ONE of the most fascinating men I ever met in the States was Joseph
Smith, the head of the Mormons in Salt Lake City. When I first visited
that amazing city many years ago Joseph came with his "retinue" to hear my
entertainment. He came to my dressing-room after the show and we had a
long and interesting talk. I was so impressed with the intelligence and
the dignity of the man that I restrained my inclination to ask him any of
the questions that would naturally occur to a Scottish Presbyterian reared
within the strict laws and "commandments" of that rather rigid faith. Like
many more people I had, from early youth upwards, harboured certain
sentiments about the Mormons, their beliefs and practices, which tended to
make my inaugural trip to their headquarters one of no little curiosity.
But when I really had the chance, at first hand, so to speak, to make
direct inquiries into a much-discussed topic, I somehow let it slip—i
simply could not bring myself to open a series of questions on what my
visitor might reasonably have regarded as purely domestic affairs!
So
instead we talked of Salt Lake City itself, its magnificent situation, its
noble buildings, its civic activities, its happy, prosperous citizens. Mr.
Smith told me that there were many Scottish people resident in the city, a
large pro portion of them members of the Mormon Church. I said I was not
at all astonished at the news as I knew many men who were Mormons in
Scotland! As he didn't even smile at this attempted witticism on my part I
passed on to discuss with him the really extraordinary history of the city
from the far-off days when the seagulls came and devoured
the locusts that were threatening to starve the ancient settlers down to
the present time. He told me that there never were any unemployed people
in Salt Lake and gave me many more interesting details about a city which
must be absolutely unique in the United States to say nothing of the world
as a whole. I have returned to Salt Lake City frequently since these days
and I am a great favourite there I can assure you. But I have not yet got
inside the wonderful Temple to hear a religious service. Admission is
strictly limited to "the faithful" and much as I would like to see its
internal beauties and listen to its services I do not propose at my time
of life to become a Mormon in order that I may do so.
In the old days of Brigham Young and his "elders" the
foundation and the building of Salt Lake City must have been gigantic
tasks. Just fancy! They took forty-two years to build the Temple alone and
all the stones for it were cut from a quarry forty miles distant and
transported under conditions of great difficulty mostly on the backs of
the men who helped to construct the now world-famous edifice. I shall
always say that no matter what "ongoin's" may have taken place in the
early days of Salt Lake City the pioneers of Mormonism were men of supreme
vision, of indominatable pluck, of astounding ability as architects and
builders. Their descendants today are no whit less able; I defy you to
find, in all the States of the Union, a better conducted or more civically
enlightened city than Salt Lake.
Another
prominent American "character" who adorns my list of personal friends is
Mayor William Hale Thompson of Chicago. This solemn proaouncement on my
part will probably cause a gasp of horror on the part of numerous good
Americans, both in Chicago and elsewhere, to whom the mere name of "Bill"
Thompson is anathema. But I cannot help it. I like Bill immensely. He and
I always have a jolly good time together in "Chi." Nobody would accuse him
of being pro-British in his spoken sentiments or in his actions but he is
certainly pro-Lauder and he hands me the keys of the Windy City every time
I set foot in it. I was much amused at some of the things my friend the
Mayor gave utterance to during his last election fight and equally
entertained by some of the things his enemies hurled back at him in the
columns of the anti-Thompson press. My friend Blackwood went over to
America a year or two ago and lined up one day at the city chambers with a
letter of introduction from me to William Hale T.
"Tell this guy that if he's a Scotsman I'll see him; if
he's an Englishman show him out and put a detective on him while he's in
Chicago!" was the Mayor's ultimatum to the messenger. On being told that
Blackwood was a Scot, Bill had him shown to his room at once. They became
very friendly and were getting along fine when Bill learned that Blackwood
was a journalist. As one of the Chicago papers had that morning roasted
the Mayor unmercifully over some alleged misfealty or another this
information suddenly caused him to see red and the interview was on the
point of coming to an abrupt conclusion. However Bill thought better of it
and, holding out his hand, he remarked, with that smile of his which can
be so attractive when he likes, CCAS a friend of Harry's I'll tell the
woild you're welcome to this great and progressive City, but as a
journalist I hate the- sight of you!" The Mayor, and his Chief of Police,
Mr. Charlie Fitzmaurice gave Blackwood such a good time in Chicago that he
spent a week there instead of, as he had first intended, a couple of days.
William Hale Thompson provides the people of Britain with many a good
laugh, especially when he really gets down to his anti-English stuff
which, of course, nobody believes in for a moment. I don't believe "dear
old Bill" believes in it himself!
I was often
told by my friends that America has been very good to me. And
occasionally, if I seem to be in a communicative humour, one or other of
these friends will try to do the pump-handle trick and ask me just how
much money I have made in the States and Canada. "Oh, I haven't done so
badly," I tell them always, "and I would have done still better had I been
able to stick to a' I earned—the livin' oot there's awfu' costly!" And
there is a slight substratum of truth in part, at least, of that canny
reply. I defy any man to keep on going to America as I have done for
twenty years and not make a financial sideslip now and again. At heart I
am a very simple man and though I have steeled myself against "easy-money"
all my life—realizing that the only money worth having is the money you
have worked hard for—I was very prone in my earlier visits to the States
to listen to all sorts of tales and schemes having for their object the
quick and certain collecting of dollars either in hundreds or tens of
thousands! I suppose my reputation for excessive caution in matters
monetary kept away from me many people who would otherwise have been only
too pleased to enlist my sympathies and my bank-book in certain
get-rich-quick Wallingford plans. But I couldn't steer clear of them all!
And as this more than purports to be a real story of my life it would not
be fair of me to let my friends everywhere assume that I had never been
"trimmed."
Many years ago, during, I think, my
first visit to Boston I fell across the path of a most fascinating young
man who could speak in nothing less than millions of dollars. He had
worked up a trans-continental reputation at an age in life when most lads
are thinking of how they are going to pay the next instalment on their
bicycles. The papers had a lot to say about him; he was very much in the
public eye all over the States. If I told you his popular nick-name many
of my readers would remember him and his highly spectacular doings but by-gones
are by-gones with me and I have no desire to rake up old troubles in the
case of a man who may still be alive and earning an honest living. Well,
this young sprig got me going from the first time I was introduced to him.
I used to listen pop-eyed to his patter about the enormous sums he had
made for his clients. And not for a long time did he even suggest that I
should employ his invaluable services in any capacity whatever. In fact it
began to be very clear to me that I was ten times a fool for not handing
over my entire wad to this genius and letting him multiply it a thousand
times overnight. Every time he came to see me and started to spin his
amazing yarns I went all dizzy at the thought of what I was missing.
Then one nice winter morning he drove up to the door of
the Parker House Hotel in Boston in a gorgeous two- horse sleigh. That did
it. Any man who could sport such a slap-up turnout was bound to be making
money for himself as well as his fortunate clients. He took me for a ride
over the snow and to the music of the tinkling bells on his horses'
collars I fell for a scheme which was to make rue a multimillionaire in
three weeks' time. All the "wise guys" in New York, Boston, Philadelphia,
and Chicago were supposed to be in the plunder; we were each going to have
a rake-off that would make my weekly salary sound like a taxi-fare! We
dined later (at his expense) at the Algonquin Club—and I passed over my
cheque. That's the end of the story. Years afterwards I learned that the
sleigh-man got five years' solid foi fraud and I was really sorry to hear
it, for he was a clever young devil and he "had" me good and hearty.
Another time I was introduced through a friend to a man
in New York who was reputed to have invented a synthetic rubber which was
going to put all the rubber plantations of the world out of business. It
was just about the time of a sensational rubber boom. Everybody was
talking rubber. Fortunes were being made in the commodity. Henry Ford, the
Dodge Brothers, Willys and all the rest of the car manufacturers were (so
it was adroitly pushed into me) seriously thinking of paying this man a
fabulous amount of money for his patent; if they didn't do something
desperate a set of rubber tires was soon going to cost more than the cars
they manufactured! Of course if I was really interested and cared to pick
up half a million or so of quick money there would be no trouble in
letting a prominent man and a good old guy like Harry Lauder in on the
ground floor. And so forth. For a long while I resisted the temptation.
But when the inventor came along to my dressing-room one evening and
produced a great chunk of his synthetic rubber which looked like rubber,
felt like rubber, tasted like rubber (I broke a false tooth on it so keen
was I to test it in every way) and, most wonderful of all, "bounced" like
rubber, my last scruples went by the board. I walked right in. Never mind
how much; I hate to think about it. Fancy any man not recognizing a bit of
real rubber when he saw it, felt it, tasted it and bounced it! But it's
always the simplest trick that gets away with the applause—and the
sucker's money.
A coal mine in Mexico was the
next thing out of which I tried hard to turn an honest penny. It belonged
to an Englishman who was one of the most earnest liars I have ever met. He
must have studied tip all the mining jargon and technicalities before he
started his barrage so far as I was concerned because he had them all so
pat that I, as an ex-miner, was interested in spite of myself. There were
the photographs of the mine-shaft and the miners' houses and groups of
happy children! Here were other photographs of the loaded wagons at the
railway siding and groups of sturdy miners going to and coming from their
work. Here was the last letter from the local manager saying how well
every- thing was going and just what the little company could do if they
had some more capital to extend their activities by sinking another shaft
to a wonderful seam a mile away! There would be no difficulty, naturally,
in raising ten times the necessary money in the district where the mine
was situated and where the quality of its coal was so much appreciated
but, well, what a sensation it would cause down in Mexico if Harry Lauder,
the old miner, agreed to go on the board of directors! And if I thought I
would like to invest a few thousand dollars just for fun, why, everybody
would be tickled to death! Besides, it would be money for jam! I never saw
a dollar of my five thousand come back from that Mexican coal-mine. Years
after, when I was down in the country; I made some inquiries about it.
Yes, there used to be a coal-mine at the place mentioned or at least a
half- bored shaft but that was thirty years ago and the English man who
owned it hadn't been seen since. Was there a rail- way near it? No, the
nearest railroad was ten miles away. I often wonder how many other people
were taken in completely by that glib-tongued mine-proprietor and his col-
lection of faked photographs of happy miners and forged letters from the
local manager!
Over in England, too, where
people are not so ready to fall for the fortune-while-you-sleep talk I
have been prevailed upon to dip down for goodly sums on what looked like
hundred per cent stone certainties. A very good friend of mine—and we are
still friendly, mark you, but in a rather aloof way now—put me off my
sleep for a few nights conning over the possibilities of a new engine
which could be fitted for a few pounds to sailing fishing yawls and thus
let them make for the harbour quickly with their scaly spoil. The scheme
seemed sound as a bell. Fish, I argued to myself, were always worth money
if they could be brought to market but they were of no use whatever lying
in the bottom of an Auchmithie fishing-smack. And wouldn't I be doing a
kind turn to the poor fishermen by providing them with engines— at a
profit, of course—so that they could get back at once to their bonnie wee
harbours without having to worry about wind or tide! The engine was to be
called the Harry Lauder Fisherman's Friend. Yes, the scheme was fool-proof
and bound to succeed. But neither the originator of the stunt nor myself
paused to think that not three per cent of the British fish consumed by
our population was landed by fishing boats of the dear old brown-sailed
type. And that even if we fitted our engine to every "cobble" on the east
coast of Scotland we would still be out of pocket on the deal. In any case
the engine didn't work when we did start our engineering business. And
that was the end of it—our company went broke!
Later, I became a part-proprietor in a Leeds concern
which was to turn out suits of clothes for fifteen shillings ($3.50) a
suit. Clothes in Britain were far too dear. Work ing people could not
afford to dress themselves decently because of the exhorbitant profits
snatched by the greedy tailors. This ought to be put a stop to. We would
stop it— and in stopping it clean up a dollar a suit on a million suits a
year. Money for nothing! We actually turned out some thousands of suits
but the public wouldn't look at them. Having tried to wear one of the
suits myself I don't blame them. The company failed. For months afterwards
I could not pass a tailor's shop without feeling a pain in the stomach!
But all my financial transactions outside my legitimate
business have not turned out failures. Andrew Carnegie one night came to
my dressing-room in New York. He was astonished and delighted to meet in
me a man smaller than himself and said so with great glee. I denied that I
was shorter in stature than he and We decided to settle the argument by
measuring heights against the dressing-room door. Before Andrew took up
his position for Tom to take his height he said that if he beat me he
would give me a good tip on the Stock Exchange. Overhearing this I think
Tom decided there and then that the steel magnate would win. In any case
Tom gave the verdict in favour of Mr. Carnegie by a tenth of an inch. "Buy
United States Steel Common!" whispered the millionaire on saying
goodnight. Next day I bought a thousand at thirty-two dollars and forgot
all about the transaction for several weeks; in fact I was back in London
before Steel Common were brought to my memory by hearing some fellows
speak about them. "What are they standing at today?" I asked excitedly.
Round about forty- two I was told. I couldn't get to the nearest telephone
quick enough to order my broker to sell my lot. Almost without a halt
those Steel Common went to something over a hundred dollars and every day
for months after I sold out I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
It was the same with Marconi shares. A very "knowledgable"
magnate whom I was friendly with during an Atlantic voyage spoke about
little else than Marconi's throughout the trip and prognosticated for them
a most wonderful rise in value. I bought a tidy little packet at $3.25 the
day after I landed in England. Soon they began to move in the right
direction and when they got the length of $4.20 I again decided that the
margin of profit was ample for any man who was not of a grasping
disposition. I consulted my banker on the matter of these Marconi's before
parting with them. Cautious Scot that he was, he strongly urged me to sell
and leave any additional profit to the man who bought them. "Never object,
Barry, to the other chap getting a slice of the melon as well as yourself
!" was how he put it. I sold. "The other man, whoever he was, got
something over twenty dollars a share for his "slice of the melon" where I
got one and once more I started to count up the money I had "lost"! These
were the only two actual transactions I ever had on the Stock Exchange and
I don't suppose I shall ever have an other. It's too nerve-wracking when
you don't win as much as you ought to have won!
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