“Here, hold hard! I’m Harry Cardoe, Mr. Carlton’s contortionist. This is a fancy-dress ball, isn’t it? Well, this is my fancy dress.”
At this there were shrieks of laughter, and he was the recipient of many congratulations—at a safe distance—from the other passengers. Of course he and I had engineered the joke between us.
It took poor Harry about an hour, however, to get the oil and dirt off his skin, and he grumbled a lot during the operation. But next morning, when he found, greatly to his surprise, that he had been awarded the prize for the most realistic make-up, he was completely mollified.
I have already mentioned golf as being in the nature of a novelty. Bicycle races, six laps to the mile, constitute another innovation, but the machines and riders are almost too apt to come to grief. Obstacle races are, perhaps, among the most generally popular of “open events,” the entries being usually out of all proportion to the number of prizes. Nearly every obstacle usually encountered on land has to be negotiated, together with a number of others peculiar to ship-board. Among these latter may be mentioned sets of lifebelts, each swinging loosely and tantalisingly at the end of a solitary rope; funnel-shaped sails, the insides liberally daubed with greasy soot and sprinkled with flour; and rope entanglements of fearful and wonderful construction.
Sack races, flat races, and wheelbarrow races are also organised, the two latter being not infrequently participated in by the ladies on board. The favourite contest with the fair sex, however, is the egg-and-spoon race, varied occasionally by a needle-threading competition. In the former the competitors have to run a certain distance, each carrying at arm’s length a very large egg in an exceedingly small spoon. The various dodges adopted by the runners are well worth studying.
At 11.30 the daily sweepstakes on the vessel’s run is drawn, the numbers being afterwards put up for auction. This always causes a deal of excitement, and it is an understood thing that a certain percentage of the winnings is handed over to some charity. It is also usual to hold, during each voyage, at least one mock breach-of-promise trial. The “counsel” on either side are arrayed in sailcloth gowns and wigs made of cotton-waste, and the proceedings are carried out strictly in accordance with legal etiquette. The cross-examination of the fair plaintiff—who is, more often than not, some pretty little soubrette bound for South Africa’s “City of Gold”—is generally the cause of roars of laughter.
I have made two professional trips to South Africa. The first time I trekked in a bullock waggon from Cape Town to Kimberley, and had the satisfaction of giving a performance before Cecil Rhodes at the Sanatorium there. Those were rough times. Street fights were of frequent occurrence, and on one occasion two miners started firing at each other in close proximity to where I was standing.
I promptly took cover, as did the rest of the bystanders, and was unaware of anything wrong until, feeling my foot wet and heavy, I stooped down, and with my finger and thumb pulled a bullet out of my leg from just under the skin near the ankle-joint. It had been nearly spent when it struck me; fortunately for me.
This was before the war. On my second visit, in 1913, I had the ill luck to arrive in Johannesburg while the great strikes were in progress. Luckily they were soon over, but it was a very terrible business indeed while it lasted.
The affair began over a small matter, that might, one would have imagined, have been easily settled. Five white mechanics working underground at the New Kleinfontein mine were asked to assent to an alteration of hours that would involve their working for the future on Saturday afternoons. They refused, and were dismissed. Whereupon all the white men working at that particular mine went on strike.