CHAPTER XVI

My first engagement at Covent Garden. My performing pig. Its ultimate end. Some dog yarns. Animal trainers not cruel. “Verdun,” the wonderful performing horse. How E. T. Smith swallowed a £1,000 note. A shadow in my life. My first panto at Drury Lane Theatre. A “great cab act.” Comic film scenes indebted to the harlequinade. The decline of the harlequinade. The clown’s difficulties with the orchestra. Royalty at the pantomime. I present Princess Mary with a Christmas cracker. The cracker and the cats--a practical joke. The relief of Ladysmith--an excited audience. Arthur Roberts, the prince of “spoofers.” Escapades at a Sheffield hotel. Pressmen “spoofed” by a water chute. The “spooferies.”

My first engagement at Covent Garden Theatre was as a circus clown. Sir Augustus Harris and Mr. Freeman Thomas, afterwards identified with the promenade concerts, subsequently given, took the theatre for a season, and ran it as a circus, Hengler’s providing the entertainment. I have always been very successful with performing animals, and this time I was lucky in having a very clever pig. I’m not prepared to say which is the more intelligent, the pig or the donkey; whether or not, both are proof that four-footed animals have more brains that they know how to use than people suspect. This particular pig became greatly attached to me; it used to follow me about like a dog, and it was immensely popular with the company. Its fate was somewhat singular and due to a peculiar accident.

There was, of course, in the theatre a refreshment bar, which I imagine was the attraction which drew Mr. Freeman Thomas into the speculation, he being in the wine and spirit trade, and at the time was the proprietor of the “Griffin” in Villiers Street, Strand. One day a friend of mine dropped in before the performance commenced and suggested a drink at the bar. I accompanied him there, and so did the pig. My friend ordered a bottle of champagne and threw a sovereign on the counter. It bounced in the air and rolled on the ground, and “Tommy” the pig being always on the look out for unconsidered trifles, found the coin and swallowed it. I don’t suppose the sovereign would have done him the least bit of harm, but unfortunately the circus grooms saw the coin disappear into his mouth and laid their plans accordingly. What their plan to get hold of the sovereign was I don’t know, but they gave him medicine of some sort. I noticed him getting thinner and thinner every day, but did not at once suspect what was the matter. One morning poor “Tommy” was found lying in the cellar dead and it was pretty certain that poison was the cause. No post-mortem followed, which was a pity, as there was a possibility that the miscreants had not been successful and the sovereign would have been found; not that this would have been of the slightest importance, as I would have given many sovereigns rather than be deprived of my faithful companion. A reward was offered to find out the man who poisoned the pig, but he was never discovered.

Intelligent as donkeys and pigs may be, they are distanced a long way by dogs. I once had a poodle which was the cleverest animal I ever had to do with. There was something almost uncanny in his imitative faculty. I had but to do a trick once and he grasped it at once. I may give an instance of this, which had it not been witnessed by myself would be considered incredible. I was breakfasting one morning when I saw the poodle gnawing my slippers, and it made me so angry that I seized him, knocked his head against the wall and threw him out of the window, which chanced to be open. He wasn’t hurt, as he had but a very little distance to fall. The next morning he came in as usual, saw the slippers, and I imagine this reminded him of what had occurred the previous day, for he rushed to the wall, knocked his head against it, and then leaped out of the window. He thought he had learned a new trick.

Among the dogs which I have at various times possessed, was an Airedale terrier. It was not a performing animal, its chief peculiarity being that it had an abnormally long tail. And thereby hangs a tale. I parted with the dog to an army officer, who shortly afterwards went to India with his regiment. Some few years afterwards I met the officer on his return to the old country, and he said:

“Walker, that dog I got from you was a good investment; it saved my life upon one occasion.”

I said I was glad to hear this, and asked for particulars.

“Well,” said the officer, “one day in India, accompanied by the dog, I wandered quite a long distance from the cantonment and got lost in the jungle. For seven or eight hours I searched in vain for an outlet; I was not only dismayed, but as I had had no food for some time previously I was also starving. At length I came to a clearing where I gathered together some brushwood and lighted a fire. Famished as I was I was ravenous for food, so I called the faithful dog to my knee, cut off his tail, and ate the tail for supper. When I had finished I noticed the poor animal looking at me very piteously--it was also famished, so I gave the dog the bone to pick!” I don’t vouch for the truth of this. It may be a _ben trovato_.

Of late there has been considerable controversy as to the training of performing animals. Humanitarians have got it into their heads--not for the first time--that much cruelty is involved in teaching them their tricks. While I was recently performing in the principal Midland towns the representative of a leading Lancashire paper put this question to me: “In your opinion is it possible to train animals to trick work by any method except kindness?”

“Utterly _impossible_,” was my reply. “I have trained more performing animals than any other clown alive and I have found them ready to respond to kindness--always. The person who attempts to train an animal by cruelty _will never succeed_, and I say with knowledge ranging back over fifty years that there is not a single animal travelling to-day that could have been trained in any other way. Kindness first, last and always is the foundation of success in training all animals. Come with me and I’ll let you see for yourself the sort of animals we have in this show. I’ll introduce you to a man who brought a horse from the brink of the grave to be the best trained and best mannered animal of the kind in existence.”

The journalist accompanied me to the stables and I presented him to the well-known owner of the pantomime horse “Verdun.” The trainer and owner of this clever animal is Mr. Agube Gudzow, whose deeds in the ring are world famous. “Verdun” was in his stall feeding and my friend was doubtful whether it was safe to disturb the horse while at his meal. The trainer smiled and in a moment “Verdun” had turned towards the visitor and placed his nose in the journalist’s hand.

This horse, between which and Mr. Gudzow exists a strong bond of affection, has a very interesting history. “Verdun” is so named because he fought all through the later stages of the war that raged round the heroic French city. Gassed and suffering from shell shock, three times wounded, the noble animal was put up for auction in London. A foreign horse dealer bid £1 for the broken-down hero and it was going to feed the Dutch when Mr. Gudzow bid £5 and the horse was knocked down to him. To-day it is known all over the country, and in Hyde Park, when exercising in Rotten Row, people bring it enough sugar to satisfy a schoolboy.

I then took my friend to Mr. Fred Astley, the trainer of another celebrated performing horse, “Black Prince.” The idea of cruelty to this animal is out of the question, for the young stallion is not the sort of chap to stand any nonsense. Yet his act brings storms of applause, and when his performance is over master and horse lunch together!

Mr. Carlos Mier, another trainer, served this country throughout the war as a breaker-in of horses. He is known far and wide as an expert at his business and smiles sarcastically at the suggestion that cruelty is ever practised towards the animals. Mr. Mier brought from the army training ground at Market Harborough a dog that had been the pet of the soldiers. This clever animal is called “Spot,” and the way he jumps to receive his master is evidence of his strong affection. I could give many other instances of the love which animals have for their trainers and I wish the people who have a wrong idea of this animal training business could spend five minutes in my company and go with me over a well-ordered show. I think after seeing for themselves the real state of things, they would discover that trainers and showmen associated with animals are almost universally keen lovers of our dumb friends, are the first to resent any ill-treatment, and have taken instant action in cases of cruelty of any sort which have come under their notice.

My pet pig’s inadvertent swallowing of money reminds me of a curious episode at the old “Criterion” in the days when the long buffet was a favourite resort of men about town, and an equally favourite place for lunches and dinners. Mr. E. T. Smith and Mr. Jonas Levy, who combined the deputy chairmanship of the London and Brighton Railway Company with dramatic criticism--he wrote the theatrical notices in _Lloyds News_ for many years--were dining there with one or two friends when Mr. Howard Paul joined them. Howard Paul had just returned from America and was unusually exuberant.

His visit to America had proved very profitable, but the others did not know this. As a rule his pocket was somewhat low, and when he began to talk loudly about the money he’d made and flourished a £1,000 bank note as evidence, the party thought he was “codding” them. Howard Paul to be in possession of a £1,000 Bank of England note was too absurd for anything.

“Let me look at it,” said E. T. Smith, and Howard Paul proudly handed it over to the lessee of Drury Lane Theatre.

Smith was having soup at the time, and no sooner had he hold of the note than he crumpled it into a ball, dropped it into the spoonful of soup he was raising to his mouth and swallowed it. Howard Paul’s face went green and his eyes were distended with horror. E. T. Smith thought the note was bogus, whereas it was perfectly genuine.

What was to be done? Nothing. Bank note paper was quite easy of digestion. The upshot was that everyone present had to make an affidavit to satisfy the bank that the note had really disappeared in the fashion described, but even then it was some three months before Howard Paul was comforted by another note. It is odd that the swallowed note should be a thousand pound one, for thousand pound notes had a peculiar fascination for E. T. Smith. It is a fact that when any theatre or building that he favoured for show purposes was put up for sale by auction, “E. T.” would bid for it, and when it was knocked down to him would flash a £1,000 note in the auctioneer’s face as an earnest of his possession of means, and trust to chance to being able to raise the purchase money. If he failed, then the £1,000 note came in handy for a second attempt.

Sorrow is closely allied to gaiety, as I had too good reason to discover while Hengler’s had Covent Garden. Just before my engagement at the theatre my wife was taken seriously ill, and I had her removed to Hull, my native place, where she would be among friends. I had reason to fear there were no hopes of her recovery, and after the season began at Covent Garden I would two or three times a week take the night mail train to Hull to see her and return to London the next morning in time for the morning performance. This constant travelling and anxiety told upon me terribly, and I arranged with the doctor to send a wire should she be taken worse. A telegram came to me in due course, but owing to its being addressed to Hengler’s headquarters in Argyle Street, there was considerable delay before I got it. The message was as I feared--my wife was much worse. I set off for Hull at once and at Doncaster found a wire awaiting me, telling me that my poor wife was dead. She had, it appeared, died in her sleep. I went on to Hull and while I was standing at her bedside a telegram was brought me. It was from Covent Garden and ran, “Prince and Princess of Wales coming to-night. Return if possible.” I could do no good by staying at Hull. I rushed back to London and performed before their Royal Highnesses--how much my heart was aching, though possibly my face did not show it, I need not say--and hurried back for the funeral. The reaction after this terrible strain was too much to sustain. I had a nervous breakdown and was in bed for six weeks. Little did people think when I again was able to appear in the circus and was making them laugh how I felt inwardly, but the matter was kept a secret and no one knew.

Some time later, while at Drury Lane, I was going on to the stage in my clown’s dress when a telegram was put into my hands, and I read, “Frank Walker died this morning at Carlisle of pneumonia.” Frank Walker was my son. How I went through the pantomime of that night after the shock of this news I’ve no idea. I may have been funny, I can’t say. Anyhow, I had to go through my “business” and I did it. The poor boy promised to do well in his profession, which was mine; he was a tremendous favourite with the Carlisle people, and some 5,000 followed him to his grave. So you see I had my ups and downs, with my face painted trying to make others laugh, and with deep sorrow in my heart.

I began at Drury Lane in 1891 with “Beauty and the Beast”; Lady Dunlo was “Beauty,” John D’Auban the “Beast,” and Vesta Tilley was also in the cast. In the harlequinade quite a number of the Leopold family took part. There were two clowns, myself and Harry Leopold. Fred Leopold was harlequin, and Joseph Leopold pantaloon. The _Era_ was good enough to say: “In the second scene, a model farmyard, Whimsical Walker in schoolboy attire introduced his wonderful whimsical singing donkey and added enormously to the amusement of the spectators in what we may call a great cab act.”

This was some comic business which I fancy must have been suggested to me by the unpremeditated pranks I played in Dublin (already related), when I was chased by a policeman and evaded him by running round and underneath a horse and the constable falling down in the pursuit, the whole thing ending in my temporary sojourn in the police station. For pantomime purposes I amplified the episode by the addition of a four-wheeled cab--a real one, not a property affair. There was much the same chase by a stage policeman, only more so, as I was able to dart through the cab in at one door and out at the other with the policeman after me.

I am bound to say that royalty never turn their backs upon pantomime. The late King Edward, it is true, was not an enthusiastic patron, if indeed he can be called a patron at all, for I’m not aware that he ever was present at the “Drury Lane” pantomime, and I’m told that he did not care for this kind of show, but when a boy he frequently accompanied Queen Victoria. Queen Alexandra, on the other hand, very often came, accompanied by her grandchildren. I well remember on one occasion when introducing some “business” with Tom Smith’s crackers, which included throwing a number among the audience, it occurred to me to present a cracker to the little Princess Mary, who was in one of the boxes with other members of the royal family. Getting a ladder, I planted it against the box and mounted it, crackers in hand. My clown’s white and red face in a queer headdress suddenly popping up over the edge of the box rather alarmed the small lady, I’m afraid. The clown is all very well at the distance, but near to must seem an awful figure, especially to a child’s imaginative mind. I presented the cracker. I could see she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. However, she mustered up courage to take a cracker from me and all went well, especially as she was rewarded for her graciousness by a huge burst of applause. As for the young prince, he looked upon the thing as a rare bit of fun, and at once entered into the spirit of it. This was the first visit of the Prince of Wales, his brother and Princess Mary to a pantomime.

This cracker “turn” was made a vehicle for a practical joke of which I was the victim. The “business” was first the lugging in of a gigantic cracker, which pantaloon and I, after some of the usual fooling, pulled and broke. It was stuffed with little crackers and then followed the distribution. One night the cracker was torn asunder, and out fell to my intense astonishment a bevy of cats. Quite a thrill went through the audience, it being naturally thought that the thing had been purposely arranged, and the thrill became excitement when the cats, scared beyond measure, scampered about the stage, some jumping into the orchestra, and others bounding into the private boxes, to the intense terror of the occupants. I needn’t say that I spotted the perpetrator in that incurable practical joker Dan Leno!

One had to keep an eye open for an opportunity to introduce a topical allusion. The greatest applause and enthusiasm I ever heard and witnessed in Drury Lane Theatre was at a matinee during the Boer War. Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell had just come off the stage when a telegram was put into Dan’s hands. “Confound it,” he groaned, “I wish I’d had this given me ten minutes ago. What a chance missed!” Then he brightened up. “Whimmy,” said he, “read this and give it out.” The telegram was “Relief of Ladysmith.” Accordingly I went on and announced the news. Directly I had uttered the words I saw it was no good going on with my performance. The audience rose to its feet, shouted, threw up their hats, and some started singing the National Anthem. The curtain had to be rung down and the show brought to an end. Going out of the theatre the newspaper boys were rushing past with “Reported relief of Ladysmith” on the contents bills. The place was not relieved for a fortnight after and Dan then had his chance to make the announcement. But again he was defrauded by a premature bit of gag on the part of a precocious boy (afterwards well-known as Jimmy Harrington) as related by Jimmy Glover.

The greatest bit of “spoof” that ever was done, I should think, was at Sheffield--with myself and Arthur Roberts. I was performing in “Venus,” which Sir Augustus Harris had produced at the Alexandra Theatre, and Arthur Roberts was at the Theatre Royal. I had a note from Arthur Roberts asking me to come up after the show, so I went and found a brougham waiting outside the Theatre Royal. It had been sent for him from the Maunch Hotel, where in fact we were all staying. I needn’t say that Arthur Roberts was a born “spoofer” and never missed a chance of pulling somebody’s leg. He sometimes got himself up so that even his own flymen did not recognise him. On this occasion he had a fur coat on and he looked more like a Russian than anything else. A stage hand was standing next to us with a clay pipe in his mouth, so Arthur began talking “cod” Russian to me and I was the interpreter. In the middle of this “cod” talk I turned round to this man saying: “The Prince from Moscow (meaning Arthur) wants to know if you’d like to go to his hotel and have supper with him. He’s taken a liking to the British working men, he says they look so strong and healthy.” So, with a little bit of persuasion, we got the man into the brougham and we were taken to the Maunch Hotel. As interpreter to the Prince I got our guest to go into a room by himself and told him to wash his face and make himself as presentable as he could.

In due time he came into our room, where there were Harry Nicholls, Fred Latham, myself and Arthur Roberts. Arthur kept up his jabbering and of course I interpreted it, telling the man that the “Prince” was surprised to see what a small foot the man had for such a big fellow and wanted to know how he would look without his boots. The upshot was we got his boots off, then his coat and waistcoat, as his Highness would like to see how many inches he was round the chest. Finally, we had everything off him except a little bit of red flannel that he had on his chest. When he was reduced to this extremity the man protested, saying: “I’ll take nought else off,” and we considerately left him with this bit of flannel! Finally we each gave him a couple of bob and sent him home. Then the manager of the hotel came upon the scene and there was something like a row, but we made it all right by treating the manager.

This was not the end of our “spoofing” enterprise. Our room was on the top floor of the hotel, and when Harry Nicholls and Latham left us it was early in the morning and we heard the servants moving about. A bit of devilry came into our minds to do some statuary business with the table cloths, and when the domestics came into the room to tidy up they found Arthur on one table and me upon another, with white table cloths round us and a little bit of soot on our noses. Directly the girls saw these two ghostly figures on the table they screamed and fell down in a faint. I rushed to a hiding place, thinking it was a cupboard, got into it and found it was the lift, and I went with a horrible grinding noise right to the bottom. Where Arthur got to I don’t know, but with the row everybody was out of bed, and of course we were asked to leave the hotel. But somehow we talked over the manager and he forgave us.

A third escapade and I’ve done with the Maunch Hotel. One night, or rather morning, Arthur and I came from the Arts Club on a conveyance which was not quite orthodox, or even respectable, being in fact simply a street sweeper with a huge brush! Imagine the picture, two men sitting on a street sweeping machine at four in the morning, with silk hats on! We got to the hotel and they let us in through the iron latticed doors, which formed the entrance. No sooner were we inside than another idea occurred to us. Down we went on our hands and knees, crawling round and round and pretending to be wild beasts and occasionally growling through the bars at the artisans and colliers going to work. A frantic expostulation from the manager followed, but we made it up with him, so much so that when we were leaving he presented each of us with a knife!

The following, I think, may be called a natural “spoof”--it was certainly a “spoof” on the part of Dame Nature. I once visited a friend of mine who had taken a billiard saloon for the season in a well-known South Coast watering place. Luck was dead against him, for during the first few weeks there was scarcely one fine day, and though a few visitors were driven by the weather into his saloon matters were not much better there, because the skylight was a dreadfully leaky one. On my first visit to the saloon I found a couple of players engaged in a game, and my friend standing near each player in turn holding up an umbrella to keep the rain from splashing on the table and spoiling the strokes! There were only a few spectators, and these were in a high state of glee, and were constantly encouraging the players with cries of “In off the spot! In off the spot!” the said spot, in every instance, being a newly-made rainspot that had dropped from the skylight on to the green cloth. As these rainspots were continually appearing, the players had a great variety of choice for their strokes!

I remember a good example of an unintentional “spoof” which occurred when I was engaged at the Agricultural Hall in “China in London.” This was the first time the water chute was introduced. It was then a great novelty, but was afterwards made familiar enough to the public at Earls Court.

The management invited the London Press to lunch, after which they were able to sample the chute. This performance was faithfully carried out--indeed too faithfully, and this is where the “spoof” came in. Special arrangements were made for the new amusement (?) by the construction of a water channel about three feet deep and six feet wide, which ran right round the hall. There was also a sort of miniature lake some ten feet square and ten feet deep near the stage. This was for the reception of Willie Beckwith, the famous swimmer, when he dived from the roof, a performance which always gave the audience the thrill of their lives. This lake had nothing to do with the chute, but fate ordained otherwise. The gentlemen of the Press could no more see into the future than could ordinary people, and they took their seats in the boat gaily enough after being well fortified by the lunch. “Are you ready?” called out the man in charge. The Press answered as with one voice, “Yes,” and down they went into the three feet channel. At least, this is what they should have done according to the programme, but someone or something had “blundered” and the boat dipped into the ten feet lake and shot out all the occupants! It was something like a scrum! I did not read what was said in the papers about the incident. Maybe it was one of those slips concerning which the less said the better.

The art of “spoofing” was brought to a high state of perfection at the “Spooferies,” that queer little club founded by Arthur Roberts and others in a court near the Adelphi Theatre, between the Strand and Maiden Lane. The premises consisted of one large room, originally, I fancy, intended for a cellar, and the “properties” were mainly a billiard table and a grill! The fun did not begin until about midnight and ended with the milk in the morning. Here I believe a number of victims were offered up for sacrifice after the fashion of the stage hand at Sheffield. Whether that episode suggested the subsequent game--for a mock game was invented--I am unable to say.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker rehearsing a love scene with Miss Nancy Buckland, Drury Lane Theatre Stage]