found him a good straight man, somewhat severe--would have his business done to his liking--and that was his success through life. Everything had to be the essence of cleanliness. I have seen him go round the stables with his white handkerchief in his hand smoothing down the horses’ backs to see if they were clean. He was a terror with the grooms--the least dirty spot on a horse--the groom had to go!

Well, on my opening night, I had on a beautiful satin dress. My nose was black and my face was white. I went into the arena and knocked lumps off myself--because I thought the first impression was everything--but when I came out I was exhausted--fell down--fighting for breath. Anyhow, I had made a huge success, and when Mr. Charles Hengler came round I thought he was going to compliment me. Oh dear no. Instead of compliments he said sternly:

“You know, sir, your nose looks dirty--and it frightens the children. Don’t put it on again, sir!”

That was all I got from him for nearly killing myself. Well--I was broken hearted. “Shall I leave now,” I wondered, “or stop the week”?

The next night came: he was sitting in his box, and I went in the arena--black nose and all--to let him know I didn’t care. I came out after doing my business and he came to me and said only these words: “You’ve got it on again, sir.”

I didn’t reply to him, but I went to his manager, Mr. Wm. Powell, and told him that I was leaving on Saturday!

“Don’t you be a fool,” was Mr. Powell’s rejoinder. “What Mr. Hengler has told you is for your benefit. Instead of putting black on your nose try a bit of red.”

So I did, and I must confess it was a tremendous improvement when I next went on. When I came off Mr. Hengler called me out and complimented me on the improvement; and I stopped fourteen years on and off with him! I was so good that it cost him £1,000 in London to advertise me. I became very great friends with all in the circus from Mr. Hengler downwards, and especially with Mr. Wm. Powell, his manager and son-in-law.

Meeting with Mr. Hengler in Liverpool when I was so hard-up I considered was a bit of luck, but I had not reckoned for the unexpected. It so happened that Marie Roze was singing in the city, and she invited Mr. Albert Hengler and myself to a grand supper at the Adelphi Hotel. We had an exceedingly jolly time and the small hours came upon us before we had finished. Not feeling too brisk and having the prospect of a matinee before us, we thought it would not be a bad idea to have a gallop in the country to buck us up for the show. Accordingly we went to the circus stables and got the groom to saddle a couple of horses. Now circus horses are shod like race horses, their shoes are quite flat, and this was the cause of the stroke of ill luck which suddenly descended upon me.

All went well until we had gone two miles or so on the Derby Road, when it came on a drizzle of fine rain. Shortly after, we saw a herd of cows coming out of a field and at the same time a tramcar approached us up the hill. To avoid both cows and car I was obliged to take the wrong side of the road. The fates conspired against me with malignant unanimity. The drizzle chose to turn itself into a heavy shower--one of the outside passengers was moved to open his umbrella. If he’d only done so two minutes sooner or two minutes later all would have been well, but no--he must needs put up the thing with a jerk at the very instant I was riding past the car. My horse shied at it, his flat shoes had no hold on the wet, greasy tram lines, and down he went and his rider with him. Result--a broken ankle for me.

A cab was fetched, I was taken home and the doctor came and set my leg. I was in bed for five months and it was two years before I appeared in the ring again. But Mr. Charles Hengler was ever so good to me, so I never wanted for anything. I remember the doctor coming one morning and saying I could have a small glass of Guinness’ stout, half of a potato and the middle part of a chop. But instead of a small glass of stout I had two bottles and two potatoes--and I thought the doctor would not know what I had taken. Next morning he came and felt my pulse and looked at me, and wanted to know what I had been doing. My wife told him that I had had two bottles of stout and more than two potatoes. He said to me, “Well, young man, you have only put yourself back one month,” and this turned out to be true.

When I was in active work again I went about with Hengler’s to various places and eventually found myself in Dublin. I connect Dublin with very important stage business which had much to do with my subsequent career. It was in Dublin that I took up seriously the training of animals and especially of my celebrated donkeys, of which I shall have much to say a little later on. But at first I was engaged in ordinary clowning. I have no hesitation in saying that the Dublin audiences are the best and most appreciative I’ve ever played to, and as for the hospitality of the Dublin people, there’s no end to it.

I made a very tremendous success with this song:

In Dublin’s sweet city, Where the girls are so pretty, That’s where I met my sweet Mollie Malone. She wheeled a wheelbarrow Through streets wide and narrow, Crying cockles and mussels, Alive, alive O--Alive, alive O, Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive--O.

Now she died with the fever And nothing could save her, And that was the end of sweet Mollie Malone. And her ghost wheels her barrow, Through streets wide and narrow, Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive--O, Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive--O!

They used to call me their Dublin pet. Our performances were given in Mr. Hengler’s place in the Rotunda, a very fine theatre. Mr. Hengler came to me one day and I could see by his expression that some project was simmering in his mind.

“Whimmy,” said he, “I saw something in Paris that would suit you.”

“What was that?” I asked.

He replied that he saw a man with some performing cats and that he made them do some very clever things.

“Now why shouldn’t you do something of that kind?” he went on.

“Well, if it’ll please you, Mr. Hengler,” was my answer, “I’ll get some cats and train them.”

Accordingly I secured four cats--never mind how I got them--real Irish cats they were, and I gave a man eighteen shillings per week for thirteen weeks only to look after them. I had four wooden boxes made, painted red outside and whitewashed inside. I used to get up at six o’clock in the morning to go down to the circus before anybody was about, to train my pupils. I used to take boiled milk and boiled liver, and had a couple of hours every day, with the exception of Sunday, and in this fashion their education went on for thirteen weeks.

Of course it needed any amount of patience on my part, for I had to make them do the same things over and over again until it became simply a habit. This is the secret of training animals--habit. Well, I got these cats to perfection--they used to jump through wire hoops, walk the tight rope with a little bird in their mouths to prove that you could train a cat to bring a bird to one without harming it, and other feats.

My benefit came, and of course I had huge posters all over the city of Dublin: “The greatest novelty in the world: four wonderful performing cats will appear at my benefit. Whimsical Walker--Clown!”

The house was packed to suffocation and I did about a dozen acts before introducing the star turn. Sedately the cats followed me in rotation into the ring and one of the grooms put four little stools down for them to sit on. I turned round to pick up a hoop and at that moment some fool in the gallery made a noise with his mouth. The cats bolted at the sound and I have never seen them from that day to this!

I expected a great row as it seemed to me the audience would look upon me as a fraud and consider themselves sold, but they took the thing as a joke, and I can only think that they understood the reason and held me innocent of any attempt to deceive them. All the same, every time I went to Dublin I was chaffed unmercifully about the cats. I must admit that my first experience with performing animals was not encouraging, but the time came when my patience was rewarded, though there was always the risk of something happening which was not in the programme.

I had a good many queer adventures in Dublin and not the least funny was an episode in which a reporter of the _Freeman’s Journal_ figured. Some of us used to go to the Hummums Hotel Turkish Baths about four times a week--just to have a rest and get ready for business at night. In the cooling room of these baths was a huge cold water bath--say about five feet deep--with four couches round it. Mr. William Powell--Hengler’s manager--was on one couch sleeping, I was next to him on another one, and dear Father O’Brien--a very stout priest--on a third.

We were all resting quietly when Kelly, the reporter in question, had the assurance to waken Mr. Powell and ask him for two passes for the circus. Of course Mr. Powell was annoyed at being awakened, and under his breath said, “Whimmy, fake him in the plunge.”

Tumbling to the idea, I said, “Kelly, have you seen my new trick that I am going to do for my benefit? Just stand there on that rubber mat.”

This was on the edge of the plunge. I did a somersault--slipped--my head came in contact with his stomach--and, of course, he fell into the plunge. Well, we got him out and when he stood on the mat Father O’Brien laughed so much that we had to rush out and get him a drop of brandy or I am sure he would have choked. He said it was the funniest thing he had ever seen in his life.

Of course Mr. Kelly’s clothes were saturated, so we took them off and gave them to the attendant to put into the hot room until they were dry. When they came back the trousers were about three inches too short and Kelly’s face was three inches or so too long. We made out, of course, that it was an accident, but he never asked for any more passes!

Another incident I fear was the result of too much hospitality on the part of my Irish friends. A short time after the Turkish bath escapade, one of the company was taken ill with brain fever and removed to the hospital, where he died. He was a Russian by birth named Becker. He was a Catholic and I promised him that I would look after him at his funeral. He was to have been buried on a Saturday morning, and it so happened that I had accepted an invitation to a birthday party the night before. I had a jollification and I’m afraid I put away a lot of Chartreuse.

About 5 o’clock in the morning I told my friends that I must really go, but they would not hear of it. I insisted, however, and going out called a jarvey to take me home to Meryon Square, not very far from where I engaged the car. In the meantime my friends had taken off my boots for a lark, thinking that I would then stop, but this made no difference and I went away in my socks.

I asked the jarvey when he had got about 100 yards what I owed him, and he said, “Eight bob, sir.” I replied, “What! I’ll give you five shillings.” He pulled up and called a policeman, saying that I would not pay his fare--eight shillings. I alighted, thinking I would have a bit of fun (this was about 5.30 on a summer’s morning in August) and I started having a run for my money round the car, the policeman and jarvey after me. Of course I was without boots.

I was round the car--underneath the horse--about three times--till the bobby thought he would stop me, so he waited at the other side of the horse. I bobbed under the horse and as I bent down my head came in contact with his stomach, and he caught his heels against the kerb and down he went. He was soon on his feet, collared me with the assistance of the jarvey, and ran me into a little tiny one-room police station. No one was about, being early in the morning, so there were no witnesses.

I was taken before a row of policemen, and the question was asked, “What the charge was.” “Not paying the jarvey’s fare and insulting the Dublin constabulary.” The officer asked me my name, and I answered “Billy Gladstone.” Mr. Gladstone was working very hard for Home Rule at this time. I needn’t say I did not look much like the great statesman, especially as I had no boots on. The officer got up from his table, and with the aid of the other officer took me by the back of the collar and a certain part of the top of my trousers and threw me into a little room.

“I’ll give you ‘Billy Gladstone,’” he remarked, and I’m bound to admit he did.

I must have been in the cell two hours and then another constabulary man entered.

“Would you like a cup of tea,” he asked in a friendly way, and I had no hesitation in saying yes.

He brought me one, so I said: “Will you let me out,” thinking that I had kept the joke up long enough.

The policeman looked at me.

“Ain’t you Whimsical Walker--the clown?” he asked.

I said, “Yes.”

“Then why did you put your name on the sheet as ‘Billy Gladstone’?”

“That was only fun. I’m very sorry!”

I then told the policeman what I had to do that very morning, and how I had promised I would see poor Becker buried. After a lot of persuasion, the policeman said he would let me out if I promised to be at the Four Courts at 12 o’clock, and of course I promised.

The morning was now getting on, and I asked the policeman to lend me a pair of his boots--which he did--and a pretty picture I looked with the policeman’s boots on, about a dozen sizes too big for me, and in evening dress!

However, I went to the hospital and took the corpse to Glasnevin Cemetery, and buried my poor comrade. It was a solemn affair, yet there was hardly anyone except myself there to see the last of the poor Russian. So having kept my word I went down to the Four Courts and stopped there until my case came off.

Presently, a voice holloaed out, “William Gladstone!”

Of course I knew that was me. The court was crowded to suffocation. When I made my appearance in the dock--as “William Gladstone”--there was a scream and a titter, and the magistrate threatened to clear the court.

“Do clear the court, and I’ll go with them,” I put in.

That did it, and somebody shouted: “Why that’s Whimmy Walker--hooray! Another hoax!”

The end of the business was that I had to pay eight shillings to the jarvey, £1 for insulting the constabulary, and two shillings and sixpence fine.

I left the court and I met the very Mr. Kelly with whom I had the bath encounter, and this is where he got his own back.

Said he:

“You’ve done a nice thing; it will be in every London paper that you’ve been locked up for being drunk and disorderly and fighting the constabulary.”

“The deuce it will!” I exclaimed. “Can’t you stop it?”

“Come to my office,” he replied, “and I’ll get the wires at work.”

I followed him on to a car to his office and I gave him a cheque for £20 for suppressing the news, and I guess he bought himself a new suit of clothes with the money.

I’m inclined to believe that there’s something in the air of Ireland and in the spirit (I’m not referring to whisky) of the Irish people which stimulates one to fun and frolic. An Irishman, no matter how old he grows, is said to be always a “b-hoy.” However this may be, I found myself the subject of a joke and in an awkward predicament during the journey from Dublin to Holyhead _en route_ for Hull.

On board the boat was a poor old Irish woman with a dear little baby about three months old in her arms. Just as we got outside the harbour everyone was very sick as the sea was very rough. As for myself, being a good sailor, it did not affect me. But this poor old woman was so awfully bad that she thrust the baby into my arms with a pitiful, “Glory be to God, hold it for a while.”

Without exaggeration I can say I had that baby squalling in my arms for four hours. Nobody would take it from me--even the sailors would not. It was considered great fun to make Whimmy keep the baby until our arrival at Holyhead. During the voyage I couldn’t find the mother of the baby anywhere, and if I tried to put the baby on to anybody else they said it was a father’s duty to look after his own child. The joke was kept up till we got into Holyhead Harbour, when as we got in, the mother came up, blessed me, and took the child, and everybody sang “For he’s a jolly good father.” What I said to the old Irish woman--well, it was plain English, if not plain Irish.

We had to stop at Holyhead till about 2 o’clock in the morning for Mr. Hengler’s special train. In the meantime we went round and had sundry drinks till it occurred to us that we’d better get back to the station.

On our way, we met a man leading a beautiful black horse--it had just came off the boat--and being full of devilment nothing would do but we must play “Dick Turpin’s Ride to York” on this black horse. The man with the horse thought he had met a lot of lunatics, but he was helpless and we did as we liked. One of our party jumped on the beautiful black horse, galloped down the street, when the horse stopped suddenly and Dick Turpin went over his head and fell into--well, it was not a strawberry bed! The police collared the lot of us--including the horse, but they let us off with a caution when they found out who we were.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker, in his studio, writing his life]