When French died, Bingham-Cox was in despair. Many men had a “try” at the game. But it was not as easy as it looked. Man after man was found wanting. Among others who took a hand at the task was Mr. T. P. O’Connor, now M.P. for the Scotland Division of Liverpool. “Tay Pay” has a fine roving style of his own, but was apparently unequal to the Homeric strain essential in the epic of the Ring. Willmott Dixon was sent for, and for many years he was not only the writer of the prize-fights, but editor of the paper. French was bad to beat, but Dixon beat him, and beat him easily. Dixon had a knowledge of the Ring; he could “put up his dukes” himself, thoroughly enjoyed “a bit of a scrap,” and his Cambridge experiences stood him in good stead. His memory, too, was rarely at fault. I never met a journalist so independent of books of reference.
Bingham-Cox was a great theatre-goer. His widowed sister kept house for him over the offices of the paper in Southampton Street, Strand. She usually accompanied her brother on these outings, and, though his paper had no recognized position in the theatrical world, “William Henry” used to besiege the acting-managers for stalls and boxes. When he succeeded in capturing a couple of free seats he was as pleased as Punch, although they usually cost him three or four times their market price, for he invariably indicated his appreciation of the manager’s civility by sending him a box of cigars. As the cigars were generally “Flor de Cuba” or “Cabañas” of a famous crop, one may imagine that acting-managers were not unwilling to oblige him if they could. The strange man did not smoke himself, and was horrified if anyone came smoking into his office.
Occasionally he contributed to his own columns. His contributions were usually of a more or less libellous nature. He called me in on one occasion to advise about the opening paragraph of a short dramatic notice which he had written. The thing was in proof. It dealt with a play by Sims and Buchanan called “The English Rose.” From the tone of the essay I inferred that the eccentric proprietor had been unsuccessful in getting free stalls at the Adelphi, where the play had been produced. The paragraph about which he seemed particularly anxious was the opening one. It ran in this way:
“This is the most extraordinary production we have ever been invited to witness. It is an Irish melodrama. It is entitled ‘The English Rose.’ It is written by a Scotsman and a Jew, and it has been put on the stage by two gentlemen of Swiss nationality.”
“What do you think of it?” he exclaimed, grinning and showing his gleaming white teeth.
“I think you are wrong about your facts.”
He glared at me, exposed his teeth more than ever, stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and asked:
“What! what! Wrong in my facts! Nonsense, my friend, nonsense!”
“In the most material statement you are wrong,” I persisted; “for Buchanan is not a Scotsman, and Sims is not a Jew.”
“Ah,” he cried, grinning more fiercely, “then it’s not a libel!”