This struck me as being supremely idiotic, and a waste of time into the bargain, and I said as much. Bode, who was by way of being a bit of an autocrat, flew into a violent temper, and threw his hat at me. One word led to another, and in the end he ordered me out of the theatre.
I went—as far as the “pub” opposite. “That’s done it,” I said to myself. “You silly ass! Here have you been wishing for a panto engagement ever since you’ve been in the profession, and the very first chance you get, you take and chuck it away. You ought to go and kick yourself to death.”
Presently, enters Milton Bode. “Hullo, Carlton! Have a bottle?”
I ventured to remind him of what had happened less than an hour previously.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he replied genially. “You don’t know what the responsibility of producing a pantomime is like. Why, I’ve just thrown my hat at one of the chorus-girls, and told her to go away somewhere and drown herself. She won’t take any notice, and neither must you. It’s all in a day’s work. Don’t forget—rehearsal to-morrow morning again at ten sharp.” And he bustled out, all smiles and geniality.
Another pantomime reminiscence! At the Variety, Hoxton, one Boxing Night, “The Forty Thieves” was produced. The panto was not precisely up to Drury Lane standards, either as regards the scenery, or the number of performers engaged. Instead of there being forty thieves, there were only ten, and these marched from the wings into the cave, then out at the back, and round to the front again, said operation being repeated four times, so as to make it appear as if the orthodox number was present.
The gallery boys were not deceived, however, as was evident from a chorus of voices demanding, “Hi, guv’nor, where’s the other thirty thieves?”
Quick as a flash came the retort from the chairman: “They’re up in the gallery.”
There was a roar of approving laughter. The Hoxton gallery boys realised that the chairman knew what he was talking about. Some amongst them possibly had had the “honour”—and a very great honour it was considered there and then—of sitting at his little table with him, and incidentally standing him a drink.
It was while performing in pantomime at Leeds that I met and married my wife, who was also on the stage there at the time. We had never met one another before, and I had to do most of my courting behind the scenes in between the acts, with stage carpenters bustling round, and chorus-girls pushing backwards and forwards between us without so much as “by your leave.”