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SHOWMAN
taking credit for teaching our thousand deadheads to do what they had really done naturally. But presently the story of that mob leaked out— and the laugh was on Scott for mistaking actuality for stage effect. It was fine publicity both ways.
We all thought we'd run a year at Drury Lane. Augustus Harris came to the same conclusion, when the reports reached him in Belgium. He leaped back across the Channel and, at the second night's performance, came poking out on the stage as I was breaking in my mob, nodding approvingly, whispering in my ear and generally working hard to give the effect that I was his trusted assistant, carrying out his own ideas. Corbett got one look at what was going on, took him firmly by the arm and led him off the stage with instructions to stay off from then on.
We didn't run a year. We ran only five weeks with a net loss of £1500. The English public was fight-minded enough. They'd stand round and gape at the man who had licked Charley Mitchell as blatantly as any yokels at an Iowa railroad depot. But they wouldn't pay money to see him in action on the stage. We went touring all over England and Scotland, and the only places we did any business were Liverpool and Glasgow, where American seamen had broken in the inhabitants to American ideas. Even in Birmingham, which was supposed to be the nerve-center of English boxing, we drew only £300 in eight performances.
But we had a little additional bad luck there. Cor
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