Mr Tinfoil, gently stirring his brandy-and-water, fixed an eye, like that of death-darting cockatrice, upon the author, and after swallowing the liquor, and thereby somewhat regaining his self-possession, he addressed the thoughtless dramatist in words and tones that, as he has since declared, can never cease to vibrate in his memory.
“Sir!” thus spoke Mr Tinfoil. “I regret—much regret, Sir, that anything in my conduct could have induced you, Sir, to think so uncharitably of my disposition, Sir.”
“I assure you, Sir——”
“Hear me out, Sir. What, Sir! think me capable of feeding upon an animal that I have played with—a creature, whose sagacity has almost made it my humble friend—a pig that has eaten from my hand—that knows my voice—that I—I eat that pig—good heavens, Sir!”
“I’m sure I didn’t mean——”
“No, Sir,” cried Tinfoil, “not were I starving, Sir—not were I famishing, Sir, could I be brought to taste that pig.”
Much more did Mr Tinfoil deliver declaratory of his horror at the bare idea of setting his teeth in the flesh of his quadruped actor, and the rebuked man of letters quitted the manager with an exalted notion of his sensibility.
The pig-drama continued to be played to the increasing satisfaction of the public; the audience, however, only being admitted to view the professional abilities of the animal; his suppers—from some extraordinary omission of Tinfoil—not being eaten before the curtain. Great, however, as was the success of the pig, at about the fortieth night his prosperity began to wane—he was withdrawn, and passed into oblivion.
A few weeks had elapsed, and the author was summoned to the dwelling of his manager, to write a play for a stud of horses. Tinfoil was at dinner, whereto he courteously invited his household scribe.
“You oughtn’t to refuse,” said one of the diners, “for this,” and the speaker pointed to some pickled pork in the dish, “this is an old friend of yours.”