Finally he poured the contents of the alcohol bottle into his shoes and, swearing like a madman, waited for the gum to soften. And the manager, who was not deaf, proved that his heart was harder than the best gum and could not be softened at all. And to this day no member of the company knows how much of the victim's salary was left to him that week after forfeits for bad words were all paid up. But some good came from the affair, for the actor was never again so late in arriving as not to have time to look into his shoes for any strange substance possibly lurking there.
Personally, I detest the practical joke, but I have, alas! never been above enjoying my share of the greenroom fun. Some members of Mr. Daly's company were very stately and dignified, and he would have been glad had we all been like them. But there were others who would have had fun with the
tombs of the Egyptian kings, and who could wring smiles from a graven image. Mr. Daly forfeited at last so recklessly, that either the brakes had to be put upon our fun or some one would have to do picket duty. The restless element had a wait of an entire long act in one play, and among those who waited was a tiny little bit of an old, old man. He wore rags in his "part," and on the seat of his trousers was an enormous red patch. He had been asked to stand guard in the greenroom door, and nothing loath, he only argued deprecatingly: "You'll all get caught, I'm afraid. You see, Mr. Daly's so sharp, if I cough, he'll hear me, too, and will understand. If I signal, he'll see me, and we'll all get forfeited together."
For a moment we were silently cast down. Then I rose to the occasion beautifully. I took the wee little man and placed him in the greenroom doorway, leaning with his back against the door-jamb. When he saw Mr. Daly in the distance, he simply was to
turn his bright red patch toward us—we would do the rest.
It was a glorious success. We kept an eye on the picket, and when the red patch danger signal was shown, silence fell upon the room. Forfeits ceased for a long time. Of course we paid our watchman for his services—paid him in pies. He had a depraved passion for bakers' pies, which he would not cut into portions, because he said it spoiled their flavour—he preferred working his way through them; and that small grey face seen near the centre of a mince pie whose rim was closing gently about his ears was a sight to make a supreme justice smile.
But our evil course was almost run: our little pie-eater, who was just a touch odd, or what people call "queer," on Thanksgiving Day permitted himself to be treated by so many drivers of pie wagons that at night he was tearful and confused, and though he watched faithfully for the coming of Mr.
Daly, while we laughingly listened to a positively criminal parody on "The Bells," watched for and saw him in ample time, he, alas! confusedly turned his red patch the wrong way, and we, every one, came to grief and forfeiture in consequence.
Obliging people, generous, ever ready to give a helping hand. Behind the scenes, then, our social condition, I may say, is one of good-mannered informality, of jollity tempered by respect and genuine good-fellowship.