It was the most wonderful piece of play-acting, and the most perfect piece of disguising, that has ever come to my knowledge. Every man in the room knew Lotinga perfectly well. Yet not one of us had suspected him for a single instant. He had altered his voice, as completely as he had altered his facial appearance.
After the roar of laughter created by this unexpected discovery had subsided, Harry Tate rose to make a few remarks. We had had our little joke, he said, and he hoped nobody had taken it amiss.
Several voices: “No! No! Harry! But”—plaintively—“we’re deuced hungry.”
“Quite so,” replied Tate. “I’d thought of that, and there’s one thing good to eat that we have provided, and that I can pledge my word is what it purports to be, and that’s a pigeon pie.”
With that a burly waiter bore into the room an immense pie, and placed it before Harry to carve. He inserted the carving-knife and fork solemnly and deftly, while the mouths of our famished guests once more watered in pleasurable anticipation. Then he removed a generous portion of the crust—and out flew a number of live pigeons.
This was the last of the spoofs of the supper proper; the remainder of the time being occupied in consuming sandwiches, bottled beer, whisky and soda, and in smoking the supply of very excellent cigars and cigarettes we had provided. It took some time, however, to persuade our guests to settle down to the consumption of these; for, after the evening’s experience, they feared being hoaxed over again.
When all were at length comfortable, an impromptu entertainment was held, each guest being required to give an imitation of the character he represented. It was great fun. Lastly came the refunding of the money paid for the supper tickets, as previously announced. The guests entered an ante-room one at a time, having first been blindfolded, and after being subjected to sundry mock tests and ceremonies of the order that would not look well in print, each had his half-crown returned to him, or rather its value—in farthings.
There were more than fifty guests present, so that over six thousand farthings were paid out. I had previously arranged for these through one of the local banks, and for days afterwards certain of the Brummagem “pubs” habitually frequented by “pro.’s” were deluged with farthings, greatly to the disgust of the landlords, some of whom resented being tendered sixty-four farthings in exchange for a couple of whiskies and sodas.
This particular supper was arranged to celebrate the close of the pantomime season. It sounds perhaps rather odd to the uninitiated outsider to talk about “celebrating” the close of a season that means a steady and settled income, so long as it lasts, for every performer engaged in the run of the piece. But as a matter of fact pantomimes are not popular institutions with music-hall artistes. The money they receive for performing in them is. But that, as Kipling would say, is another story.
Rehearsals are particularly galling. I recollect that at the very first pantomime I ever rehearsed I got into hot water almost directly. This was at the Chester Theatre Royal, where Mr. Milton Bode was producing “The Babes in the Wood.” I was cast for the part of Bumble, the village beadle, and of course I was perfectly ready and willing to rehearse the special “business” pertaining to the part, but Mr. Bode insisted on my rehearsing my own specialities as well.