Sharing terms—Some tricks of the trade—Spoof telegrams—A Bradford dispute—I engage to fight “The Terror of the Meat Market”—A packed house—I enter a lion’s den—And am glad to get out again—A trick the police foiled—Tricks of trick swimmers—I learn a secret or two—Pigeon shooting extraordinary—Satan’s Dream—Royalty at a side-show—My mother hears me over the electrophone—At Wentworth Woodhouse—A kind reception—My embarrassing mistake—An angler’s paradise.

I think I can truthfully lay claim to have been one of the very earliest pioneers in the Music-hall world of the system now generally known as “sharing terms.”

This means that the star turn for the week takes a certain fixed percentage of the gross profits, and also takes over the artistes already engaged by the management, adding at his own discretion, and, of course, at his own expense, whatever other turns he thinks fit.

In this case it is, of course, greatly to his interest to draw as full houses as possible during the period of his engagement, and many and varied are the dodges I have resorted to in order to, in my case, bring about this very desirable result.

One of these, of my own invention, I may call the Fake Telegram Wheeze. In the old days, before the war, duplicate telegrams used to be taken at threepence apiece, provided they were not over twelve words, and that the same words were used for the whole batch of telegrams handed in. Taking advantage of this concession, I would sent off perhaps a couple of hundred wires as follows: “See ‘Carlton’ Empire to-night. He’s marvellous. Love. Annie.”

These would be dispatched to different addresses selected at random from the local directory of the town where I was showing, and used inevitably to set people talking: which was what I wanted. I am a great believer in the late Mr. Barnum’s motto: “Talk about me! Good or bad! But for God’s sake talk about me!”

At the Palace Theatre, Bradford, once I was working on sharing terms, the arrangement being that I was to receive fifty-five per cent. of the gross takings and pay the company. When I arrived at the town on the Monday morning I was somewhat surprised to see bills up all over the place announcing a grand boxing tournament for Friday afternoon, at which the finals for the amateur championship of Yorkshire were to be decided.

The manager of the Palace at that time was named Harrison, and, of course, I asked him about the matinÉe. “Oh,” he said, “that’s a special event. I shall have a packed house, I hope; certainly not less than £150 in it.”

“Good!” I exclaimed. “That’ll mean £70 or £80 for me.”

Harrison laughed, then winked. “Don’t you wish you may get it?” he said.

“Well, of course,” I replied. “But why wouldn’t I get it?”

“Why it’s nothing at all to do with you,” he retorted, beginning to look serious.

“Oh, isn’t it?” I said. “You just look at our contract. It says that I am to have fifty-five per cent. of the gross takings for this week. If you’re going to wedge in a matinÉe I’m entitled to my fifty-five per cent.”

There was a lot more talk, and in the end he said he washed his hands of the whole business, and I’d better telephone through to Mr. Macnaughton, in London, whose tour it was.

This I did, and after a lot of palaver I issued an ultimatum to him in the following terms. “Look here, Mr. Macnaughton,” I said, “I agree that a mistake has been made. But the mistake isn’t mine. Now you’re a sportsman, so am I, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Instead of fifty-five per cent., to which I am legally entitled according to the strict letter of my contract, I’ll take twenty per cent., and I will myself fight anybody Harrison likes to put up, as an extra attraction. Then you will have a full house, if you like.”

“Agreed!” he said. “That’s a bargain. Send Harrison to the ’phone.”

In five minutes it was fixed up, and the agreement was signed there and then.

But Harrison was a bit nettled over it, and turning to me, he said: “It serves you right. I’ve got a chap here who’s a terror. They call him the ‘Champion of the Meat Market.’ He was unlucky enough to get beaten on points in the semi-finals last week. I’m going to put him up against you, and I hope you get a jolly good hiding.”

“All right,” I said. “I don’t care. Put up whom you like. For forty pounds or so I’ll take the hiding, if it comes off, and be thankful.”

That afternoon I made inquiries in the town, and everywhere I heard alarming accounts of the hitting powers of my prospective opponent; so I promptly went into training for the intervening three days. Meanwhile the bills were got out, and the affair at once became the talk of the town. Every seat that could be booked was taken in no time, and when Friday afternoon came round the “house full” boards were up in ten minutes after the doors were open.

I was in my dressing-room getting ready, when in stalks a brawny giant and inquires: “Are you Carlton?”

“That’s me,” I answered.

“Well,” he said, “I’m the Champion of the Meat Market, and I gotter win. Unnerstand that! I don’t want to hurt you. But all my pals are in front, an’ I just gotter win.”

“All right,” I said. “We’ll see about that when the time comes.”

Well, we entered the ring, and the first round had no sooner started than I saw he meant to knock me out if he could, so I let him have a straight left, and repeated the dose at what I considered suitable intervals. In the beginning of the second round we clinched, and the big man whispered in my ear: “Hi, you go easy with that left of yours.” “Right!” I whispered back. “But you stop swinging that right of yours.”

After this the going was a bit easier, and in the end I won easily on points; greatly to the disgust of the Champion of the Meat Market. My share of the takings came to £34, and I enjoyed myself immensely. My opponent got ten shillings, and I don’t think he enjoyed himself at all. Harrison was frankly annoyed.

Another adventure I had, out of which, however, I got no enjoyment whatever, was when I was trapped in a den of lions at the Theatre Royal, Oldham. They were Madame Ella’s lions, she being in the bill with me that week. During rehearsal on Monday on the stage I got near the cage where the animals were, and an attendant pushed me away, saying that the lions were dangerous, and that one of them had just clawed the hand of a railway porter.

“Rot!” I replied. “They’re as quiet as kittens. Why, I wouldn’t mind doing my show in their den.”

“What’s that you say, Carlton?” interjected Mr. Dottridge, the proprietor of the theatre, who was seated in front watching the rehearsals.

“These lions!” I replied. “They’re as quiet as kittens. I wouldn’t mind giving my show in the den.”

“Really?”

“Certainly,” I said, never dreaming that he would take it otherwise than as a joke.

Nothing more was said, and that night I gave my two shows as usual. On Tuesday morning on leaving my lodgings I was thunderstruck at finding the hoardings covered with big, flaming posters announcing that “on Friday night ‘Carlton’ will enter the lions’ den and referee a billiard match between two local publicans on a miniature table—twenty-five up.”

Round I went to Mr. Dottridge, but I found him unsympathetic. “Why, man, they’re as quiet as kittens,” he said.

I saw then that I had got to go through it, but I didn’t relish it one little bit, and all the rest of the week I was thinking about the lion clawing the hand of the railway porter.

Madame Ella somewhat reassured me, however, by saying that she did not intend to take the two most ferocious lions into the cage, and that she would have a couple of trained boarhounds in with us. The lions, she added, were afraid of the dogs, and she didn’t see how, under the circumstances, anything could happen.

Well, Friday night came. A big cage had been built all round the stage, and after I had drunk a stiff brandy-and-soda I went in, accompanied by Madame Ella and the two publicans. The game began, but after a few strokes had been made one of the players, both of whom were obviously in a state of considerable trepidation, accidentally dropped his cue.

This startled one of the lions, which let out a terrific roar and jumped from its perch. Both the players thereupon darted for the door. So did I, but in my excitement I tried to escape by opening it on the hinged side, and, of course, did not succeed. Meanwhile the lions were darting this way and that, Madame Ella shouting to me to get out quick, and lashing with her whip, while the dogs kept chasing them about the cage.

Frankly, I was frightened out of my life. I thought my last hour had come. One of the lions switched me with his tail as he rushed by. The audience roared with laughter to see me tugging at the wrong side of the door in a vain attempt to open it, but for me it was no laughing matter. How I got out at last I have no clear recollection. All I know is that I got out somehow, or was pulled out by the attendant; I am not sure which. Four weeks after one of these same lions got loose at Gloucester and killed his keeper.

Another extra draw that I worked while on sharing terms at Hull, Huddersfield, and elsewhere, consisted in a variation of my old box trick. I used to have a packing-case made by some local carpenter, out of which I would escape after it had been nailed together, and roped and sealed, all in full view of the audience. The packing-case used to be on view outside of the theatre during the week, and on the Friday night the house was invariably packed as full as it would hold. This was in 1903.

Once, too, I conceived an idea for a variation of this trick, which I am convinced would have created a big sensation, and been heard of all over England, had I been allowed to perform it. My intention was to charter a tug, and allow myself to be dropped over into deep water inside the box. It wouldn’t have made any difference to me, for I could have got out of the corded and locked box while it was under water as easily as I could on dry land.

I had made all the preliminary arrangements. The crew of the tug were to drop me over the side, and if I did not release myself and come to the surface in three minutes by the watch, they were to haul the box up again in order to save my life. Meanwhile it was my intention to have dived under the tug’s bottom after releasing myself, swim quietly away, and remain somewhere in hiding for a couple of days. I could picture to myself the consternation of the crew when, the stipulated three minutes having elapsed, they should haul up the box and find it empty, and also the excitement that would follow on my “mysterious disappearance.” It would have been a splendid “ad.” But, alas! I could not persuade the police that there was no danger in it, and at the last moment the scheme had to be abandoned.

At Bradford Palace, on one occasion when I was there, some trick swimmers were performing in a big tank, and Harry Arnold, the manager, knowing that I rather fancied myself as a swimmer, challenged me to try and see which of us could pick up the most coins under water from the bottom of the tank. I readily agreed, and Harry invited a lot of local people there to witness the trial, which it was arranged should take place after the regular evening performance.

Twenty-four pennies were dumped into the tank, then we threw dice for choice of entering the water. I won. They were my dice.

I told him to go first, which he did, and much to my surprise he gathered up all the coins. Then it was my turn. I dived in the water, but found it was practically impossible to keep down. Nor could I easily find the pennies, for they, being the same colour as the copper bottom of the tank, were practically invisible. In the end I did manage, however, to gather together three or four, and came up again thoroughly exhausted. But I got even with them the next night.

Just before the act was going on I threw a pennyworth of permanganate of potash into the water. The moment the swimmers started diving and stirred up the water, it became blood-red. You can imagine the rest.

Afterwards Harry explained to me how the wheeze was worked. In the first place a man cannot possibly keep down in shallow water where there is no room for him to move about. He invariably bobs up to the surface, like a cork does. Trick swimmers who perform in these tanks always wear a leaden belt round their loins under their tights. Harry had borrowed this, and used it. Also, the pennies he had fished up were fastened together with invisible thread in the corner of the tank. After this explanation I did not feel chagrined any more at having been so completely beaten.

This reminds me that there are tricks in all trades. I was once shown by a pal of mine how to win money at pigeon shooting. I had arranged a match with a man for £5 a side and twelve lunches; 26 yards, 5 traps, best of 11 birds. The arrangement was that each was to supply the other’s birds, the match to take place in a week’s time.

The odds were supposed to be ten to one on my opponent, as I was not shooting very well at the time. But my pal, who was up to all the dodges, assured me that he knew of a scheme that would ensure my winning.

He was himself a great pigeon fancier, and possessed a fine strong lot of homing birds, which he kept in a barn at his place near Ilkley, in Yorkshire. We used to go over to his barn and catch a dozen or so of these birds in the dark, and shut them in a basket such as pigeon fanciers use.

Then, for five mornings running, we took them out one at a time and put them in a trap. Round about were a lot of boys, some with old tin cans to bang upon, some with handfuls of sand to throw at the pigeon directly the trap was sprung, and so on. We used these birds at the match for my opponent to shoot at, and, naturally when the trap was sprung there each pigeon thought that the same sort of thing was going to happen, and was up and away like a rocket.

As a result my opponent only got two out of eleven birds. I got nine, and scooped in a lot of bets at long odds, for nearly everybody made sure the other chap was going to win. “Where on earth did you get these birds from, Carlton?” asked my opponent over the lunch that followed; “I’d like to buy some.”

Billy Grant, the open champion of Scotland, and the proprietor of the King Edward Hotel, Bath Lane, Newcastle, saw me shoot a couple of times, and presumably he rather liked my form. Anyway, he made me join the Hotspur Gun Club, and suggested to me that I should go in training with him. “We can make a tidy bit of money,” he said, “and we’ll go halves in everything.”

I agreed, and I may say at once that between us we never lost. At the big shoot for the Sterling Cup presented by the Club, and open to all the North of England, held on February 4th, 1909, I killed twenty-two birds out of twenty-three. This was accounted a wonderful performance for a novice.

For the benefit of those who are not familiar with pigeon shooting, I may explain that one is faced by five traps, and the man who is shooting does not know out of which trap the bird will be released. The pigeon must be killed within the thirty-five yards’ boundary.

As I was only a novice nobody took much notice of me at the start, but after I had shot twelve birds running the “bookies,” and others who had bets on, began to look a bit worried, and some of them started making remarks with a view to putting me off my aim. “I’ll take three to one you don’t kill this bird,” one of them would call out, just as I had my gun in readiness to shoot. I would turn half round to take the bet, and then get ready again, when another one would call out, “I’ll take three to one you don’t kill,” and the whole performance would be gone over again.

This sort of thing was, of course, very disconcerting, but I went on killing my birds, and by and by there were only two of us left in. When we had each shot twenty birds, my opponent missed his twenty-first, and I had only to kill mine to win. I shot my bird, but it dropped just outside the boundary.

The excitement was now intense. It was my opponent’s turn to shoot. He fired, and again he missed his bird. Again I had only to kill mine to win, and the bookies started once more renewing their attempts to put me off my aim. So I lined them all up—there were six or eight of them—and laid them £3 to £1 each that I killed. Then I took up my position on the mark, the string was pulled, and I killed my bird within a yard of the trap.

Now for the explanation of how I accomplished the feat, a wonderful one for a novice, as everybody who understands pigeon shooting will readily agree. During the fortnight or so preceding the match, Billy Grant had taken me out every morning to a quiet place in the country, and there set me shooting at sparrows released from a trap similar to a pigeon trap.

“They’re cheaper than pigeons,” remarked Billy simply when I asked him why he employed sparrows. Later on, when I came to shoot for the cup, I understood his real reason. The pigeons looked to me like ostriches after the tiny sparrows, and I felt I simply couldn’t miss them.

Later on I shot for the championship of England at Hendon, where I thought myself unknown; but I was quickly undeceived. Each competitor was allowed to take up to five chances at £5 a chance, and half-a-crown for each bird. I took three chances.

A man named Dillon was the handicapper, and when I asked him where I stood he indicated the 28 yards mark. I was taken aback at this, for I had reckoned on being placed on the 25 or 26 yards mark, and I had my gun bored accordingly. Any good pigeon shooter will understand the importance of this. A gun in these contests is bored to allow of a certain “spread” at a certain fixed distance, and mine being bored for 25–26 yards, at 28 yards the spread would be too big. I could not expect to get the proper concentration, and even if I hit the bird I could not be sure of bringing it down within the boundary.

“Oh, but, Mr. Dillon,” I objected, “I’m only a novice. Surely you’re not going to put me back to 28 yards.”

But Dillon was adamant. “You can’t ‘kid’ me,” he retorted. “I know all about your performance up at Newcastle last February.”

After this, of course, there was no more to be said. I took my stand on the 28 yards mark, thereby giving three yards start to a man who had won the Grand Prix at Monte Carlo. As regards two of my shares I got knocked out in the fifth round, for though I shot my sixth bird on each occasion I did not succeed in bringing it down inside the boundary, owing to the shot spreading, exactly as I had foreseen.

With my third chance, however, I killed eleven birds running before the same thing happened. The winner was the man who had carried off the Monte Carlo Grand Prix, and who shot off the 25 yards mark. His was the “unlucky” number thirteen.

Most “pro.’s” have had the honour of appearing before royalty; or they say they have. It really did happen to me. I was showing at Earl’s Court at the time; a little side-show, entitled “Satan’s Dream; a Supernatural Illusion.” It was an illusion of the kind that was just then all the rage, a girl’s head on a pitch-fork, with the prongs sticking through, and straw hanging down. Why “Satan’s Dream,” I’m sure I don’t know. But, anyway, it was a good drawing title, and I was coining money easy all day at sixpence a time for admission. “What’s in a name?” they say. My answer is: “Everything—when it comes to the show business.”

Well, one day I was standing outside my pitch as usual in the intervals of showing, pattering for an audience, when the late Duke of Cambridge came along, accompanied by Princess Beatrice and her children, and attended, of course, by the Earl’s Court directors. Directly I saw them coming I made up my mind that I was going to have them inside my show, so I waited until they were a few yards away, and then I opened wide the gate, took off my hat, and bowed low.

The Duke evidently thought that it was all part of the programme arranged for him, for he walked right in, and Princess Beatrice and her children followed as a matter of course. Naturally the directors could do nothing but follow on also; but they looked at me very sternly, I noticed, as they trooped in. “A fine show,” said the old Duke to me quite genially, when he passed out. Five minutes afterwards I had a big board up: “Patronised by Royalty.”

The following year, encouraged by my success, I put a really big show on, with ten or twelve tip-top illusions. But, alas! this was a failure. I was in a bad position, right behind the Big Wheel. I wanted to close down, but the directors wouldn’t release me, and I had to go on showing to the end, losing money all the while. It was a heart-breaking experience.

Speaking of Earl’s Court reminds me that it was while my poor old mother was there on a visit one day that she heard me perform on a regular stage for the first and last time in her life. They had an electrophone there, a novelty at the time, and by arrangement with the man who was running it, I got him to allow my mother to be at the receiver just before I was due to appear at the Palace, in Shaftesbury Avenue.

As everybody knows who has ever listened to a performance over the electrophone, not only is every word uttered on the stage by the performer clearly audible to the listener at the other end of the wire, but one hears the applause of the audience as well, assuming that there is any. As it happened I went very well that night, and the old lady was both surprised and delighted.

In the middle, between two of my gags, I called out: “Are you there, mother? Can you hear me?” Whereupon, so I was told afterwards, the poor old lady broke down and cried like a child. She was very infirm at the time, and a cripple, and she died very soon afterwards. But it pleased me, nevertheless, to think that she had at least heard me perform, although she had never seen me on the stage.

Reverting to my story of how I entertained the Duke of Cambridge and Princess Beatrice and children at my little Earl’s Court side-show, I may remark that although this was my first appearance before royalty, it was by no means my last. And this leads up naturally to the subject of private entertainments before more or less eminent personages; a side of an entertainer’s life which is pleasant or the reverse, according to the people with whom he has to deal.

Speaking generally, it has been my experience that the bigger the people are socially, the less “side” they put on, and the more courteous and considerate they almost invariably show themselves towards the performer or performers they summon to their houses. It is the newly rich, and the hangers-on to the fringe of society, who relegate, or try to relegate, the artiste to the servants’ hall for his refreshments, etc., and otherwise show him by every means in their power how deep is the social gulf they imagine exists between the mere performer for money and themselves.

As an example of the other kind of treatment, meted out to me by people of the highest social standing, the following plain, unvarnished account of a professional visit I paid in the autumn of 1915 to Wentworth Woodhouse will serve. This magnificent mansion, the Yorkshire seat of Earl Fitzwilliam, is one of the most beautiful and stately ancestral homes in England; and to give some idea of its vast size I may state that in the front of the house alone there are more windows than there are days in the year.

The occasion of my visit was a garden-party and entertainment given by Lady Fitzwilliam in aid of one of the war funds. Half-a-guinea was charged for going over the house, and from this source alone over £1,000 accrued to the fund, so the number of guests present may be imagined.

Soon after my arrival I was taken in hand by a pleasant affable lady, who conducted me all over the mansion, and who showed me, amongst other things, the royal suite of rooms, and the bed the King slept in when he visited the house, and wound up by ushering me into the magnificent marble hall on the ground floor where the performance was to take place.

Here champagne cup and other refreshments were served, and my guide, when I had all along taken to be a governess, or something of that sort, moved away from me after shaking hands very cordially. I seized the opportunity of being alone for a moment to ask one of the many footmen standing about which was Lady Fitzwilliam.

“That is her ladyship over there,” replied the man, pointing to the individual I had supposed to be a governess.

I confess I was never more taken aback in my life. Naturally I took an early opportunity of apologising, saying, what of course was the truth, that I had no idea as to her identity. Whereupon her ladyship laughed heartily, but quite good-naturedly; and, in order to put me at my ease, asked me if I had seen the grounds.

I replied that I had, and that I was greatly impressed by the size and beauty of the lakes, and I ended up by inquiring if there were any fish in them.

“Yes, lots,” replied her ladyship. “Are you fond of fishing?”

I answered that I was, whereupon she gave me an invitation to come over the next day, take a morning’s angling, and have luncheon with the family.

Of course, I gratefully accepted the kindly offer, and the next day, when I drove up in my car, I found awaiting me at the lodge gates Lord Fitzwilliam’s agent, who went with me to the big lakes and told me the best places to fish.

I angled all the morning, but for some reason or other I had no luck to speak of, and when I went in to lunch, and in answer to inquiries I said as much, Lady Fitzwilliam remarked: “Never mind, you shall fish this afternoon in the private lake where the trout are bred for the table.”

I was really almost overwhelmed by so much kindness, and still more did I realise all it meant when I went out and told the head keeper. “My word!” he exclaimed. “You have got a privilege.”

“Are there many trout in there, then?” I asked innocently.

The man smiled. “Come along and I’ll show you,” he said. “We’re just going to feed ’em.”

We went, and the keepers started throwing handfuls of fish offal into the water. Instantly all was commotion. Never had I seen such a sight. Hundreds of trout, great speckled beauties, rushed together, churning the water to foam, and leaping into the air in their excitement.

Then we took a punt and went out on the lake, and oh the sport I had. I caught ten brace, which I was informed was the limit, and then put back to bank.

Nor was this all. The following Christmas I was performing in pantomime at the Hippodrome, Sheffield, when to my unbounded surprise I received yet another invitation for a day’s fishing. On this occasion also I had the honour of lunching with the family, and I was likewise introduced to Earl Fitzwilliam, who had just returned from the Front.

He was affability itself, and before I took my leave, hearing from me that I intended shortly to pay a professional visit to Paris, he gave me a personal letter of introduction to the Hon. Maurice Brett, our Provost-Marshal there.