of other actors not so fortunate.
One day, walking there in this glow of suc-
cess, swinging my cane with a nonchalant air
and humming to myself, I met the old come-
dian who had been with the Rags to Riches
company.
"I say, old top," he said eagerly, falling into
step with me, "do a chap a favor, won't you
now? There's a big chance with Carno — I have
it on the quiet he's planning to take a
company to America, and half a dozen parts
not cast. Good pickings, what? I can't get a
word with the beggar, but he'd listen to you.
See what you can do for yourself and then say
a good word for me, won't you, what?"
CHAPTER XXIII
In which I startle a promoter; dream a great
triumph in the land of skyscrapers and buffalo;
and wait long for a message.
AMERICA ! Fred Carno !
The words went off like rockets in my mind,
bursting into thousands of sparkling ideas.
Fred Carno, the biggest comedy producer in
London — a man who could by a word make me
the best-known comedian in Europe ! I could
already see the press notices — "Charlie Chap-
lin, the great comedian, in the spectacular
Carno production — ." And America, that
strange country across the sea, where I had
heard men thought no more of half-crowns
than we thought of six-pences; New York,
where the buildings were ten, twenty, even
thirty floors high, and the sky blazed with
enormous signs in electric light; Chicago,
where the tinned meat came from, and, be-
tween, vast plains covered with buffalo and
wild forests, where, as the train plunged
through them at tremendous speed, I might
see from the compartment window the Amer-
ican red men around their camp-fires! The
man at my side was saying that there was a
chance to go to America with Carno!
178
"Go see him, old chap; please do," the old
comedian begged me. "He'll see you, quick
enough, though he keeps me waiting in his
offices like a dog. And say a good word for
me; just get me a chance to see him. I've put
you on to a good thing, what? You won't for-
get old friends, will you now?"
"Er — certainly not, certainly not!" I assured
him loftily. "Now I think of it, Freddie was
mentioning to me the other day something
about sending a company to America. Next
time I see him — the very next time, on my
word — I'll mention your name. You can de-
pend on it."
Then, waving away his fervid thanks and
declining kindly his suggestion to have a
glass of bitters, I hailed a cab and drove
away, eager to be alone and think over the
dazzling prospect. My own small success
seemed flat enough beside it. America —
Fred Carno! After all, why not? I asked
myself. I could make people laugh ; Carno
did not have a man who could do it better.
Just let me have a chance to show him what
I could do !
So excited that I could feel the blood beat-
ing in my temples and every nerve quivering,
I beat on the cab window with my cane and
called to the driver to take me to Carno's
offices quick. "An extra shilling if you do
it in five minutes!" I cried, and sat on the
edge of the seat as the cab lurched and swayed,
hoping only that I could get there before all
the parts were gone.
I walked into Carno's offices with a quick
assured step, hiding my excitement under an
air of haughty importance, though only a great
effort kept my hand from trembling as I gave
my card to the office boy. I swallowed hard
and called to mind all the press notices I had
received in the two years with Casey's Circus
while I waited, trying to gain an assurance I
did not feel, for Carno was a very big man,
indeed. When the office boy returned and
ushered me into the inner office I felt my
knees unsteady under me.
"Ah, you got here quickly," Mr. Carno said
pleasantly, waving me to a chair, and this
unexpected reception completed my confusion.
180
"Oh, yes. I was — I happened to be going
by," I replied, dazed.
Mr. Carno leaned back in his chair, careful-
ly fitting his finger tips together and looked
at me keenly with his lips pursed up. I said
nothing more, being doubtful just what to say,
and after a minute he sat up very briskly and
spoke.
"As I mentioned in my note," he began, and
the office seemed to explode into fireworks
about me. He had sent me a note. He wanted
me, then. I could make my own terms. "And
perhaps I could use you for next season", he
finished whatever he had said.
"Yes," I said promptly. "In your American
company."
"My American company? Well, no. That is still
very indefinite," he replied. "But I can
give you a good part with 'Repairs' in the
provinces. Thirty weeks, at three pounds."
...
"No, I would not consider that," I answered
firmly. "I will take a part in your American
company at six pounds." Six pounds — it was
an enormous salary; twice as much as I had
ever received. I was aghast as I heard the
words, but I said doggedly to myself that I
would stand by them. I was a great comedian;
Fred Carno himself had sent for me; I was
worth six pounds.
181
"Six pounds ! It's unheard of. I never pay
it," Mr. Carno said sharply.
"Six pounds, not a farthing less," I insisted.
"In that case I am afraid I can't use you.
Good morning," he answered.
"Good morning," I said, and rising prompt-
ly I left the office.
That night I played as I had never played
before. The audience howled with laughter
from my entrance till my last exit and recalled
me again and again, until I would only how
and back off. I carried in a pocket of my stage
clothes the note from Mr. Carno, which I had
found waiting at the theater, and I winked at
myself triumphantly in the mirror while I took
off my make-up.
"He'll come around. Watch me!" I said
confidently, and not even Sidney's misgivings
nor his repeated urgings to seize the chance
with Carno at any salary could shake my de-
termination.
"I'm going to America," I said firmly.
"And I won't go under six pounds. Living
costs terrifically over there; all the lodgings
have built-in baths and they charge double for
it. I stand by six pounds and I'll get it,
never fear."
In my own heart I had misgivings more than
once in the months that followed without an-
other message from Carno, b
ut I set my teeth
and vowed that, since I had said six pounds,
six pounds it should be. And I worked at
comedy effects all day long in our lodgings,
falling over chairs and tripping over my cane
for hours together, till I was black and blue,
but prepared, when the curtain went up at
night, to make the audience hold their sides
and shriek helplessly with tears of laughter
on their cheeks.
"Any news?" Sidney began to ask again
every evening, but I managed always to say,
"Not yet!" with cocky assurance. "He'll send
for me, never fear," I said, warmed with the
thought of the applause I was getting and the
press notices.
The season with Casey's Circus was ending and
I took care not to let any hint of my inten-
tion to leave reach the cars of the manager,
but I refused to believe that I would be
obliged to fall back on him. I looked eagerly
every day for another note from Carno.
"Don't worry'-, I'll see you get your bit
when the time is ripe," I told the old comedian
whenever he importuned me for news, as he did
frequently. "You know how it is, old top
— you have to manage these big men just
right."
At last the note came. It reached me at my
lodgings early one morning, having been sent
on from the theater, and I trembled with ex-
citement while I dressed. I forced myself to
eat breakfast slowly and to idle about a bit
before starting for Carno's offices, not to
reach them too early and appear too eager,
but when at last I set out the cab seemed to
do no more than crawl.
"Well, I find I can use you in the American
company," Mr. Carno said.
"Very well," I replied nonchalantly.
"And — er — as to salary — ," he began, but
I cut in.
"Salary?" I said, shrugging my shoulders.
"Why mention it ? We went over that before,"
and I waved my hand carelessly. "Six
pounds," I said airily.
He looked at me a minute, frowning. Then
he laughed.
"All right, confound you I" he said, smiling,
and took out the contract.
Three weeks later, booked for a solid year in
the United States, looking forward to playing
on the Keith circuit among the Eastern sky-
scrapers and on the Orpheum circuit in the
Wild West among the American red men, I
stood on the deck of a steamer and saw the
rugged sky-line of New York rising from the
sea.
CHAPTER XXIV
In which I discover many strange things in that
strange land, America; visit San Francisco for
the first time; and meet an astounding reception
in the offices of a cinematograph company.
NOW, since I was twenty at the time, four years
ago, when I stood on the deck of the steamer
and saw America rising into view on the horizon,
it may seem strange to some persons that I had
no truer idea of this country than to suppose
just west of New York a wild country inhabited
by American Indians and traversed by great
herds of buffalo. It is natural enough, however,
when one reflects that I had spent nearly all my
life in London, which is, like all great cities,
a most narrow-minded and provincial place, and
that my only schooling had been the little my
mother was able to give me, combined later with
much eager reading of romances. Fenimore Cooper,
your own American writer, had pictured for me
this country as it was a hundred years ago,
and what English boy would suppose a whole
continent could be made over in a short hundred
years?
186
So, while the steamer docked, I stood quiver-
ing with eagerness to be off into the wonders
of that forest of skyscrapers which is New
York, with all the sensations of a boy trans-
ported to Mars, or any other unknown world,
where anything might happen. Indeed, one
of the strangest things — to my way of think-
ing — which I encountered in the New World,
was brought to my attention a moment after I
landed. At the very foot of the gangplank
Mr. Reeves, the manager of the American com-
pany, who was with me, was halted by a very
fat little man, richly dressed, who rushed up
and grasped him enthusiastically by both
hands.
"Velgome! Velgome to our gountry!" he
cried. "How are you, Reeves? How goes it?"
Mr. Reeves replied in a friendly manner, and
the little man turned to me inquiringly.
"Who's the kid?" he asked.
"This is Mr. Chaplin, our leading comedian,"
Mr. Reeves said, while I bristled at the word
"kid." The fat man, I found, was Marcus Loew,
a New York theatrical producer. He shook
hands with me warmly and asked immediately,
"Veil, and vot do you think of our gountry,
young man?"
"I have never been in Berlin," I said stiffly.
"I have never cared to go there," I added
rudely, resenting his second reference to my
youth.
"I mean America. How do you like America? This
is our gountry now. We're all Americans together
over here !" Marcus Loew said with real enthus-
iasm in his voice, and I drew myself up in
haughty surprise. "My word, this is a strange
country," I said to myself. Foreigners, and
all that, calling themselves citizens ! This
is going rather far, even for a republic,
even for America, where anything might happen.
...
That was the thing which most impressed me
for weeks. Germans, it seemed, and English
and Irish and French and Italians and Poles,
all mixed up together, all one nation —
it seemed incredible to me, like something
against all the laws of nature. I went about
in a continual wonder at it. Not even the high
buildings, higher even than I had imagined,
nor the enormous, flaming electric signs on
Broadway, nor the high, hysterical, shrill
sound of the street traffic, so different
from the heavy roar of London, was so strange
to me as this mixing of races. Indeed, it was
months before I could become accustomed to it,
and months more before I saw how good it is,
and felt glad to be part of such a nation
myself.
188
We were playing a sketch called 'A Night in a
London Music-Hall', which probably many people
still remember. I was cast for the part of a
drunken man, who furnished most of the comedy,
and the sketch proved to be a great success,
so that I played that one part continuously
for over two years, traveling from coast to
coast with it twice.
The number of American cities seemed endless
to me, like the little bores the Chinese make,
one ins
ide the other, so that it seems no
matter how many you take out, there are still
more inside. I had imagined this country a
broad wild continent, dotted sparsely with
great cities — New York, Chicago, San Francisco
— with wide distances between. The distances
were there, as I expected, but there seemed
no end to the cities. New York, Buffalo,
Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Columbus, Indianapolis,
Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Omaha, Denver
— and San Francisco not even in sight yet!
No Indians, either.
Toward the end of the summer we reached San
Francisco the first time, very late, because
the train had lost time over the mountains, so
that there was barely time for us to reach the
Orpheum and make up in time for the first
performance. My stage hat was missing,
there was a wild search for it, while we held
the curtain and the house grew a little impa-
tient, but we could not find it anywhere. At
last I seized a high silk hat from the outraged
head of a man who had come behind the scenes
to see Reeves and rushed on to the stage. The
hat was too loose. Every time I tried to speak
a line it fell off, and the audience went into
ecstasies. It was one of the best hits of the
season, that hat.
It slid back down my neck, and the audience
laughed ; it fell over my nose, and they
howled ; I picked it up on the end of my cane,
looked at it stupidly and tried to put the
cane on my head, and they roared. I do not
know the feelings of its owner, who for a time
stood glaring at me from the wings, for when
at last, after the third curtain call, I came
off holding the much dilapidated hat in my
hands, he had gone. Bareheaded, I suppose,
and probably still very angry.
190
After the show I came out on the street into
a cold gray fog, which blurred the lights and
muffled the sound of my steps on the damp
pavement, and, drawing great breaths of it
into my lungs, I was happy. "For the lova
Mike!" I said to Reeves, being very proud of
my American slang. "This is a little bit of
all right, what? Just like home, don't you
know! What do you know about that!" And
I felt that, next to London, I liked San
Francisco, and was sorry we were to stay
only two weeks.
We returned to New York, playing return dates
on the "big time" circuits, and I almost
regretted the close of the season and the
return to London. The night we closed at
Keith's I found a message waiting for me at
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 13