CHAPTER XIV

My second visit to Australia. I train a performing horse on board. Am engaged by Harry Rickards for a twenty-seven weeks’ tour. I play for five nights only. Summoned to London by Mr. Arthur Collins owing to the death of Herbert Campbell. Mr. Rickards’ luxurious home. I bathe with sharks. I escort two wallabies to England. A strange meeting at Colombo. I arrive in London. Death of Dan Leno. Dan’s merry pranks. His unlucky garden party.

I have already alluded to my first visit to Australia. This was in the early ’eighties. Some twenty years had passed when I went for the second time to the Antipodes. I was engaged by the late Harry Rickards, proprietor of several theatres and music-halls in Australia, to undertake a tour which was to last twenty-seven weeks.

I looked forward to seeing once more the towns with which I had already become acquainted, and I set out from Tilbury Docks in one of the steamers of the Blue Anchor Line called _Wilcania_.

The voyage was somewhat tedious. The boat could hardly get up speed enough to race a tug, and on reaching Sydney she came to an untimely end running ashore on the rocks in the harbour. At least that was the last I saw of her. I am glad to say that before this happened I was safely landed.

Slow as the travelling was, I found something to employ my time and that something was fortunately quite in my line. On board was a beautiful horse called “Pistol.” He was being sent to Adelaide for stud purposes, his ultimate destination being Perth. A more symmetrical and intelligent animal I have never set eyes on. We were immense friends at once and I set to work to train him to perform a number of tricks.

As the weather was fairly fine and the passage tolerably smooth, I was able to give him two or three lessons every day. Under my tuition he soon became proficient and his performances gave great delight to the passengers.

Among other things I taught him to take my hat from my head, to say “yes” and “no”--in signs of course--etc. By the time we reached Cape Town, “Pistol” was able to ring a bell for his breakfast, to laugh by showing his teeth, and to lie down and sit up at the word of command. We gradually became much attached to each other, and when we arrived at Adelaide and we had to part company, I believe he was as sorry as I was. I went with him to the stables on shore, where we bade each other farewell, and he looked quite sorrowfully at me.

The steamer had two other horses on board--big clumsily-built Clydesdales. I did not attempt to do anything with them. They were not of the kind of which trick horses are made and they were very vicious into the bargain. They were kept in separate boxes and did not, I fancy, take very kindly to sea life.

I returned to the ship and went on to Melbourne. We stopped there one day and I took the opportunity of going to the post office to see if any letters had arrived for me overland via Marseilles. To my great surprise I found a cablegram awaiting me from Drury Lane Theatre. “Return. Arthur Collins,” it said. It took me quite aback and I did not know in the least what to think of it. Here was I in Australia, thousands of miles from home, bound by a contract to stay a certain time and make a little money, and Arthur Collins’ message fairly bewildered me. All the same it had to be replied to in some shape or form. I returned to the ship and went on to Sydney, but I could get no sleep as I was worrying about the cablegram. Nightmares pursued me that perhaps I had committed some awful crime--or the police were after me!

I reached Sydney one evening in September and the lovely panorama of the harbour and its surroundings presented a sight I haven’t forgotten to this day. The ship anchored a mile and a half from the city and when I landed who should be waiting for me but Harry Rickards with a brougham and a pair of beautiful horses. He drove me to my hotel and as I went along I saw poster after poster with “Whimsical Walker” in the biggest type procurable. My word, he _had_ advertised me! In fact too much, I began to think, with the cablegram from Drury Lane at the back of my mind.

I must say Harry treated me like a prince. At night he took me to the National Sporting Club to a Press supper, which I should have enjoyed more if that confounded cablegram had not been worrying me all the time. Just before we left the club I plucked up courage and showed Mr. Rickards the message. He read it and said, “Well, what are you going to do?”

I told him that to cable to me from England meant something very important and that I couldn’t afford to neglect it, and that I had made up my mind to sail away with the next boat. Of course he was very much annoyed and he threatened to bring an action against me if I did so. I said, “Bring the action against the Drury Lane Company.” “I haven’t engaged the Drury Lane Company, I’ve engaged you,” he retorted. He was, of course, perfectly right, and after we’d finished up at the club he said, “Come to my office in the morning at eleven o’clock and we’ll talk it over.”

Next morning I kept the appointment. Mr. Rickards was smiling, and said he: “Well, Whimmy, have you made up your mind?”

“Yes,” said I, “I’m returning home on Saturday week.”

His reply was that it was very unbusinesslike and meant a loss, seeing what it had cost him to advertise me. Presently he went on to say: “Anyway you’re here, and you don’t sail till Saturday week, will you show to my patrons for five nights and two matinees? If you’ll do that you can catch the boat on the Saturday week.”

I thought it very good of him, so I consented, and we shook hands on the bargain and walked back to the National Sporting Club. There a newspaper was put into my hand and I saw in it to my great sorrow of the death of poor Herbert Campbell, my associate in many a Drury Lane pantomime. Then I knew the meaning of Mr. Arthur Collins’ cablegram.

Well, I had a jolly time of it--Mr. Rickards would have me stay at his beautifully fitted house as long as I was in Melbourne. Among other luxuries he had a bathroom built inside the harbour with sea water flowing through the bath all the time. In front of this bath was a steel lattice and occasionally one could enjoy the spectacle of hungry sharks watching and waiting for the meal they were destined never to enjoy. The sight gave me an uncommon zest for my swim, knowing they could not get at me.

For five nights and two matinees I played, together with Louise Carbasse, a talented child actress, in a comedy sketch, “Captain Hamilton, V.C.,” written by Charles Baldwin. The sketch had a touch of pathos in it and went down well with my Melbourne audience. I wound up with “The Mad Fisherman,” a pantomime absurdity in which I appeared alone.

Spending only five days in Melbourne I hadn’t much time to notice what changes had taken place since I had first visited the city. Of more importance to me was to ascertain if my “turn” had gone well with the audience and what the Press had to say about it. So far as the Melbourne public are concerned I had made a hit and I enquired of Mr. Rickards if the papers had commented at all. We were at the National Sporting Club at the time and Mr. Rickards, taking up a periodical called _Truth_ and pointing out a certain passage said: “Have you seen _that_?” This was what I read: “We hear that Whimsical Walker is sailing for England on Saturday. It is a good job. If he had stopped in this country we’d have shot him!” I put down the paper somewhat staggered. “What on earth for? What have I done?” I asked. “Don’t be alarmed, my dear chap,” said Rickards. “That’s nothing to what the fellow says about _me_.” Then he pointed to the lady at the buffet, remarking: “She horsewhipped him for his scurrilous writings about her. She’s English and ever since his castigation he never loses a chance of saying something nasty about England and the English. No one takes any notice of him.” That being the case I didn’t think it worth while to take any notice either.

Rickards was one of the best of fellows. He had been a comic vocalist in England in the ’seventies. Many old music-hall patrons of those days may perhaps remember the song which made him popular. It ran, “His lordship winked at the counsel and the counsel winked at the judge.” He made more money out of his singing than he did by a music-hall venture at Plymouth. This broke him; he became bankrupt and he left for Australia heavily in debt. However, after he had made a fortune in Melbourne and Sydney he paid every one in full. Like many in the theatrical profession he was a bit superstitious. His theatre in Sydney was burnt down and it so happened that on that particular night one of the musical selections given was Tosti’s song “Good-bye.” After that he forbade this song being given at any of his theatres. He need not have been so weak-minded. Such a thing wasn’t likely to occur again.

Just before I started, Mr. Bland Holt, proprietor of the Theatre Royal, Sydney, and a great friend of Mr. Arthur Collins, hearing I was going to Drury Lane, came to me and asked if I would do him a favour by taking a present to Mr. Collins in the shape of two little rock wallabies--a small species of kangaroo. I agreed and he brought them on board in a cage. They were amiable, playful little creatures and became the pets of all the passengers. I was very fortunate in eventually handing them over in good condition to Mr. Collins, as they are very delicate animals and rarely survive the voyage. Mr. Collins was delighted with them and I believe they were ultimately presented to the Zoo.

I took passage in the R.M.S. _Orior_ and we left Sydney harbour on the 11th October, after quite a new experience, namely, travelling 8,000 miles or so to play for five nights only!

On the journey I had one or two experiences. Coming through the bight off Fremantle, where on my previous visit to Australia, we had, owing to the rough sea, to throw some of the animals overboard to save the ship, we found no improvement in the behaviour of the waves and as a consequence the steamer had to go direct to Colombo instead of putting in at Fremantle.

At Colombo--a lovely place--beautiful atmosphere and such pretty dear little children--a funny thing occurred. I was walking along the jetty saying to myself, “Thank goodness, no one will recognise me here”--at Melbourne I was stopped every few yards wherever I went--when, as I was passing the Bristol Hotel, I heard someone shout, “Hello, Whimmy, what the deuce are you doing here?” Then came another personal enquiry as to whether I’d brought my red-hot poker with me, and a third warned me that there were no pantomimes in Colombo.

I had run across some members of Bannerman’s Opera Company. They had been playing for three nights in Colombo and were going on to India. Such surprise meetings are of course common enough in England at railway junctions--Derby especially--on Sundays, the travelling day for touring companies, and very pleasant they are. Friends in the profession who’ve not met for years come across each other, renew their friendships over the cheerful glass--if the restrictions permit--and part not to meet again for years more--perhaps never. I was used to this sort of thing in the old country, but to have such a meeting in Colombo nearly took away my breath. All I can say is that we had a high old time.

Passing through the Suez canal it was the turn of the sailors. Jack ashore is always out for a lark. Our men started with the donkeys, which they rode in their own style and ended by having a row with some Arabs. The result of the shindy was the pitching of several of the natives into the water. After that leave was stopped and they had to console themselves with concerts on board, games, boxing matches, etc. It was all great fun.

At last I arrived in London and the first news I heard was that my dear old pal Dan Leno was dead. He not long survived his close comrade Herbert Campbell. It was a sad blow to think that these two splendid humorists, who had played into each other’s hands at old Drury to the delight of thousands, would never be seen again. To me the loss could not be made good. I had acted with them in the Drury Lane pantomimes for so long that when I appeared on the boards I felt a blank which I can hardly describe.

Apart from stage associations I had many a merry moment with Dan. He was always bubbling over with humour. Once I remember, coming with him from rehearsal, strolling down the Strand to the “Marble Halls”--the favourite name of the restaurant adjoining the Adelphi Theatre. The Hotel Cecil was then being built and as we passed it Dan suggested we should stand treat to the bricklayers. Away we went across the road, and when Dan asked the fellows if they would like a drink their smiles reached from ear to ear.

“All right, boys,” said he, “come along,” and followed by a little crowd in their plaster and mud, he took them to the “Marble Halls.” The porter in his gorgeous livery looked horrified. Dan protested. People stopped to see what was the matter.

“They won’t allow the hard-working British man to have a drink,” he exclaimed indignantly. A policeman interfered--and we all had to “pass along.” I suspected Dan had some little game in his head, but did not know what it was. However, we went on to the “Queen’s Head,” the landlord of which was a friend of us both. This hostelry was provided with numerous partitions, all of which were soon crowded.

“Give all these dear good hard-working men two pennyworth of port wine each,” called out Dan. The men looked down their noses and growled out that they wanted beer. Dan pretended to show great surprise, but in the end paid for as much as they could drink. He had had his joke and was satisfied.

There never was a man fonder of children than Dan was. It is on record that the day before he took to his bed in his last illness he visited the Belgravia Hospital for Children at Kennington, went over the institution and left a liberal donation. One beautiful day in August I chanced to meet him. “You’re just the boy I want, Whimmy. I’m giving a children’s party to-morrow--about 300--and their fathers and mothers are coming to tea. Be at my place in the morning.”

Dan lived at Clapham Park and I went down and helped him to put up coloured lamps for the illumination at night. There were also to be fireworks, over which he had spent some £40. These were stored in a little outhouse. But long before night came there was an impromptu display. While we were hanging the lamps we heard an explosion and saw all the fireworks going up in the air. One of his children had somehow managed to set fire to the lot. But no one was hurt. Dan wasn’t a bit upset.

This was not the end of Dan’s misfortunes. The children poured in and so did the parents; the band played on the lawn, some played cricket, danced and so on, and then the time came to light the lamps. Alas! The sun and the hot air--it was a blazing day--had melted the little candles inside. No fireworks--no illumination. There still remained the magic lantern show which had been prepared. This surely should go without any mishap. Oh dear, no. A quarrel sprang up between some boys behind the screen as to who should manage the show. A fight followed and down came the sheet. There was no exhibition and it was difficult to say who was the more disappointed--Dan or the children.

This ought to have been sufficient for the day, but it wasn’t. A final disaster affecting me personally was yet to come. It was 5 a.m. when I left, and as no conveyance was possible I started to walk to town, Dan going with me. It so happened that I was wearing a new pair of patent leather boots, and these having been in the sun all day soon became intolerable, so I took them off and we both sat down on a road-side seat. Presently a milk cart came along and this we stopped and arranged with the driver to give us a lift. I put the boots near the cans and was fairly comfortable. We reached Brixton police station and I looked for my boots. They had vanished--jogged off the cart without my seeing them go. I waited at a coffee stall until the trams began to run and finished the rest of the journey in my stockinged feet. And this was the end of Dan Leno’s garden party!

Like the rest of us, Dan could never resist a chance of a practical joke. I had been promised an Irish terrier puppy by a breeder at Levenshulme, near Manchester. I had been out all day and when I reached home I found Dan there and that the dog had arrived in a box. Dan was frightfully indignant and put the blame on me of treating it cruelly--not having even given it a drop of water. It was in vain for me to protest; he told me the R.S.P.C.A. ought to be informed. I was surprised he had not let the dog out, so I drew the nails from the box and put my hand inside to take out the puppy. To my consternation it was stone cold. “I’m afraid it’s dead, Dan,” I whispered. Then I pulled out the dead animal and found it was a pantomime dog which he had got from the theatre property room! My own dog he had dispatched to his own house. Poor Dan was full of pranks.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker and the Drury Lane Harlequinade entertaining the Lord and Lady Mayoress and children at the Mansion House, London, in aid of the Blind Children of London]