TELEPHONIC THEATRE-GOERS.
(A Sketch at the Electrical Exhibition.)
SCENE—The Exterior of the Telephone Music Room in the Egyptian Vestibule. The time is about eight. A placard announces, "Manchester Theatre now on"; inside the wickets a small crowd is waiting for the door to be opened. A Cautious Man comes up to the turnstile with the air of a fox examining a trap.
The Cautious Man (to the Commissionnaire). How long can I stay in for sixpence?
The Commissionnaire. Ten Minutes, Sir.
The C.M. Only ten minutes, eh? But, look here, how do I know there'll be anything going on while I'm in there?
Comm. You'll find out that from the instruments, Sir.
The C.M. Ah, I daresay—but what I mean is, suppose there's nothing to hear—between the Acts and all that?
Comm. Comp'ny guarantees there's a performance on while you're in the room, Sir.
The C.M. Yes, but all these other people waiting to get in—How'm I to know I shall get a place?
Comm. (outraged). Look 'ere, Sir, we're the National Telephone Comp'ny with a reputation to lose, and if you've any ideer we want to swindle you, all I can tell you is—stop outside!
The C.M. (suddenly subdued). Oh—er—all right, thought I'd make sure first, you know. Sixpence, isn't it?
[He passes into the enclosure, and joins the crowd.
A Comic Man (in an undertone to his Fiancée). That's a careful bloke, that is. Know the value o' money, he does. It'll have to be a precious scientific sort o' telephone that takes 'im in. He'll 'ave his six-pennorth, if it bursts the machine! Hullo, they're letting us in now.
[The door is slightly opened from within, causing an expectant movement in crowd—the door is closed again.
A Superior Young Lady (to her Admirer). I just caught a glimpse of the people inside. They were all sitting holding things like opera-glasses up to their ears—they did look so ridiculous!
Her Admirer. Well, it's about time they gave us a chance of looking ridiculous, their ten minutes must be up now. I've been trying to think what this put me in mind of. I know. Waiting outside the Pit doors! doesn't it you?
The Sup. Y.L. (languidly, for the benefit of the bystanders). Do they make you wait like this for the Pit?
Her Admirer. Do they make you wait! Why, weren't you and I three-quarters of an hour getting into the Adelphi the other evening?
The Sup. Y.L. (annoyed with him). I don't see any necessity to bawl it out like that if we were.
[The discreetly curtained windows are thrown back, revealing persons inside reluctantly tearing themselves away from their telephones. As the door opens, there is a frantic rush to get places.
An Attendant (soothingly). Don't crush, Ladies and Gentlemen—plenty of room for all. Take your time!
[The crowd stream in, and pounce eagerly on chairs and telephones; the usual Fussy Family waste precious minutes in trying to get seats together, and get separated in the end. Undecided persons flit from one side to another. Gradually they all settle down, and stop their ears with the telephone-tubes, the prevailing expression being one of anxiety, combined with conscious and apologetic imbecility. Nervous people catch the eye of complete strangers across the table, and are seized with suppressed giggles. An Irritable Person finds himself between the Comic Man and a Chatty Old Gentleman.
The Comic Man (to his Fiancée, putting the tube to his ear). Can't get my telephone to tork yet! (Shakes it.) I'll wake 'em up! (Puts the other tube to his mouth.) Hallo—hallo! are you there? Look alive with that Show o' yours, Guv'nor—we ain't got long to stop! (Pretends to listen, and reply.) If you give me any of your cheek, I'll come down and punch your 'ead! (Applies a tube to his eye.) All right, POLLY, they've begun—I can see the 'ero's legs!
Polly. Be quiet, can't you? I can't hold the tubes steady if you will keep making me laugh so. (Listening.) Oh, ALF, I can hear singing—can't you? Isn't it lovely!
The Com. M. It seems to me there's a bluebottle, or something, got inside mine—I can 'ear im!
The Irr. P. (angrily, to himself). How the deuce do they expect—and that infernal organ in the nave has just started booming again—they ought to send out and stop it!
The Chatty O.G. (touching his elbow). I beg your pardon, Sir, but can you inform me what opera it is they're performing at Manchester? The Prima Donna seems to be just finishing a song. Wonderful how one can hear it all!
The Irr. P. (snapping). Very wonderful indeed, under the circumstances! (He corks both ears with the tubes). It's too bad—now there's a confounded string-band beginning outs—(Removes the tube.) Eh, what? (More angrily than ever.) Why, it's in the blanked thing! (He fumbles with the tubes in trying to readjust them. At last he succeeds, and, after listening intently, is rewarded by hearing a muffled and ghostly voice, apparently from the bowels of the earth, say—"Ha, say you so? Then am I indeed the hooshiest hearsher in the whole of Mumble-land!")
The Chatty O.G. (nudging him). How very distinctly you hear the dialogue, Sir, don't you?
[The Irritable Person, without removing the tubes, turns and glares at him savagely, without producing the slightest impression.
Another Ghostly Voice (very audibly). The devil you are!
A Careful Mother. MINNIE, put them down at once, do you hear? I can't have you listening to such language.
Minnie. Why, it's only at Manchester, Mother!
Ghostly Voices and Sounds (as they reach the Irritable Person). "You cursed scoundrel! So it was you who burstled the billiboom, was it? Stand back, there, I'll hork every gordle in his—!" (... Sounds of a scuffle ... A loud female scream, and firing ...) "What have you done?"
The Ch. O.G. Have you any sort of idea what he has done, Sir?
[To the Irritable Person.
The Irr. P. No, Sir, and I'm not likely to have as long as—
[He listens with fierce determination.
First Ghostly Voice. Stop! Hear me—I can explain everything!
Second Do. Do. I will hear nothing, I tell you!
First Do. Do. You shall—you must! Listen. I am the only surviving mumble of your unshle groolier.
The Ch. O.G. (as before). I think it must be a Melodrama and not an Opera after all—from the language!
An Innocent Matron (who is listening, with her eyes devoutly fixed on the Libretto of "The Mountebanks," under the firm conviction that she is in direct communication with the Lyric Theatre.) I always understood The Mountebanks was a musical piece, my dear, didn't you? and even as it is, they don't seem to keep very close to the words, as far as I can follow!
Ghostly Voices (in the Irritable Person's ear as before). "Your wife?" "Yes, my wife, and the only woman in the world I ever loved!"
The Irr. P. (pleased, to himself.) Come, now I'm getting accustomed to it, I can hear capitally!
The Voices. Then why have you—?...I will tell you all. Twenty-five years ago, when a shinder foodle in the Borjeezlers I—
A Still Small Voice (in everybody's ear). TIME, PLEASE.
Everybody (dropping the tubes, startled.) Where did that come from?
The Com. M. They've been and cut it off at the main—just when it was getting interesting!
His Fiancée. Well, I can't say I made out much of the plot myself.
The Com. M. I made out enough to cover a sixpence, anyhow. You didn't expect the telephone to explain it all to you goin' along, and give you cawfee between the Acts, did you?
The Ch. O.G. (sidling affably up to the Irritable Person as he is moving out). Marvellous strides Science has made of late, Sir! Almost incredible. I declare to you, while I was sitting there, I positively felt inclined to ask myself the question—
The Irr. P. Allow me to say, Sir, that another time, if you will obey that inclination, and put the question to yourself instead of other people, you will be a more desirable neighbour in a Telephone Room than, I confess I found you!
[He turns on his heel, indignantly.
The Ch. O.G. (to himself). 'Strordinary what unsociable people one does come across at times! Now I 'm always ready to talk to anybody, I am—don't care who they are. Well—well— [He walks on, musing.
