I DID not always have hot pudding when I was young. At times the menu was bread and cheese, and mostly bread. Yet even in those days I had an idea that if only I learnt enough about conjuring the hot pudding would come to me eventually, and, more or less, my hopes have been realized. I suppose it must have been because as a boy I was so fond of hot pudding that I deliberately worked hot pudding into the first professional conjuring performance I ever gave. I was very young. That was why I engaged a small hall at five shillings for the afternoon, and expected that I should be able to make some pocket money by doing tricks for two hours.

There were two prices of admission. If you were a parent you paid twopence; if you had the misfortune (you will soon see why it was a misfortune) to be a child, you paid a penny. For this modest sum you were not only entertained by me, but you were entitled to share in the "Grand Fairy Distribution" which came at the end of the performance.

I have never promised so much at an entertainment since. In order to get the hall for five shillings an afternoon I had to engage it for a series of performances, and so I announced that each Saturday there would be a complete change of programme. The first entertainment went capitally. I had practised hard, and had caused my name to be put in large letters outside the hall. I had an idea that this in itself would be sufficient to draw a large crowd.

I was not disappointed with the size of my first audience, but I noticed, after the first few tricks, that the first two rows appeared to be unduly anxious about the "Fairy Distribution". At length some of my audience entreated me to come to that part of the performance. Now, to have done that would have upset my scheme. To tell you the truth, I could not have given the "Fairy Distribution" in the middle of the entertainment, but had I confessed my inability I should have lowered myself in the eyes of my audience. Therefore I had to pretend that the fairy had made an appointment to distribute at half-past four, and would not appear until then. As a matter of fact the good fairy had taken the money at the door, and while the performance was in progress the good fairy was regulating the size of his distribution to the size of the audience.

Have you guessed what my "Fairy Distribution" was? It was a real large hot pudding, beautifully cooked, with plums inside. In shape it was a "roly-poly". I remember that at the first performance the plums in the pudding were very numerous; we wished to attract the audience again.

The pudding was introduced adroitly. I flattered myself that I had hit upon a new and original trick, and in that respect I was right. No conjurer of my acquaintance has ever dared to conjure with a hot pudding; I don't think that many of them have thought that their audiences wanted hot pudding.

My great trick was really a variation of the omelette trick, in which the conjurer brings on a silver-plated dish (mine was not silver-plated) and shows it to be empty. He breaks an egg into it, puts on the lid, waves his wand, takes off the lid, and the omelette is made! I began my trick by chopping up a few pieces of suet and mixing them with plums. Then I put on the lid, waved my wand, and brought out the nice, savoury-smelling hot pudding. I know that at the first performance I had great difficulty in restraining myself from tasting the pudding. I almost hoped that some of my audience would be so amazed at its sudden appearance that they would refrain from eating it; then I should have had to encourage them by helping myself to a piece. However, the pudding was so popular that afternoon that it all disappeared as quickly as it had been produced; and I was left with the pleasing reflection that though I was exceedingly hungry, my success as a conjurer was assured. I may mention that I received nothing for the performance. The money-taker, who had been responsible for the making of the pudding, assured me that there was "no change".

My hot-pudding trick being so successful, I repeated it on the following Saturday. To save expense, I magically "converted" the same chopped suet and plums that I had used at the first performance. Once more the trick was successful, and once more I received no money for my afternoon's work. This was not exactly what I had expected, and so I stipulated that on the following Saturday afternoon the pudding should be of a cheaper kind. I did not discover until the consequences could not be avoided that I had made a mistake in thus changing the pudding. I know now that I ought to have changed the money-taker. No sooner had I reached the "Fairy Distribution" in my third performance than I saw my audience were becoming restless; and just as I was about to touch the dish with my magic wand and disclose the hot pudding, a, small lean boy--the sort of boy that cats all day without getting fat--exclaimed in a high, squeaky voice:

"Please, we're tired of pudden'. We should like somethink else--sweets, or nuts, or oranges."

The suggestion horrified me. Here was my great popular success failing at the third performance! The worst of it was that directly one boy had spoken the others began to chime in. They said unkind things about my pudding. They referred to its stodginess, and to the fact that it was not half so good as the puddings that mother made on Sundays. I reasoned with the grumblers. I pointed out to them, first of all, that they had spoken too late; they ought to have sent in their requests before the commencement of the performance. Then the spokesman--I can see him now, the ugly, awkward little brute--replied to me. He said that according to the bill stuck upon the door I had promised to give a complete change of programme every Saturday. This was the third Saturday, and they had had hot pudding twice before. I made the obvious reply that I used a fresh pudding at every performance, and therefore the programme was changed. To tell you the truth, I was a little annoyed at this ingratitude and interruption, and I pointed out to them that if they did not appreciate the performance there were plenty of other little boys in the neighbourhood who would only be too pleased to get an afternoon's amusement and some pudding for a penny.

By this time I knew that the pudding was getting horribly cold and clammy, so I said the magic words, and a few others that I hope were not audible, and I brought my magic wand down with a smash on the tin cover. The grumblers ate the pudding in silence.

The audience at the next performance was smaller; the "Fairy Distribution" was accordingly reduced in size, and the supply of plums was very meagre. The absence of plums seemed to have an exhilarating effect on the front row. They asked for plums; they suggested that I was keeping back the plums for myself, and one boy even went so far as to say that he could make a better pudding with a lump of dough and a beer-can. I treated the remarks with silent disdain.

Every week after that my Saturday afternoon audience became smaller, consequently the "Fairy Distributions" were almost plumless. At last--it was one wretched, wet Saturday afternoon--everything seemed to go wrong all at once. One boy, who had been helped by me most liberally to hot pudding, complained that he did not want so much at once; he preferred to take it in small doses. He then passed his pudding on to another boy. Unfortunately, he passed it on rather quickly; in fact the other boy said that the pudding had been thrown at him. He retaliated by returning the pudding most promptly. In a moment there was a free fight in which my hot pudding was the principal weapon. And a most powerful weapon it made. The fight had not been raging half a minute before five of the boys were suffering from temporary loss of eyesight. The pudding seemed to be unusually adhesive that afternoon.

On the following Saturday the audience made no pretence of eating the "Fairy Distribution". They just took sections of it and threw them at each other. This went on for several Saturdays, and at last the hallkeeper complained to me. He said he did not mind my amusing the boys as long as they threw the pudding at each other (I had never wanted to amuse them in this way), but he objected to the pudding being thrown on to the walls of the hall. It was true that it was not his hall, but he had to clean it; and he assured me that pieces of pudding that had become "set" on the walls could not be removed without damaging the paint. I had to admit that he was justified in objecting to the "Fairy Distribution". The pudding seemed to have peculiar properties. When it was first produced it looked like a nice, useful pudding, but when it was divided up into small pieces and allowed to get cold it seemed to be a kind of imitation putty. Since then I have often heard of tricks falling flat, and jokes falling flat, but I never remember having seen or heard of anything that fell quite so flat as that pudding.

Needless to say, I soon recovered from this interlude and began to aspire to greater heights. In due course I yearned to do the Vanishing Lady Trick.

Being an amateur and a beginner, I scorned to use apparatus similar to that usually employed by conjurers when performing this trick. I invented apparatus of my own, and then thought out a new way of presenting the trick.

To do the trick I required two ladies closely resembling each other, and I spent many weary weeks in trying to discover such ladies. Sometimes I would come across two sisters nearly alike; but one would be fair and the other dark. Then I would go so far as to suggest to the dark one that there was an indescribable charm about golden hair that appealed to ninety-nine men out of every hundred. The dark one would take neither hints nor hair-dyes. Then I would go to the fair one and, murmur something nice about the grandeur of fine, dark women, and how curious it was that the great majority of married women were dark. I don't mean to say that I put it quite so brutally as this; but that was what my conversation amounted to. But I did it once too often. I had urged a dark lady to make herself fair, and on her refusing to do so I had urged her fair sister to make herself dark--for reasons already stated--and she had refused. Then they told each other what I had said. I did the vanishing trick very quickly then--with an impudent youth, by name David Devant.

I began to think that my efforts to do the Vanishing Lady Trick would never be successful, when one day I came across the two ladies I wanted. They were dressed alike, their faces were very much alike, and they were of the same height. I was so struck with their appearance that I followed them--discreetly--and eventually saw them go into a dressmaker's shop. The next thing was to get an introduction to the ladies. But how? I could find no one who knew them. In order not to lose sight of them I met them regularly every morning as they were going to business, and I hoped--oh, how I hoped!--that one of them would be attacked by a dog, or nearly run over by a 'bus, so that I might then rescue her and earn her lasting gratitude, and engage her for my Vanishing Lady Trick, all at the same time. A friend to whom I had confided my hopes offered to bring his dog one morning, and to make him bark savagely as the two young ladies turned the corner.

I had almost decided to close with this offer; but another friend, who, I afterwards found, had been bitten by the aforesaid dog, told me that if I attempted any rescue work when the dog was on the scene one of two things would inevitably happen: either I should be bitten badly myself, or one of the two ladies would be bitten in such a way that her likeness to her friend would be effectually and permanently destroyed. Either way I should still be unable to do my Vanishing Lady Trick, so I had to think of a simpler plan of obtaining the introduction I needed.

At last there came a time when I could wait no longer. All the apparatus was ready, and I was determined that I would do the Vanishing Lady Trick that week. My plan was quite simple. Not being able to get an introduction in the usual way, I resolved to introduce myself. I therefore walked up to the two ladies, raised my hat, and said very politely:

"Pardon me--er--good morning. Would you mind being vanishing ladies?"

(I don't suppose anyone will believe it, but this is absolutely true.)

I cannot describe properly what happened next. The two ladies jumped on one side, and were evidently going to run away. I therefore assured them hurriedly that it was for a trick, and they would be paid. I had selected them because of their charming presence, and I regretted not having been introduced.

Slowly it dawned on the two ladies that I was not insane and when they had realized that my proposal was strictly of a business nature, they became quite communicative. Eventually they agreed to perform with me on the condition that they might both take a part in the trick. As this was exactly what I wanted, we soon made a happy little party.

But my troubles were by no means at an end. I discovered that the two ladies thought that two--or at the most three--rehearsals would be quite sufficient; and I did not rid them of this idea without many arguments and entreaties and threats, and much persuasion.

The trick was successful, in fact it was too good. No other amateur conjurer in our neighbourhood did the Vanishing Lady Trick, and so I was in great request. Unfortunately, people would come round to the stage doors of the halls at which I performed on purpose to see the Vanishing Lady and myself enter and depart. I had not bargained for this attention. In order to preserve the secret of the trick it was absolutely necessary that only one Vanishing Lady should be seen in public with me.

The puzzle, then, was how to smuggle one lady in behind the scenes some time before the commencement of the performance, so that the Vanishing Lady and I might enter the stage door together. The lady who had to get into the hall by secret ways objected to that part of her work. She had discovered her importance, and she wanted it to be known that she was the Real Vanishing Lady.

My difficulties were considerably increased, at times, by my own friends. They would come to the performance, and then send messages to me, asking for an introduction to the Vanishing Lady; and did I think I could induce her to come with me to their house to supper? I dreaded having those messages. The outcome of them always was that I had to decide which of the two Vanishing Ladies I should take with me. As to my being able to "induce" the Vanishing Lady to come to supper, the trouble always was to induce her to stay away and go home quietly. Sometimes we would be asked to dances together; then my troubles would be greater than usual, for a dance was naturally more attractive than a supper. Finally I had to make an agreement that if one Vanishing Lady went to a dance the other Vanishing Lady should go to two suppers--on two different evenings of course.

My method of presenting this trick was extremely simple. The Vanishing Lady would walk from the stage down into the hall in order that the audience might see that she was not an automaton. Then she would return to the stage and sit down in a small cane chair placed on an ordinary kitchen-table. I would cover her for a moment with a cloth, pull it off quickly, and she would be gone. After that, I usually said :

"Where are you? Where are you?

The Vanishing Lady then appeared in the gallery and exclaimed : "I am here--in the gallery."

One night something went wrong. I pulled the cloth off and the Vanishing Lady had not vanished! At the same time the other Vanishing Lady in the gallery went on with her part of the performance and sang out in a small squeaky voice which I shall never forget

"I am here--in the gallery."

Then the curtain dropped, and the band kindly began to play.

I discovered afterwards that the mishap was not due to any fault in the mechanism of my apparatus. The lady who ought to have vanished was cross because the other Vanishine Lady had eaten the greater part of a box of their chocolates that had been sent round to the dressing-room by an unknown admirer. Neither of them ever knew which one was "the" Vanishing Lady, and so they used to squabble about the presents that were constantly being sent to that mysterious individual.

One gentleman wrote to me to say that the Vanishing Lady's beauty and charming manners exercised a wonderful and indescribable spell over him. Would I introduce him? Both Vanishing Ladies managed to get hold of that note, and they then argued the question as to which of the two was beautiful and had charming manners. I settled the matter by telling them that they were both too charming, and I should be much obliged if they would go and exercise their "wonderful and indescribable spell" elsewhere.

I have often done the Vanishing Lady Trick since, but I use only one lady in the performance. The trick is quite as effective as it was in the old days, and my peace of mind is assured. I am only afraid that at times the trick is too realistic, for I have frequently been asked privately by a male member of the audience if I cannot vanish some elderly and angular lady of his acquaintance as effectually as I have vanished the lady on the platform.

On another occasion, in the days when I was "very, very young", I wanted to do a trick with an egg. I rather prided myself on that trick, and in order to make it appear as wonderful as possible I had a small basin full of eggs on a side-table. I explained to my audience that it would be perfectly easy for anyone to perform the trick that I was about to present to them if they used an egg that had been specially prepared beforehand. To prove that I had not resorted to any such subterfuge, I had a dish of eggs, and I was willing to take any one of the eggs chosen by the audience and break it, to show that it was simply an ordinary egg. I would then take another egg chosen by the audience and perform my trick with it. I hoped that in this way I should convince everyone that my tricks were done independently of any mechanical aid.

I took the dish of eggs down to the audience, and two eggs were chosen. One was brown, the other was white. I was commanded to break the brown one; but when I returned to the stage I made a pretence of beginning to break the white one. I was stopped--as I had expected I should be--with a shout of, "No, no! Break the brown one!" I made a pretence of taxing the audience with having changed their mind, and the longer I hesitated about breaking the brown egg the more they insisted that they wished to see the interior of that particular egg.

"Very well," I said at last--and by this time the audience had quite convinced themselves that the brown egg was a trick egg--"I will break the brown egg; but I may tell you that you have added considerably to the difficulty of the trick." With that I tapped the brown egg on a plate. The audience at the back of the hall stood up; those in the front chuckled to themselves at the idea of having puzzled the conjurer.

"Go on!" shouted a small boy at the back of the hall after I had tapped the egg twice on the plate and nothing had happened. "Go on! Break it! It ain't an egg at all. You see, it's going up his sleeve directly!"

(This is the popular explanation of every trick that is performed. Once, after I had been doing some tricks with my sleeves rolled up, I heard a lady say: "Yes, that's all very well; but anyone could see that those were not his real arms. Those were merely cases over his arms, and in those cases were little trap-doors.")

Being exhorted by the ruder portion of the audience to do the trick if I could, I tapped the brown egg on the plate for the third time. I knew that I had cracked the shell; but the inward parts of the egg remained intact. I suggested to the audience that the egg was bad, and that therefore it would be better left whole. The reply was that the egg was not an egg at all.

"Then," I said, "perhaps you would not mind breaking it. I have no wish to release a bad egg in the room."

Then they jeered at me, and hands were stretched out for the brown egg.

"See he doesn't change it!" cried one man.

"I'll watch him!" shouted another. The brown egg fell into the hands of a middle-aged spinster, who banged it on the handle of her umbrella, and then declared it to be perfectly good-but hard-boiled!

I assured the audience that there had been a mistake, and that I had not known of the state of the egg. It was no use. I had lost the confidence of my audience. I went to the dish for another egg, but that too was hard-boiled; and we subsequently discovered that all the eggs had been treated in that way. It appears that a certain lady, who was very much interested in my appearance as a conjurer, thought she would assist me in some little way. She had boiled the eggs hard because she had argued to herself that, if by any chance I dropped a raw egg in full view of the audience, I should be laughed at! Not only was that lady the innocent cause of the afternoon's performance failing hopelessly, but she was also the means of my losing what little reputation I had gained for myself in our town. It was in vain that I told the audience that I had not known that the eggs were hard-boiled, and that I could have done the trick with eggs in any state--in fact, with no eggs at all! They would not believe me; and to this day some of the people who were present have an idea that if you want to learn how to make a bunch of ribbons and a flag out of an egg, you have to begin by boiling the egg hard. They do not know how you go on after that but they know that that is the first part of the secret.

A final memory of those early days was an occasion when I had decided to play a little practical joke upon a friend of mine who was very keen on collecting engravings. His walls were covered with pictures, and so I had no difficulty in selecting one well-known one and getting an artist friend to imitate just one corner of the picture. I took this corner and fastened it on my friend's picture. When I went round in the evening to show them a few tricks, I could hardly keep myself from laughing for thinking what a frightful state of mind my friend would be in when he saw me go up to one of his pet engravings and apparently tear off the corner.

Of course, I was going to continue the trick by restoring the picture in the way that the "torn playing-card" is usually restored. I was so eager to do that trick, and to see my friend's face absolutely glowing with anger as he saw one of his pet pictures apparently destroyed, that I ate scarcely any supper. When the time came for me to do my tricks I began on the torn engraving. I was not disappointed in seeing my friend get very angry; indeed, his face was absolutely livid. I felt a little embarrassed myself, more especially when I discovered that I had torn off a corner of the wrong picture! He had two copies!

Another very embarrassing moment occurred once when I was giving an entertainment at a Sunday School. When I found that I had run out of gunpowder, with which I wanted to load an old breech-loading pistol that I used in the show, I sent a boy out to buy some gunpowder.

It was a very small platform, and when I fired the pistol at the superintendent of the school, who was asked to hold a paper bag for me, he dropped the bag and exclaimed, "I am shot!"--and sure enough his face was speckled with grains of powder, and bleeding.

The boy had bought blasting-powder!

The vicar stopped the entertainment there and then. The superintendent was laid up for three weeks, and I have never since used a pistol at close quarters.