CHAPTER XIII

American notes. A bogus boxing match. Dispersed by hose-pipe. Jem Mace and Joe Goss. I second Mace and get the worst of it. Queer American law. Washed away on Coney Island. An insulted Irishman. How I started “Sequah” in business. Daring robbery of my presentation watch and chain. Curious coincidences. Terrible death of a Barnum acrobat. I go to America with Charlie Chaplin. An unlucky tour. The company collapse in Seattle. The discomforts of a Seattle hospital. I return to England. An unexpected shower bath. Chased by a hippopotamus.

Not a few odd things happened to me in America. I have already mentioned some. One of the tours in the States opened at Madison Square Gardens for six weeks and we gave up one night for a boxing match between John L. Sullivan and Tug Wilson. Of course we had a holiday that night and we all went to see this fight. It was a bit of a farce. Tug Wilson only had to go through four rounds, and every time that Sullivan was going to hit him with the glove he fell down.

After the four rounds there was a fearful hubbub, the audience seeing that it was a planned thing. Fights and scrambles were going on all over the place and I was helpless against the crowd and had to go with it. I was lifted off my legs and somehow I was forced into the boxers’ dressing room with Tug Wilson’s manager. He had with him a little black bag with the dollars in it and we at once barricaded the door the best way we could. Outside the mob were shouting “Open the door! We want our money back!”

The manager could not see his way to do this and we remained prisoners until somebody outside suggested the hose-pipe! A dozen willing hands went to work. They made a big hole in the wall in less than no time, put the hose-pipe on us, and the next minute we were swamped. The water was nearly up to our waists till the police came and gave us our liberty. I believe Tug Wilson took 5,000 dollars back to Birmingham.

Another episode connected with boxing matches happened to me also in New York. Howes and Cushing’s Circus had a piece of ground in 14th Street, right opposite Tony Pastor’s, and here they engaged Jem Mace and Joe Goss to give sparring exhibitions afternoon and evening. I, being the English clown, had to second Jem Mace--my pal the other clown, an American, Teddy Almonte, seconded Joe Goss. The champions set to and Jem Mace showed his usual cleverness with his head in avoiding his antagonist’s blows. Once he made a rapid duck and I caught the glove in my face. It was a lovely little tap--it didn’t hurt me, but the blood began to run down my nose and I fell on my back about three or four feet away. Of course it was a big success with the audience, but not with me, so I hopped it out of the ring and went into my dressing room. Presently the pugilistic gentlemen came in. I had my handkerchief to my nose and said to Jem Mace:

“Take this iron steak and hit him on the head with it.”

He said, “What for?”

I said, “See what he’s done: surely you’ll take my part.”

And all that I got from Jem Mace was:

“Keep your eyes open in future.”

That finished my career as a second.

The law as it is in America struck me as peculiar. I remember that on one occasion a nail in one of the seats of the circus got attached to a portion of one of our patron’s clothing. He claimed a new pair. I was sent with the man to a lawyer to estimate the damage--it struck me at the time a tailor would have been a better man for the job. However, we reached the office and the lawyer induced the man to take three dollars and leave the old pair of trousers. First he signed a document to that effect and after it was duly signed the man held his hand out for payment. But the lawyer said he must first hand over the torn pair. By the time the man had gone home to change his garments the circus had moved to the next town, together with the man’s three dollars.

I was once at Coney Island--the Brighton of America--with the Mexican Circus there, run by the Brothers Carlo. We pitched on the sands and had a good deal of difficulty in erecting the booths as the sand there is so soft. We slept at the wooden shanty, dignified by the name of hotel, and one morning we awoke to find the circus and paraphernalia gone! In the middle of the night the tide had risen higher than usual and took the lot away. That was the end of the circus at Coney Island.

I have already mentioned the Leopolds. They were of Irish extraction and their real name was Kelly. John, who was my fellow clown at Drury Lane, and who was so like me that I was once able to play for him and get him out of a scrape, was touring with his brother Willie at Warrington, in the United States; and when staying in New York paid a visit to the poorer quarters of the city, where the people were mostly negroes. They were very much amused at the antics of some little black children who were playing about in the street, and Willie Leopold suggested to John that it would be a great novelty to take one of the little niggers back to England and put it into a comic act, as no one had hitherto thought of doing this, although it was successfully done by several people afterwards. John agreed, and they were just wondering how they should approach the parents and what it would cost to take them over, when a black woman opened a window and putting her head out cried, “Come inside, you naughty piccaninnies, playin’ out there in the gutter. Folks’ll fink yo’s Irish!” I can still see the look of indignation which went over John’s great fat good-tempered face when he told me of the insult to his country.

My acquaintance with Jem Mace and Joe Goss led to many interesting talks over the cheerful glass about the bygone glories of the prize ring both in England and in America. The New York exponents of the “noble art” who sometimes joined us had much to say about prize fighting in the States, especially in the western towns. Apparently there was no rule to guide the combatants. Fights were go-as-you-please affairs. A match generally started with the question from one or the other fighter something like this: “Will you fight fair or take it rough and tumble?” and if the gentleman was of the bragging swashbuckler order (which as a rule he was) he might add: “I can whip you each way, by thunder!”

What was meant by fighting “fair” my informant could not say exactly, but about the “rough and tumble” method there was no mystery. Any kind of injury either champion could inflict, no matter how, was considered legitimate. They bit and kicked; they hit below the belt or other parts of the body excluded by the Queensberry rules, and the time limit between the rounds was extremely elastic.

Years after, when Sayers, Mace, Goss and other British “pugs” were in their prime, John Morissey came to the front in America. John Morissey once had a fight with an Englishman, Thompson by name. Thompson knocked his man down eleven times and was himself very little hurt. In spite of this Morissey was declared the winner because of a foul blow struck by Thompson. Considering American methods, this scrupulousness strikes one as somewhat extraordinary, but there was an adequate explanation. Had Thompson beaten Morissey he would have been shot by Morissey’s friends!

I recollect Joe Goss in another connection. Mr. Bailey, who ran the Barnum show after Mr. Barnum’s death, presented me with a gold watch and chain which had once belonged to the famous fighter. The chain was a very massive one and said to be the handsomest ever manufactured. Years after, when I was playing in a pantomime at Drury Lane, I was robbed of both in a very ingenious and systematic way. The rehearsal one day had been particularly long and fatiguing and when I came out of the theatre I was dead beat. I went to my nephew’s lodgings, not far from Drury Lane, for a rest and a sleep, as I had another rehearsal at eight o’clock that night. I told my nephew to wake me at seven o’clock, but to be doubly sure I set the alarm clock at that hour. Then taking off my watch and chain and rings, I placed them near the pillow and threw myself on the bed.

I slept so soundly that I never heard the alarm and my nephew did not come. It was half past seven when I awoke, and quite dark. I turned up the light and looked for my watch and chain. Both were gone and my rings and everything. Thieves had found their way to the room. It turned out that my nephew had gone out to give his little dog a run and had been waylaid by the gang, enticed to drink, and detained while their confederates robbed me. I had been watched for days most probably, and my habits noted. When I got to the theatre and told my boss, I wasn’t believed. It was all “cod” and so on. Of course I went to the police. Three detectives were put on the job, but their efforts came to nothing. I never saw my presentation watch and chain any more.

It may be mentioned as a singular coincidence that Edward Giovanelli, a noted clown in the ’fifties, lost a watch and a medallion in much the same fashion--that is to say he was watched previous to the robbery. His watch was also a presentation one and was given to him by his nephews the Leopolds. A dog also figured in the robbery, which took place in the street.

Just one more watch coincidence, which came about through a tour in America. While at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia I ran across a young man named Arthur Pitt, whose father, an innkeeper at Barnsley, I knew very well. Arthur was a professional runner and when I met him he was terribly hard-up, and I bought his watch, the gift of his father, for fifty dollars. Some years later, when I was with Hengler’s Circus at Scarborough, and chanced to go into the “Silver Grid” Hotel, who should be there but Sam Pitt, Arthur’s father, and while having a drink I chanced to take out my watch, and he no sooner caught sight of it than he exclaimed “Why, that’s my son’s watch.” I told him how I became possessed of it and he bought it on the spot and insisted upon giving me £20.

Those attached to travelling circuses are bound to have ups and downs, and I have had a few, but nothing so terrible as on a certain night when Barnum’s menagerie train stopped at a western station and was shunted into a siding for the night. This was not an uncommon experience, and as we were provided with sleeping accommodation we were comfortable enough as a rule. On this occasion the siding was very close to the main track--in fact only just wide enough to allow a train to pass without touching our cars. One of our party, a young acrobat, had gone to get some beer, and when coming back was caught in this narrow space by a goods train, which he either did not see or was not quick enough to avoid. In an instant he was spun round like a top and was literally cut to pieces. It was an awful sight.

It was on my ninth visit to America that I went out with Charlie Chaplin, about whom I shall have something to say later on. It came about in this way. I was on my beam ends--nothing to do--just lost my savings in a bad speculation, and absolutely broke to the world. I was in London looking for work and I met a friend who invited me to have some refreshment with him, so we went into an hotel, where we found Charlie Chaplin, Arthur Reeves, Charlie Baldwin (who wrote my sketch, “Captain Hamilton, V.C.”) and two or three others. One of the party hailed me. “Whimmy,” said he, “we were just talking about you. How would you like to go to America? We sail to-morrow morning.” “What’s the business?” I asked. “Fred Karno’s sending the ‘Wow Wows’ (one of Karno’s burlesque companies) with Charlie Chaplin. Will you come with us and play a part?” “What about the salary?” was my natural query. We discussed this important matter and eventually settled terms, but it was absolutely the lowest salary I ever had for forty years. Still, I was glad to take it, and went into the billiard room and signed the contract. We left Waterloo station early next morning and were off to America. We arrived at New York to find that New York had greatly altered. In fact it was a new America. I had been there eight previous times, but it was a new world to me, everybody and everything had altered so much.

We found we were up against great opposition. The caterers for amusement had increased and multiplied since my previous visit. The taste had changed and novelties had been introduced to suit the jaded palates of the excitement-seeking Americans. We were on the Sullivan circuit and at each town we had opposition at the other theatres--Sarah Bernhardt at one theatre and Mrs. Langtry at the other--until we got right up to San Francisco. We then went on to Bute, 2,000 feet above the sea, and when we arrived there we found out that the theatre at which we had arranged to appear had been burnt down. Ill luck seemed bent upon pursuing us. However, our manager engaged a large hall and we opened. Most of the population were miners, diggers, etc., and a very rough lot too. It was the roughest place I have ever been into. The climate, the hard travelling and the living didn’t suit any of us, and the company began to feel very bad. The ladies lost their voices--the gentlemen could hardly work, and some of them, including myself, began bleeding at the nose. This rather frightened some of us, and to make matters worse we could not get any quinine at the drug stores. Possibly we had influenza very badly.

We were glad enough to be free from the town and we travelled on to Seattle, the starting point for the Klondyke region. It was a very long journey and raining hard all the while. I became so bad that I thought my time had come. I went to my hotel, but could not sleep or rest a bit. I got up early the next morning and saw Mr. Alf Reeves, he being the manager of the show, told him my condition, and he sent me to Dr. Bourne, a very clever theatrical doctor. I saw the doctor the next morning and the first words he said were, “You have got erysipelas in the face. I must send you to the fever hospital immediately. It is contagious.” He ’phoned, the ambulance was at the door in less than ten minutes, and I was on my way to the hospital, some three miles out of Seattle and an awful wooden shanty.

It was Christmas time and my Christmas dinner consisted of a glass of milk. I was put to bed and the first thing the doctor said to me was, “I must cut your hair.” Well, he started on the job, lost his nerve, didn’t cut it, but pulled it out. I said, “That will do,” and I wouldn’t let him do any more. The next step was to tar my face and put wool on it. I guess I looked an awful sight.

I stopped in the hospital for about a week and when the doctor came in from Seattle I told him that if I remained another day I should die. Perhaps he saw that, for the ambulance was brought and I was taken to the city hospital in Seattle, and I was there for nearly three months. They absolutely starved me, a new and unpleasant experience for an old hard-up English actor used to good living. The upshot of the business was that my manager said the best thing I could do was to get home.

So I went on to San Francisco, from there to Santiago, and thence to Salt Lake City, one of the prettiest and cleanest cities in America, the streets built so that the water flows all day and night down the gutters. From there to New York, caught the _Oceanic_, arrived safe and sound at Liverpool, and came on to London to my wife. She was greatly surprised to see me as she had never heard from me for months; they had never sent a word from the hospital! She was beginning to think I was dead.

I don’t know why my starting for America and my return to my native shore should so often be celebrated by larky rejoicings. I can understand my friends being glad to see me safe and sound after my travels, but I do not quite fathom their delight at my going away. However, there it is. I was once coming from New York and arrived in Liverpool the night before the Grand National, intending to put up at the “Bee” Hotel, the proprietor of which was a great friend of mine for many years--Tom Bush. We reached the hotel and the man at the door said, “Very sorry, sir, we are full up.” Mr. Bush was fetched and he was awfully pleased to see me, but he could not put me up--in fact he had to go out of his own hotel to sleep, the place was so full of bookmakers and jockeys. But he saw that I was determined to stop, so he placed a board on the top of the bath and with a mattress and a blanket I decided I should be all right. After supper I was introduced to the racing fraternity. I found I was a sort of god with them and I did my best to entertain them with funny tales. About 4 a.m. I left them and reached my bath bedroom. I woke up about 7 o’clock dying for a soda and milk. I saw something dangling and thinking it was the bell I pulled it, but instead of the bell it was the shower. The quickest thing I ever did in my life was to get out of that bed. And everyone swore that I did it purposely!

In the March following I returned to America. I went down to Prince’s Pier and boarded the boat with everyone wishing me _bon voyage_. It then occurred to me I’d do something funny to mark the occasion, so I went down to my stateroom, opened the porthole, and squeezed my head through it, making grimaces at my friends as the steamer was just going out of the Mersey. To my horror I could not get my head back! I don’t know exactly what I thought, but among other things was that I might have to die with my head through the porthole! Perhaps the boat would have to be cut in half to get my head out. I shouted, the bedroom steward arrived, and with a spoon he got my ears down, and somehow I squeezed myself back to the world.

I had not been twenty-four hours in New York before my nerves were again shaken. We opened at Madison Square Gardens and I had brought over some beautiful clown’s dresses made of satin, for the three ring show. It was just dusk and I was taking all my lovely dresses in a big white bundle across the first ring and decided that by climbing over the ring fence I should save something like a quarter of a mile. I was just over the ring fence and had made about three strides when I heard something grunt at the back of me. I turned round. I could see a huge animal after me--it was the hippopotamus! I took to my heels and ran as hard as I could, thinking my next moment would be my last, caught my foot against the other side of the ring fence and went sprawling with all my beautiful dresses scattered in every direction. I shouted out and George Hawkinstall, the master of the animals, came to my assistance, screaming with laughter. He told me that he had never seen anything so comical, me sprawling on the ground and the huge beast with his cavern of a mouth wide open in wonderment. “He wouldn’t hurt you,” was George’s consoling remark. “He only thought that white bundle of yours was bread. He’s awfully fond of bread.”

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker as “The Single Gentleman” in Hepworth’s Film, “The Old Curiosity Shop”]