He put up an announcement, “Come and see the cherry-coloured cat,” and imposed an extra charge for the privilege.
There was almost a riot as Barnum showed the people a black cat. They protested, and demanded their money back; but he coolly asked them whether they had never seen a black cherry, and so appeased their wrath.
Barnum sat to me in the spring of 1890, about a year before he died, and I think I must give him the palm for being the most entertaining of all my subjects, his reminiscences extending over so long and interesting a period. I remember him telling me that many years before he had tried to induce my grandfather to transport Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition to New York, but that the negotiations fell through at the last moment.
As I modelled him he gave me some gentle hints not to be too attentive to the wrinkles on his face, from which I inferred that the old showman possibly thought he looked older than he felt, in spite of his silvery hair and four-score years.
A short-sighted tailor was once employed to repair the coat worn by Paganini, who stood with the violin under his left arm, while the bow was held aloft in his right hand.
The figure was on a tall pedestal, and the knight of the needle had to use a step-ladder. One of the attendants, ever ready for a joke, taking advantage of the tailor’s infirmity, removed the figure, and, adopting a similar attitude, stood in its place.
The tailor prepared his thread, mounted the steps, and was about to begin stitching when the supposed figure brought the bow down on his victim’s back. This so terrified the unfortunate man that he rolled down the ladder on to the floor, where he sat gazing up with the utmost stupefaction.
All attempts to pacify him were for a time futile, and whenever he passed the figure of Paganini afterwards he invariably sidled away from it with a scared look.
Another practical joker was the late George Grossmith.