Harry Tate and I—Together we found the order of “The Beautiful Swells”—The Birmingham spoof supper—A mouth-watering menu—The “Beautiful Swells’” anthem—Cockroach soup—Property viands—A mysterious waiter—Ernie Lotinga’s little joke—The spoofers spoofed—A pigeon pie that flew—A surplus of farthings—Rehearsing for pantomime—My first rehearsal—I am “fired” out of the theatre—Pantomime in Hoxton—The gallery boy’s irony—A cutting retort—I get married—Courting under difficulties—The married chorus-girl and the lovesick manager—Supper for two in a private room—Hoaxing the police—A sham tragedy and its sequel—The fat policeman and the big lobster—Sold again.

During the pantomime season of 1910–11 I was principal comedian at the Prince of Wales’ Theatre, Birmingham, and Harry Tate filled a similar rÔle at the Theatre Royal in the same town. Together we founded there the order of “The Beautiful Swells”—a spoof secret society, with signs, grips, passwords, etc., after the approved pattern.

Out of this spoof society there sprang the famous spoof supper, organised by me, and the full and complete story of which is now given to the world for the first time. It was held at midnight, and “pro.’s” were there from all parts. Nobody would have recognised us for what we were, however; in fact, we could not recognise each other. For I had caused the fiat to go forth that everybody was to make up as somebody else, and the somebody else must be as unbeautiful as possible. The result was that there were assembled together at the appointed hour as strange and heterogeneous a collection of human oddities as it is possible to imagine. Charlie Peace, the burglar, was not the least beautiful of the guests. Two of them, with cutting irony, had elected to make up as myself; and there were no fewer than four White-Eyed Kaffirs. Three Lloyd Georges vied one with another in ugliness. There was a Scarlet Pimpernel, with a nose the size and colour of a beet. Everybody, in short, was anybody but their real selves, and nobody knew which was which, or who was who.

The price of the supper tickets had been fixed at half-a-crown payable in advance, and part of the arrangement was that this was to be returned after the meal to all who put in an appearance, and fulfilled the stipulated conditions as to make-up, etc.

I had arranged an elaborate menu. The mouths of the guests watered as they read it, and a confused murmur of pleasurable anticipation pervaded the supper-room. “By Jove, Carlton, old man, you’ve done the thing in style.” exclaimed one well-known comedian to me. “It must have cost a pretty penny.”

So it had, but not quite in the way he supposed. Here, however, is the menu. Let the reader judge for himself.

Hors d’oeuvres.
Royal Natives.
Plovers’ Eggs. Melon Cantaloup.
Soups.
Real Turtle. ConsommÉ Marie Stuart.
Fish.
Loch Tay Salmon. Filets de Sole Carlton.
EntrÉe.
Ortolans aux Raisins.
Joints.
Haunch of Venison. Saddle of Mutton.
Sweets.
SoufflÉ au curaÇoa. Ice pudding.
Wines. Liqueurs. Coffee.

The proceedings were opened by Harry Tate, the chairman, who announced that all were to sing standing the “Beautiful Swells’ Anthem,” written by himself. It ran, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows:

This latter part of the ditty was emphasised by the banging of fists, knives, bottles, glasses, in fact, anything to make a noise; and the resultant din, as may be imagined, was terrific. So was the cheering at the end, and the general hilarity; but the latter was checked somewhat, so far at all events as regards the major part of the assembled guests, on seats being resumed, for these found that while they had been upstanding the waiters had deftly removed their beautifully printed menu cards, and had substituted in their place others not nearly so ornate and which read as follows:

Hors d’oeuvres.
Very likely.
Soups.
If lucky.
Fish.
Very sorry it’s off.
EntrÉes.
Hard lines.
Joints.
You never can tell.
Sweets.
Perhaps.
Choice Wines.
I don’t think.

Some of the guests now began to suspect that the whole affair was a spoof, but many did not; and the altercations between these innocent ones and the waiters, the latter of whom were all in the know, were frequent and highly diverting. A man, for instance, would order salmon, or venison, or saddle of mutton, and would have pig’s trotters and potatoes, the latter boiled in their jackets, almost literally thrown at him. No matter what anybody called for, the result was nearly always the same—pig’s trotters and potatoes. The soup was of the cabbage-water variety, in which floated “property,” cockroaches; these the waiters would remove with their fingers, purposely grimy for the occasion. To add to the confusion some few of our guests, here and there, were actually served—by my instructions—with the venison, salmon, or whatever else they ordered.

Those sitting to the right and left of these lucky ones regarded them with envious eyes, and tried to force back on the waiters their own unsavoury trotters and potatoes. As a result, of course, confusion soon became worse confounded. Nor was it allayed in any degree by the tactics of Harry Tate, who was continually jumping up from his chair in order to make some such announcement as follows, delivered in tones of becoming gravity: “Gentlemen: I am sorry, but the plovers’ eggs have not arrived; gentlemen, I regret to say that the salmon is off; gentlemen, it is very annoying, but I’m afraid we shall have to dispense with the ortolans—there are none to be had in the market.”

In despair some of the guests tried to eat their bread, but found that the seemingly crisp and inviting-looking little rolls were filled, as regards their interiors, with nothing more edible than cotton wool. Everything on the table, or served up at the table, in fact (bar the trotters and potatoes), was of the “property” variety, got specially from Paris at considerable trouble and expense. The eggs and bacon looked real, and they were, in fact, served with real gravy; but the eggs were china imitations, and cemented to the plates at that, and the bacon was of similar material. The luscious-looking peaches and grapes on the central fruit-stands were waxen imitations. Those who tried the cheese spat it out again hurriedly; finding it to be soap—mottled for the gorgonzola, yellow for the Cheddar. The coffee and the liqueurs, the soda and the whisky, were anything and everything but what they were supposed to be. Even the cigars and the cigarettes went bang directly one started to smoke them.

The waiters acted their parts to perfection, especially the head waiter; who indeed, as time went on, began to rather over-act his. At least so I commenced to think. So, too, did Harry Tate, when the fellow shot a load of hot potatoes and trotters on to the seat of his chair when he (Harry) was in the act of standing up to speak—and left them there. Harry sat down in them; with what result may be imagined.

The climax came when this particular waiter upset a huge dish of gravy all over me. “Here,” I said, “don’t you come it too far. I told you beforehand that you were not to play any games on me or Harry.”

“Oh, you go to h—ll,” replied the fellow. “Who do you think you are? Damn you and your spoof suppers. I’m a waiter, I am; not a bloomin’ knockabout comedian. Pay me my money, and let me go.”

I jumped to my feet at this, really angry, and was proceeding to give him a piece of my mind, when in a changed voice, that I knew well, he cried: “All right, Carlton, old man; keep your hair on.”

I gasped in amazement. So did all the others standing round. It was Ernie Lotinga. He had made himself up as a waiter after sending us a spoof telegram from London regretting his inability to be present, had bribed the real waiter I had engaged to allow him (Lotinga) to take his place for the occasion, and had spoofed us, the spoofers, and every other person in the room during the entire evening.

It was the most wonderful piece of play-acting, and the most perfect piece of disguising, that has ever come to my knowledge. Every man in the room knew Lotinga perfectly well. Yet not one of us had suspected him for a single instant. He had altered his voice, as completely as he had altered his facial appearance.

After the roar of laughter created by this unexpected discovery had subsided, Harry Tate rose to make a few remarks. We had had our little joke, he said, and he hoped nobody had taken it amiss.

Several voices: “No! No! Harry! But”—plaintively—“we’re deuced hungry.”

“Quite so,” replied Tate. “I’d thought of that, and there’s one thing good to eat that we have provided, and that I can pledge my word is what it purports to be, and that’s a pigeon pie.”

With that a burly waiter bore into the room an immense pie, and placed it before Harry to carve. He inserted the carving-knife and fork solemnly and deftly, while the mouths of our famished guests once more watered in pleasurable anticipation. Then he removed a generous portion of the crust—and out flew a number of live pigeons.

This was the last of the spoofs of the supper proper; the remainder of the time being occupied in consuming sandwiches, bottled beer, whisky and soda, and in smoking the supply of very excellent cigars and cigarettes we had provided. It took some time, however, to persuade our guests to settle down to the consumption of these; for, after the evening’s experience, they feared being hoaxed over again.

When all were at length comfortable, an impromptu entertainment was held, each guest being required to give an imitation of the character he represented. It was great fun. Lastly came the refunding of the money paid for the supper tickets, as previously announced. The guests entered an ante-room one at a time, having first been blindfolded, and after being subjected to sundry mock tests and ceremonies of the order that would not look well in print, each had his half-crown returned to him, or rather its value—in farthings.

There were more than fifty guests present, so that over six thousand farthings were paid out. I had previously arranged for these through one of the local banks, and for days afterwards certain of the Brummagem “pubs” habitually frequented by “pro.’s” were deluged with farthings, greatly to the disgust of the landlords, some of whom resented being tendered sixty-four farthings in exchange for a couple of whiskies and sodas.

This particular supper was arranged to celebrate the close of the pantomime season. It sounds perhaps rather odd to the uninitiated outsider to talk about “celebrating” the close of a season that means a steady and settled income, so long as it lasts, for every performer engaged in the run of the piece. But as a matter of fact pantomimes are not popular institutions with music-hall artistes. The money they receive for performing in them is. But that, as Kipling would say, is another story.

Rehearsals are particularly galling. I recollect that at the very first pantomime I ever rehearsed I got into hot water almost directly. This was at the Chester Theatre Royal, where Mr. Milton Bode was producing “The Babes in the Wood.” I was cast for the part of Bumble, the village beadle, and of course I was perfectly ready and willing to rehearse the special “business” pertaining to the part, but Mr. Bode insisted on my rehearsing my own specialities as well.

This struck me as being supremely idiotic, and a waste of time into the bargain, and I said as much. Bode, who was by way of being a bit of an autocrat, flew into a violent temper, and threw his hat at me. One word led to another, and in the end he ordered me out of the theatre.

I went—as far as the “pub” opposite. “That’s done it,” I said to myself. “You silly ass! Here have you been wishing for a panto engagement ever since you’ve been in the profession, and the very first chance you get, you take and chuck it away. You ought to go and kick yourself to death.”

Presently, enters Milton Bode. “Hullo, Carlton! Have a bottle?”

I ventured to remind him of what had happened less than an hour previously.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he replied genially. “You don’t know what the responsibility of producing a pantomime is like. Why, I’ve just thrown my hat at one of the chorus-girls, and told her to go away somewhere and drown herself. She won’t take any notice, and neither must you. It’s all in a day’s work. Don’t forget—rehearsal to-morrow morning again at ten sharp.” And he bustled out, all smiles and geniality.

Another pantomime reminiscence! At the Variety, Hoxton, one Boxing Night, “The Forty Thieves” was produced. The panto was not precisely up to Drury Lane standards, either as regards the scenery, or the number of performers engaged. Instead of there being forty thieves, there were only ten, and these marched from the wings into the cave, then out at the back, and round to the front again, said operation being repeated four times, so as to make it appear as if the orthodox number was present.

The gallery boys were not deceived, however, as was evident from a chorus of voices demanding, “Hi, guv’nor, where’s the other thirty thieves?”

Quick as a flash came the retort from the chairman: “They’re up in the gallery.”

There was a roar of approving laughter. The Hoxton gallery boys realised that the chairman knew what he was talking about. Some amongst them possibly had had the “honour”—and a very great honour it was considered there and then—of sitting at his little table with him, and incidentally standing him a drink.

It was while performing in pantomime at Leeds that I met and married my wife, who was also on the stage there at the time. We had never met one another before, and I had to do most of my courting behind the scenes in between the acts, with stage carpenters bustling round, and chorus-girls pushing backwards and forwards between us without so much as “by your leave.”

However, we fixed it up all right, and got married while the piece was still running. The wedding was celebrated at the Oxford Chapel, in the City Square, which was packed with people, the happy event having been well boomed beforehand. A cinematograph operator was there ready to film us, but the press was so great that he and his machine were both overturned, and we were not “featured” after all.

As soon as the ceremony was over we were whisked back in a motor-car to the theatre for a matinÉe performance, and the same evening the “book” of the pantomime was considerably altered, though unofficially, owing to practically every performer with a speaking part introducing a “gag” having some reference or other to the “happy event.”

The orchestra, too, took it upon themselves to strike up the “Wedding March,” on my first appearance on the stage; and news of the marriage having got bruited about, the theatre was packed from floor to gallery, amongst the audience being the Lord Mayor of Leeds.

Shortly before the termination of my pantomime engagement I asked the manager of the —— Theatre if he would give me a week’s engagement to follow on, seeing I had done so well there; but I was told, none too politely, that my terms of £40 a week that I was then asking were ridiculous.

I rather got my back up at this, and so as not to be done I took the Coliseum, Leeds, a huge place, capable of seating between four and five thousand people. It was in fact so big that nobody had ventured to open it as a music-hall before, it having been used mostly for musical festivals, and things of that sort.

I paid £80 for the use of the hall for a week, and about as much again for advertising my forthcoming show. All this, of course, as a preliminary! Managers and artists alike said that I would never make it pay; that I was mad.

Maybe! But anyway there was method in my madness. I reflected that, as usually happens at the termination of a provincial pantomime engagement, practically all the artistes at the two pantomimes running in Leeds would be “resting,” which means, of course, being temporarily out of a job, and that they would probably be willing to engage with me at a very reasonable salary. And this, as a matter of fact, the majority of them were only too glad to do.

Then I hired a coach and four, and drove myself round, made up as on the stage, to all the schools. There are about forty schools in Leeds, and my method of procedure was the same in each one of them.

“Good morning, sir,” I would remark, addressing the head master. “May I have permission to entertain your little scholars gratis for a few minutes?”

In every case permission was readily given, whereupon I would give a short conjuring show, bringing in the usual “bunny rabbit” trick, always a prime favourite with children, and a few others.

Naturally they were highly delighted, and as soon as the applause died away I made a short speech something after this fashion: “Boys and girls, I am glad you appreciated my little performance. Now, as some of you may have heard, I got married the other day, and to celebrate the event I have taken the Coliseum for a week. All the principal artistes now performing at the two pantomimes will be there, and I would like you all to come and see them and me. These tickets”—here I handed round one to each child—“will admit you at half-price, if you come accompanied by your parents.”

The result of this little plan of mine was that I had the hall packed every evening, and had to give extra matinÉes, and I cleared £287 for myself after paying salaries and all other expenses.

I rather think that that manager was sorry he didn’t engage me and pay me the £40 I asked.

A few months afterwards I was running a show of my own at a well-known music-hall in the West End of London, and my wife took a part in the performance. After the first performance, enter the manager of the theatre into my dressing-room:

“Nice lot of girls you’ve got in your show, Carlton!”

“Fairish,” I replied.

“Humph! There’s one of ’em I’ve rather taken a fancy to. Will you introduce me? She might be willing to come and take supper with me after the show.”

“Very likely!” I said. “Which one is it?”

“The little dark girl in the corner,” he replied.

“All right!” I said, smiling inwardly to myself. “Come round to-morrow night after the show, and I’ll introduce you.”

The next night he was there to time, extra spruce and well groomed, and with a big white camelia in his button-hole. I pretended not to notice him, however, and bundled the girls off directly they had finished their performance. Afterwards I made pretence to be awfully sorry, saying that I had forgotten all about the matter.

“But,” he exclaimed ruefully, “I’ve ordered supper, a bird and a bottle for two, in a private room at the X——,” mentioning one of the swellest and most expensive restaurants in Town. “Never mind,” I said, “it won’t be wasted. You and I will eat it between us. Then you can order another one for to-morrow night, and I’ll speak to the girl in the meantime, and fix things up for you with her.”

“All right,” he agreed. “But don’t forget a second time.”

Well, we ate the supper, and the next night he was behind the scenes while my show was on, hopping about here, there, and everywhere like a cat on hot bricks. Directly it was over he advanced, smirking and smiling; and the introduction he craved was performed—as follows:

“Mr. So-and-So, this is Mrs. Carlton—my wife: Marie, my dear, this is Mr. So-and-So, the manager, who is desirous of making your acquaintance.”

I never saw a man so utterly taken aback in my life. He didn’t know what to say or do, but simply stood stock-still, and stared, and gasped. Afterwards we had a hearty laugh together over the incident.

“You had me properly,” he said; “but you might have told me.”

“Well,” I replied, “let it be a lesson to you not to go running after the girls in a show without first making sure that they’re single.”

At a certain northern town where I once performed in pantomime the police were inclined to be somewhat uppish and disagreeable, and the male artistes who were there at the time formed themselves into a committee of the whole house, and resolved to be even with them. So one night the neighbourhood near the central police-station was aroused by a tremendous disturbance coming from the inside of a third-story room of a house situated almost opposite. The police turned out in force. A crowd collected, gazing excitedly upward.

A tragedy was being enacted before their eyes. There was a light burning inside the room, and on the drawn blind were silhouetted the figures of two men furiously struggling. Presently the blind was torn aside, and one of the combatants, a big, strong fellow, threw the other bodily out of the window. A shriek of horror burst from the crowd, and the policemen on duty below rushed forward to try and break his expected fall.

However, the man who had been thrown out did not drop immediately, but grasped the window-sill with his hands. His assailant, bent apparently on killing him outright, started to beat him about the head and shoulders with what looked like a heavy iron bar. The next instant four or five policemen rushed into the room, having darted upstairs and burst the door open.

Then they discovered that the man who was hanging out of the window was in no danger of falling, being secured by a strong thin line. The “iron” bar, with which he was being belaboured, was a “property” one of soft rubber.

“Why, what’s the meaning of all this?” asked the puzzled inspector.

“Oh,” replied the man inside the room, as he assisted his chum to clamber back through the window, “we’re just rehearsing a scene for next year’s pantomime; the one in the harlequinade, you know, where the Bobby comes in.”

One of the constables who climbed the three flights of stairs to the room on this occasion was fat and somewhat wheezy, and he naturally felt hurt. A few nights later he tried his best to get a bit of his own back. A friend and myself were bidding one another good-bye outside the theatre after the performance, when he thrust himself roughly between us and told us to “move on there.”

Knowing that expostulation on our part would only lead to our being locked up on a charge of loitering and obstructing the police, we said nothing, but promptly did as we were bid. The next morning, however, we shadowed our tormentor from a distance, and discovered that he was stationed on point duty of an afternoon not far from a big fishmonger’s shop in one of the main streets.

On the day following, in the middle of the afternoon, my friend sidled furtively up to the shop. A fine lobster was prominently displayed in the centre of the marble slab. The fat policeman was there.

Suddenly my friend put out his hand, seized the lobster, and took to his heels. The policeman took after him. There was an exciting chase of a mile or more, but eventually my friend allowed himself to be caught, and haled back in triumph to the shop.

“What’s the matter?” cried the fishmonger, coming out on to the pavement.

“This fellow has stolen your lobster?” panted the policeman.

“Have I?” inquired my friend innocently, addressing the fishmonger.

“Of course not,” he replied. “You bought and paid for it an hour ago.”

“Sold again!” cried my friend, turning to the policeman; and the crowd, to whom the joke now became apparent, roared with laughter; while the officer walked away in high dudgeon, muttering under his breath things that cannot be set down in print. As a matter of fact my friend had purchased the lobster, at the same time telling the fishmonger that he need not wrap it up for him. “Leave it on the slab where it is,” he remarked as he handed over the purchase money, “and I’ll call for it presently, and take it away just as it is.”

Which he did.