The Motion Picture Director (Sep 1925 - Feb 1926)

40 had landed on top my nose would have been broken beyond repair. 1 succeeded in getting them both in front of me and was doing quite well, when the larger fellow said, “Look out, fellows, here comes the bull !” 1 never saw this fellow again. I kept on with the other one, however, trying hard to catch him on the chin, but he was coming so fast that I kept hitting him too high. I opened a long cut on his left cheek and closed his left eye. The policeman — Mr. Pickering was his name — arrived and placed White and myself under arrest. I learned later that White was his name and he had quite a local reputation as a box fighter. The fellow I had protected mounted his wheel and rode off as soon as he got to his feet, never offering to help me in the least. I was diplomatic and the officer did not as much as put his hand on my shoulder. He escorted us to jail, one on each side. We were both bleeding freely and there was a large crowd following. The desk sergeant said, “Your bail will be $15 each.” I pleaded that I had to leave town early in the morning and wouldn’t he please reduce it to ten. He looked at me rather queerly, but agreed. We were put in the cage together with a warning that if we got to fighting in there, things would go hard for us. Within an hour the darndest bunch of Mafia looking gents I ever saw, bailed my opponent out, but I remained in jail for over three hours before one of my company arrived with the necessary ten — and the iron doors opend for me. I learned later that White — my enemy — stood trial and was only fined eight dollars. On a later visit I called on Justice Glass and tried to get my ten back, but he laughed and said, “That ten has gone towards paying the policeman’s salary and you are lucky we don’t arrest you for jumping your bail.” I thanked him for his leniency and got away from there. Evenr time I have played San Jose since, White has occupied seats in the second row — first alone; then with his wife; and finally with three children. On a visit just a few years ago, I happened to be in the box office, when a very stout man asked for six seats in the second row. As he received them he said, “Frank Cooley sure, ain’t it?” The box office man answered, “Yes.” “That’s him,” said White; “he’s a damn good actor.” As he stepped away from the window the cashier whispered, “Frank, that’s White, the fellow you had the fight with years ago.” I ran out of the office and called, “Oh, Mr. White.” He turned, looked a moment, recognized me, and exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Cooley, you was dead wrong dat time. If you knew what dat did to me, by God, you hit him, too.” We shook hands and he said, “Dat’s fine.” TpV nptws miiu ©irector WE reached San Francisco at last and “laid off” a week, as the leading lady received another offer and quit. I put Mrs. Cooley in the leads and engaged Harry Pollard, now a great director, as second man. We opened in Redwood City to $33. It was winter then, and as the theatre boasted no stove, the audience nearly froze. I invited them to sit down in front and they filled about three rows. I announced a stove for the next night, but evidently I was not believed as the receipts for the second night only reached $10. We made good nevertheless, and by Saturday we were doing over the century. We used T om Sawyer for matinees and always had a full house of children and mothers. I gave a china plate with every 25-cent ticket and a box of candy with every 15-cent ticket. We succeeded in keeping out of trouble till we reached Sebastopole. Here the morning we were leaving — I think it was about six-thirty and very cold— I jammed with the drayman. Our contract obligated me to pay four dollars for the hauling of trunks and scenery, round trip, but we had borrowed a little organ to use in The Daughter of Dixie — a play that Frank Bacon and I wrote. The drayman charged me a dollar and a half for taking this to and from the theatre. Anyone could have carried it, as I don’t suppose it weighed over sixty pounds. I grumbled while counting out the five dollars and fifty cents, and to be as mean as I could, picked it out of the bag in quarters, nickels and dimes, and piled it on a Wells Fargo wagon. The drayman suddenly pushed the pile over, saying, “Don’t pay a cent if you are as cheap as that.” I hit him and a darb of a fight was on. He weighed about a hundred and eighty. I had the best of it but he cut me every time he landed ; took the skin off the top of my big nose, cut my cheek, and gashed my mouth. But I had him bleeding plenty — all over his clothes, and the sight of blood scared him so that he dropped his hands and ran around the station, with me after him. His brother stopped me, saying, “Don’t fight any more, Frank, he’s got enough.” I replied, “He isn’t licked; he has plenty of fight in him yet.” But the big fellow popped his head around the corner of the station and said, “Never mind, I’m no professional fighter — I know when I’ve had enough.” They could have double-banked me and beat me to death, but they were good fellows and sports. The next time I played the town, they hauled my baggage again and never even asked for their money. 1 sent the four dollars to the Hopli Hotel, however, and the proprietor paid the bill. These brothers are now two of the leading citizens of Sebastapole and very well to do. More power to them ! I took an awful looking face to the next town with me. I couldn’t take my November opponent with me to show what I had done to him, so I surely looked a big loser. The grease paint poisoned my nose and I had a knuckle there that was a fright to behold. Some one advised me to get some Hall’s antiseptic cream, which I did, and within a week the nose was O.K. I had an actor with me now who had a reputation for drinking, so I signed him to an agreement whereby I held out fifty dollars of his salary and if I caught him drinking, he was to forfeit the fifty. I was sure that he was drinking but was never fortunate enough to catch him. The show was making good but during Lent business was not particularly encouraging, with the exception of Willows. Here we played to a great business for a full week. Everyone seemed to know us. THIS was mv first visit here since 1889 when a number of members of the Olympic Club had given an exhibition in one of the big Willows wheat warehouses. I boxed four rounds with Phil Beaulo. My boxing partner, Lovett Lafferty, sparred with Jim Corbett. Bob McCord was to have been Corbett’s partner, but failed to show up. The show was short so I was hustled into a long coat and recited, “Anthony’s Address to the Romans,” from the ring. There was a colored foot racer by the name of Pickett in town — a bootblack. His supporters claimed he could beat anyone in America for a mile. I remembered seeing him run foot races at Shellmount Park, near Berkeley, and was sure I could beat him. I told Corbett this and right away he arranged a foot race between us to take place the following day. We had a hard time raising two hundred and fifty dollars, which Pickett’s backers demanded. In fact Corbett pawned his gold watch before we could total that amount. Just before the race my nose started to bleed and I was leaning against the fence trying to stop it, when Corbett saw me. He thought his money was about to bid him farewell. He raved and called me everything, but the nose didn’t bleed long and in a short time we got on the mark. At the crack of the pistol Pickett ran away from me — the crowd roared. He reached the quarter pole a good thirty feet ahead of me, but I set after him down the back stretch and caught him at the half mile pole and finished the mile well in the lead. Corbett offered me twenty-five dollars in gold but I had to refuse to take it, although I did want it awfully bad. Later in San Francisco we compromised. Corbett paid for a dozen photos at the Elite Gallery and promised to give me a silverheaded cane. That was in 1889, when I was sixteen years old. Corbett never gave me the cane until last year when, during his visit to San Francisco, some of the old Olympic boys, Bill Keanneally and Bob MacArthur, got after him. In fact they went