Back in London—At the Westminster Aquarium—“The Pro.’s Casual Ward”—ZÆo’s Maze—“Oriental beauties from the Far East-End of London”—“Fake” side-shows—A “fasting lady’s” prodigious appetite—A lively subject for a coffin—I sell conjuring tricks to visitors—“Uncle” Ritchie—An audience of one—Annie Luker, the champion lady high diver—I find myself barred from the Aquarium—The mysterious voice in the maze—Mr. Ritchie investigates—And Mr. Wieland scores—Penny-gaffing in London—Working the shops—Sham hypnotism—How to eat coal and candles—And drink paraffin oil—The box trick again—Venice in Newcastle—I offer a £1000 prize—The trick that failed—My first engagement in a regular “hall”—My absent-minded partner.

Returning to London after my exciting experiences at Cheriton Fair Ground, I got into rather low water financially, and was glad to accept an engagement at thirty shillings a week at the Royal Aquarium, Westminster.

This famous place of amusement used to be known irreverently in the profession as the “Pro.’s Casual Ward,” on account of the very meagre salaries ruling there. At the time I went there it was the custom of the management to pay in cash those artistes who were in receipt of anything under £2 a week. Those drawing over that amount were paid by cheque, which they had to cross the road to the bank to cash. Very few crossed the road.

My engagement, however, was not with the Aquarium people direct, but with Mr. Harry Wieland, the husband of ZÆo, a once famous gymnast. She was the lady who used to be shot out of a catapult, and perform other sensational feats in mid-air, and concerning whose performance, or rather, to be strictly accurate, the poster advertising it, which was the first poster to appear on the hoardings of a lady in tights, so tremendous a controversy raged in the public Press and elsewhere during the spring and summer of 1890.

At the time I went to the Aquarium, however, ZÆo had ceased to perform as a gymnast, and was engaged in running a profitable side-show known as “ZÆo’s Maze,” and which consisted mainly of a lot of mirrors arranged at different angles. There was also run in conjunction with the maze what we called a Turkish Harem, the forerunner of the similar type of exhibition afterwards made popular by the proprietors of “Constantinople in London” at Olympia.

My job was to act as doorman and attendant at this exhibition, and by my patter, etc., to induce the public to enter. “Pass in, ladies and gentlemen!” I would cry. “Pass in and see the wondrous hall of mirrors, and the bevy of dark-eyed Oriental beauties from the Far, Far East-End of London.”

This sort of thing served to put the crowd in a good humour, and in they would troop. The maze was a sufficiently puzzling place to be in, owing to the arrangement of the mirrors, fifty-two in number. But by swinging a certain double one round I was able, when I deemed it expedient to do so, to close the exit altogether, so that it was impossible for anybody inside to get out until I chose to let them. Many a sixpence and shilling used I to receive for showing bewildered wanderers round and round, how to escape from the trap I myself had set for them.

Also, visitors were not permitted to take sticks or umbrellas inside the maze, for fear they might poke the mirrors. I took charge of these for them, and the fees I received from this source still further swelled my income. It needed some swelling, I may add, to transform it into a living wage, for I only got thirty shillings a week from Mr. Wieland, and in return for this sum, in addition to all my other work, I had to clean the mirrors, so it will be readily apparent that my job was no sinecure.

Most of the Aquarium side-shows at this time were more or less of the “fake” variety. I remember, for instance, a “fasting lady” who came there. She was of quite Amazonian proportions when she first put in an appearance, but when she left she was as thin as a lath. Afterwards, however, I helped to clear out the room she had occupied during her forty days’—I think it was—“fast.”

Then the mystery, such as it was, was solved. We found sufficient horsehair padding to stuff a good-sized sofa, and then leave enough over for a couple of armchairs. There were also a lot of thin pieces of old iron, weighing in the aggregate pretty nearly half a hundredweight, and these she had evidently used for the purpose of concealing about her person under her clothes, when she was weighed prior to beginning her “fast.” Furthermore, in a certain dark corner was a huge pile of empty tins, that had once contained “bully” beef, salmon, sardines, chicken, vegetables of almost all sorts, baked beans, and various other toothsome comestibles. I came to the conclusion there and then that I would not have minded “fasting” for forty days on the same diet as did that lady.

Another “fake” show was performed by a girl who was supposed to be in a trance in her coffin. She was called “The Sleeping Beauty.” As a matter of fact she was not sleeping, nor was she beautiful. The coffin in which she reposed was tilted at an angle, and muslin drapery was hung over it. Through this she was able to see when a visitor, or visitors, were ushered into the room, and she would then go “off” into her trance. At all other times she was as lively as a kitten.

Quite near the maze was another side-show run by a conjuror calling himself Professor Field. This was a genuine show so far as it went, although Field, in my estimation at all events, was not much of a conjuror. His business consisted in performing certain tricks, and afterwards selling the “secret” of them, together with the simple apparatus necessary to perform them, to anyone who was prepared to pay him half-a-guinea for the same.

Now as it happened, soon after I came there, this gentleman joined partnership with another conjuror named Carlton, the show being run under the title of Field, Carlton & Co. This gave me an idea. If these people could give lessons in conjuring for money, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t do the same.

So when I got a likely-looking visitor inside the maze I used to show him some tricks, and offer to sell them to him at half-a-crown apiece, at the same time pointing out to him that I was the one and only original Carlton, and that the same tricks sold by the Field & Carlton firm outside—which I was careful to add was not connected with me—would cost him half-a-guinea each. I did a fairly lucrative business, and in a little while my total earnings, including the standing thirty shillings weekly paid me by Mr. Wieland, averaged £7 or £8 a week.

But of course it was only a matter of time before Messrs. Field & Carlton got to know that I was undercutting them; and, not unnaturally, they were very angry about it. Off they went to “Uncle” Josiah Ritchie, the Aquarium manager, and lodged a complaint, pointing out that they paid a big rent for their pitch, and that all the while I, who paid nothing whatever, was stealing their business.

The result was that I was had up on the carpet, and somewhat severely reprimanded, being made to promise not to sell any more tricks. As some sort of a set-off against this, however, Mr. Ritchie gave me the job to go up on the central stage and “announce” Miss Annie Luker, a young lady who used to do a sensational dive from the roof of the Aquarium into a tank sunk in the floor.

But to this arrangement, after a little while, Mr. Wieland objected. He said that he paid me to look after his wife’s side-show, and that while I was up on the central stage pattering for Annie Luker I was neglecting his interests. This was of course true, for obviously I could not be in two places at once; but it struck me as being primarily a matter for adjustment between Ritchie and Wieland, and I left it to them to settle.

The result of this arrangement was that what happened to me was something like what happened to the earthenware pot in the fable when it came into collision with the two iron pots. After a particularly busy Bank Holiday, when I did my best to divide my allegiance between Wieland and ZÆo on the one hand, and Ritchie and Annie Luker on the other, I lost my job. I didn’t get any notice either. When I presented myself at the stage entrance to the Aquarium next morning as usual, I was told by the doorkeeper there that he had orders not to admit me.

“Uncle” Ritchie, by the way, was something of an autocrat in his dealings with the artistes, and his other employees; and especially was he keen on seeing that he got his money’s worth out of them. I remember that while I was at the Aquarium, the first turn there used to be a man named Willis, who was also a conjuror. He had to appear three times each day, an hour’s turn, for thirty shillings a week, and his first turn was from 10 to 11 a.m., when the place opened, and when as a rule there were very few of the general public present.

Nevertheless Mr. Ritchie always insisted on his giving his full hour’s show, even although it was to a beggarly array of empty benches, and he even used to make a practice of seating himself in front of the conjuror and ticking off each item on his programme in order to be sure that the unhappy man missed no single one of his tricks; and this, too, on wet mornings, or off days, when possibly he (Ritchie) was the sole “audience.” A more irritating or depressing experience for a performer than this, I should imagine, it would be impossible to conceive.

Occasionally though “Uncle” met his match. For instance, he used to be fond of prowling about the building at the times when it was supposed to be closed to the public, in order to see if he could find anything amiss; and on one of these occasions he heard, or rather he thought he heard, human voices proceeding from the interior of the maze. This, of course, was strictly against all rules and regulations, for the interior of the side-show was at such times in pitch darkness. Mr. Ritchie was on the alert immediately.

“Send for Mr. Wieland,” he commanded.

“There’s somebody inside your maze,” he said when that gentleman presently appeared on the scene in obedience to his summons.

“Nonsense!” was the reply. “How can there be anybody in there? I locked the maze up myself at closing time, and nobody has had possession of the key since.”

“Well,” persisted Mr. Ritchie, “I’ll swear I heard voices there anyhow, and I’m going to search the place.”

This he started to do, and as a preliminary, directly he got inside, he struck a match.

“Here! None of that, Mr. Ritchie, if you please,” cried Wieland. “To strike a light in there is against your own orders. Besides, if you burn my show down, what redress have I got?”

Ritchie, although inwardly fuming with rage, had to recognise the reasonableness of this, and he contented himself with groping about in the dark, and calling to the supposed intruder to come out.

For a while there was no response. Then suddenly, from the innermost recesses of the maze, a hoarse voice shouted: “Get out yourself. Who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Josiah Ritchie, the manager of the Aquarium,” answered “Uncle” wrathfully, “and I order you to come out immediately.”

“Oh, you go to hell,” was the polite rejoinder; whereat Ritchie came outside hurriedly, his face aflame with rage.

“There you are,” he cried, addressing Wieland. “I told you there was someone in there,” and he called a messenger boy, and ordered him to fetch the Aquarium policeman and fireman.

The lad started on his errand, but before he had gone many yards Wieland intervened, and called him back.

At this Ritchie, not unnaturally, was more furious than ever. Stamping his foot, he asked how dare Wieland countermand his order?

“Well,” answered the latter quite suavely, “I called the boy back in your own interest. If the policeman and fireman are sent into the maze to lug out the individual you think is inside there, the only result will be to make you the laughing-stock of everybody about the place.”

“Wait a minute, and I will show you,” he resumed. And going inside, Mr. Wieland presently returned with a big cage, in which was a red and green talking parrot.

Tableau!

After I got the “sack” from the Aquarium I started on my own, working a conjuring show at various empty shops in and round London. That is to say, I would bargain for the temporary tenancy of any likely-looking shop in a main thoroughfare that chanced to be vacant, and having secured it, I would then proceed to give a more or less continuous performance, charging a penny for admission.

My show consisted in a combination of conjuring and (alleged) hypnotism. With me as assistant I had a thin consumptive-looking youth, by name Freddie Andrews, whom I used to pretend to mesmerise, and he would then, on my commanding him to do so, drink paraffin oil with apparent gusto, eat with relish lighted candles and chunks of coal, and perform other similar antics.

This part of the show, I may state at once, was a fake. The upper part of the candle, which the lad ate, was carved out of an apple, and fitted with a wick made from an almond, and soaked in brandy to make it burn. The particular portion of the chunk of coal devoured by him was merely chocolate, deftly affixed to the genuine coal by myself at the moment of its being handed to him. While the paraffin oil was just plain water, poured into a bottle round the neck of which an oily paraffin rag was wrapped to make it smell when it was handed round amongst the audience for inspection.

Well, I was working a place on these lines in the Edgware Road one day towards the close of the year 1901, in the basement of a shop in which was a waxwork exhibition run by Mr. Louis Tussaud, when a man I knew slightly came to me in a great state of exhilaration and excitement. He had, he told me, secured a £35 a week contract for seven weeks for a conjuring and illusion turn at an entertainment called “Venice in Newcastle,” and which was to open at the Drill Hall there shortly before Christmas.

The bother of it was, he explained, that he knew nothing whatever of conjuring or illusions. He was under no illusion about that himself at all events. He had, he said, answered the advertisement in the Era newspaper at haphazard, setting forth his (purely imaginative) qualifications as an A1 wizard at great length, and very much to his surprise he had secured the contract. “Now,” he concluded, “what am I to do about it?”

“Do about it?” I exclaimed. “Why go whacks with me in the £35, and well fix up the turn between us.”

“But,” he objected, somewhat doubtfully, “the ordinary stock card tricks, etc., won’t do, except perhaps as a stop-gap. We must have at least one really slap-up, first-class illusion.”

“Right ho!” I replied, struck by a sudden happy thought. “I know! We’ll run the great Maskelyne and Cooke box trick. I know all about how it is done, and what’s more I’ve got at home a facsimile of the box that was used in the great £500 prize case.”

There was some further talk, but in the end we came to terms as I had suggested, share and share alike.

Then, however, a new difficulty arose. Neither of us was able to muster the fares to Newcastle. Eventually, however, struck by another happy thought, I journeyed down to Ratcliffe Docks, and there I found a captain of a tramp coasting steamer, who happened to be bound for Newcastle, and who agreed to take the pair of us for fifteen shillings. These we managed to scrape together, and in due course arrived at our destination, penniless but hopeful. Our sole luggage consisted of my precious box, in which was packed our wardrobes.

The show was to open on December 21st, and I spent most of the intervening time coaching my partner in the part he was to take in our “Great £1,000 box trick.”

I had christened it this because it sounded well to offer a good, big, thumping reward. Those world-famous wizards, Maskelyne and Cooke, had offered £500 to anyone who guessed the secret of their trick. We doubled the prize, making the winning of it, however, conditional on the winner escaping from the box.

My partner demurred somewhat to this; but, as I pointed out to him, we might as well offer a reward of one thousand pounds as one thousand shillings. We hadn’t, as a matter of fact, got one thousand pence. So what did it matter? “Besides,” I added consolingly, “no one in the audience will ever succeed in getting out of my box. The thing is impossible.”

This, I may add, was the literal truth; for, in order to make assurance doubly sure, I had hit upon the expedient of having two keys made. One of these simply locked and unlocked the box, allowing the lid to be raised. The other one not only locked the box, but it also locked, at the same time, the mechanism actuating the secret panel by which I was enabled to get out of it. If the first key were used it was possible for anybody inside who knew of the existence of the panel, and how it was worked, to escape from the box’s interior. But if the second key were used, the individual inside was as securely imprisoned as he would be if sealed up in a living tomb.

Well, the eventful day came round at last. The town had been well “billed” beforehand, and the hall was packed with curious spectators, all of them eager to see for themselves the wonderful box trick, and try and unravel the mystery of it.

We produced the box, and called up the usual volunteer committee of inspection, while I expatiated at length on our generous and unprecedented offer of “£1,000 in hard cash” to any lady or gentleman who succeeded in escaping from its interior. A good many, I may add, tried. But of course none succeeded. I saw to that.

Following these preliminaries, the box was placed open on a table in the centre of the stage, and a threefold screen on legs was drawn round the back and two sides, leaving the front facing the audience exposed to view, and also allowing of a clear view underneath the table. This was so that I could get inside the box, and be corded up in it, in full view of the spectators, after which a curtain, falling only as low as the top of the table, was to be drawn across the front by my partner, who was to fire a pistol as a signal for me to emerge.

This was literally all he had to do; just draw the curtain tight, shutting the box from view, and then fire his pistol. But he didn’t do it. He fired the pistol all right, it is true, but in his flurry and excitement he forgot to draw the curtain.

As a result I popped up out of the box in full view of the audience, and every man, woman, and child in the building saw at a glance exactly how I did it. I never felt so small in all my life. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up. If there had been a convenient hole anywhere near I would have crawled into it. As it was I sidled off the stage, followed by the jeers and laughter of several thousand people.

My partner was there before me. So was the manager of the hall. He was furious. “Get out of my sight, you two!” he cried, “and don’t let me ever see either of you again.”

We went. What I said to my partner when we got outside would not look well in print. Suffice it to say that my language was neither kind nor complimentary.

Next morning I went round to the theatre to claim my box. The manager was there. To my surprise he was quite civil, even courteous.

“Carlton,” he said, “I’ve been thinking over last night’s business, and I realise that it wasn’t your fault. The box trick, of course, is dead as mutton. We should never dare to show it again. But you can, if you like, stay on and give an ordinary conjuring and card trick turn. I’ll pay you £5 a week. What do you say?”

Needless to say I promptly closed with the offer. It was my first regular engagement at a proper hall, and to me at the time the terms seemed sufficiently liberal; as indeed, under the circumstances, they were.

For seven weeks I performed there, and was lucky enough to amuse and please my audience. What became of my absent-minded partner I haven’t the remotest idea. I never saw him again.