RUNNING AN ENTERTAINMENT 



dialogue in which there was what he thought his 

 wittiest hnes. It brought down the house and finished 

 the show, for the footballers wouldn't let him continue. 

 The dialogue ran : " How long have you been dead, 

 and who killed you, Captain Cuttle ? " 



" Thirty years. My cook killed me. She gave me 

 an old hen what laid on my stomach." Now I ask 



you Well, no matter. I tried the second week 



at a smaller hall ; but could only get it half full with 

 plenty of paper. 



He used to give private stances, and the fees paid 

 at these were his own " perks." He was an absolute 

 charlatan ; but people paid their guineas freely enough 

 to hear about absent friends and those departed. 

 He sat in a darkened room and never seemed stuck 

 for an idea. Eventually, with the pressure of my own 

 business, I sent him on tour under the management 

 of a man to whom I wanted to do a good turn — one I 

 thought I could trust ; but I knew that his propensity 

 lay in the direction of a bottle of whisky during the 

 evening. However, he promised to keep straight. 



The things the pair let me into need not be told in 

 detail. One of the little orgies cost me a new inside 

 for a piano ; they poured everything they could find 

 inside it one night. I paid a flying visit once to see 

 the show. This was what I found : my friend the 

 manager, who, by the by, had once been in a big 

 position at home, was snoring in the pay box, and 

 the thought reader had elaborated everything until 

 his entertainment dragged on to a tremendous length. 

 He had invented new wheezes for Captain Cuttle — 

 more drivelling than the previous stock jokes. At 

 last, when I got tired of paying, they both did a guy 

 with a week's takings to another colony. 



My brother managed him afterwards, and they were 

 70 



