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After leaving school, Hope lost an assortment of jobs by turning clown during business hours. He also tried the prize ring, proved to be "the only fighter that had to be carried both ways." When Bob was 21, a scandal-scarred Fatty Arbuckle came to Cleveland, hired Hope and a friend (George Byrne) to fill out his vaudeville act. Afterward the pair started hoofing through the hinterland. In a shabby theater in New Castle, Ind. came the turning point of Hope's career. He was asked to announce the next week's vaudeville bill, gagged the assignment to furious applause, turned monologuist on the spot. As a "single" with a flip, fast delivery, he landed a one-week job in a Chicago variety theater, stayed six months. From then on "one triumph led to another and I soon found myself only $4,000 in debt." By 1930 he had reached the top, was playing Broadway's Palace.
Vaudeville steppingstoned him into musicomedy where, after a couple of slow starts, he came up fast in Roberta, and the Ziegfeld Follies, was starred with Merman and Durante in Red, Hot and Blue. There after radio, and then the movies, made him rich.
Earlier they had only made him writhe. After a few guest spots on the air, in 1935 Hope landed a monologue for Bromo-Seltzer that was less fizz than fizzle. Tossed into a pallid Lucky Strike program early in 1938, he attracted attention but was hailed by Luckies' George Washing ton Hill as Bob Hopeless.
New Home. The turn came later that year, when Hope was signed by Pepsodent and told to build his own show. He used light timber—Jerry Colonna, who had been tromboning for CBS; Skinnay Ennis, who had recently formed his own band; the girls who became Brenda and Cobina. But he used skillful carpenters—a round dozen scriptwriters with whom he slaved for weeks. And Hope started ribbing himself. The show clicked almost from the start. Pepsodent's president took Hope on his yacht, remarked: "This is the ship that Amos 'n' Andy built." Said Hope: "If I'm on the Pepsodent payroll much longer, you'll use this as a tender."
Success in the movies came more slowly. Having achieved complete mastery over the air, Hope remained a flop on the lot. At last Paramount woke up, but it made Hope wake up also. Before handing him the lead in The Cat and the Canary, Paramount Producer Arthur Hornblow talked to Hope like a Dutch uncle, told him he'd do anything for a laugh—gore another actor, bolt clean out of character. Hope began, fumed Hornblow, by making audiences grin, ended by making them grit their teeth. The Cat and the Canary clicked: since then Hope has whizzed through many another comedy thriller (The Ghost Breakers, My Favorite Blonde, They Got Me Covered), strutted down the Road to Singapore, Zanzibar, Morocco.
Gags to Riches. When Hope went to Hollywood, he lugged with him $300,000 in annuities. Today he easily makes twice that much a year—at least three pictures at $125,000 each, around $7,500 a week from his broadcasts. He has no artist's denseness in handling cash. When a business agent asked a bank official to try to swing him the management of Hope's affairs, the official remarked: "Bob Hope should be handling yours."