We cannot take it upon ourselves to avow, that an accident of late occurrence to a brother actor, did not, at least remotely, influence the choice of Tinfoil. The mishap was this. A few miles from London—for the sake of unborn generations we conceal the name of the town—the dullard denizens had manifested an extraordinary apathy to the delights of the drama. In the despairing words of one of the sufferers, “nothing could move ’em.” However, another of more sanguine temperament resolved to make a last bold effort on their stubborn souls, and to such high end, set a pig at them. Mingling the blandishments of the lottery with the witcheries of the drama, he caused it to be printed in boldest type to the townspeople of ——, that a shower of little bits of paper would take place between the play and farce, and amidst this shower a prize would descend, conveying to the lucky possessor the entire property of a real China-bred porker! Inconceivable as to us it is the scheme failed—the pig remained live stock upon the hands of the projector, who, the next morning, walked to town; and recounting his adverse fortune to the calculating Tinfoil, supplicated any employment.
“And you still possess the pig? Humph!” mused Tinfoil; “perhaps we may come to some arrangement.”
In few words the applicant was admitted among Tinfoil’s troop; the pig, at a nominal price, passing into the hands of the manager.
The pig was no sooner a member of the company than the household author was summoned by Tinfoil, who, introducing the man of letters to the porker, shortly intimated that “he must write a part for him.”
“For a pig, Sir?” exclaimed the author.
“Measure him,” said Tinfoil, not condescending to notice the astonishment of the dramatist.
“But, my dear Sir, it is impossible that——”
“Sir! impossible is a word which I cannot allow in my establishment. By this time, Sir, you ought to know that my will, Sir, is sufficient for all things, Sir—that, in a word, Sir, there is a great deal of Napoleon about me, Sir.”
We must admit that the dramatist ought not to have forgotten this last interesting circumstance, Mr Tinfoil himself very frequently recurring to it. Indeed, it was only an hour before that he had censured the charwoman for having squandered a whole sack of sawdust on the hall floor, when half a sack was the allotted quantity. “He, Mr Tinfoil, had said half a sack; and the woman knew, or ought to know, there was a good deal of Napoleon about him!” To return to the pig.
“Measure him, Sir,” cried Mr Tinfoil, the deepening tones growling through his teeth, and his finger pointing still more emphatically downwards to the pig.