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SHOWMAN
from the West" photographed. There was a famous photograph back then, something you saw everywhere, of the great Augustin Daly reading a play to his brilliant stock company— Daly very solemn in the middle with the manuscript and John Drew, Ada Rehan, James Lewis, Mrs. Gilbert, Edith Kingdon— who married George Gould— and the rest reverently listening. Well, I was still sore at Daly for the licking he'd given me in our thirteen-year feud over "After Dark," so I had this "Man from the West" photograph taken just the same way— Jeff reading in the middle and the company standing round in the same attitudes and even the background and props exactly the same. The result was a parody that both outraged and tickled the theatrical public and got us a lot of publicity both ways.
Jeff's English tour was no more successful than Corbett's. But Jeff more or less enjoyed himself— every time the English public snubbed him, he'd take his revenge on the hapless English boxers who had to get into the ring with him.
"How much in the house tonight, Bill?" he'd say.
"About forty pounds"— which, on our financial arrangement, meant a profit of rather less than nothing flat.
"Yeah?" he'd say, licking his lips. "Well, see if you can't dig up a couple more of these limeys to lay out." He left a trail of battered and sorrowing pugs the length and breadth of the British Isles. When he wanted to put a man away in a hurry, he was a fast worker. I
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