The Human Boy and the War

by Eden Phillpotts

Well, of course, Percy minimus was a certainty, and the start was excellent. In fact, some people wanted to encore him; but this did not happen--though he would have sung again--because the live rabbit which Abbott had borrowed from Bellamy for his illusions broke loose and dashed on to the platform. So when the audience expected Percy back, instead there appeared a large, lop-eared white rabbit with a brown behind. It looked, of course, as if Abbott had already begun to conjure, and, in fact, had turned Percy into a lop-eared rabbit. Anyway, the people were so much interested that they stopped encoring Percy, and seemed inclined to encore the bewildered rabbit. Then Abbott appeared and caught the rabbit, which had rather ruined his show by appearing in this way; and Vernon and Montgomery, who were his assistants, brought on the magic table, with various objects arranged upon it for the tricks. Unfortunately, Abbott was very nervous, which is a most dangerous thing for a conjuror to be, and tricks which he would have done to perfection during school hours, or in the home circle, so to say, got fairly mucked up before the paying audience. He put on an appearance of great ease, but he couldn't manage his voice, and he forgot his "patter," and he also forgot how to palm, and kept dropping secret things at awkward moments, and making footling jokes to hide his confusion. The people were frightfully kind and patient, and that made him worse. I believe, if they had hissed, it might have bucked him up.

He forced a card, as he thought, on old Black, and after messing about with a pistol and an orange and a silk handkerchief and some unseen contrivances, he made the ace of spades appear in a bouquet of imitation flowers, and then challenged old Black to show his card, which he did do, and it unfortunately turned out to be the four of hearts. This fairly broke Abbott, and when it came to bringing the lop-eared rabbit out of a borrowed hat, every soul in that paying audience saw him put it in first. It is true he tried to conceal it in a mass of other things under a huge flag, supposed to be the Union Jack; but the rabbit, who had never been conjured with before, and hated it, kicked violently and defied concealment, so to say. However, Abbott got a lot of trick flowers and vegetables and about half a mile of yellow ribbon into the hat at the same time as the rabbit, and the audience had not seen him do this, so they were slightly mystified, and applauded in a weary sort of way. He finished up by bringing a bowl of goldfish out of a dice with white spots on it, and, though there was no great deception, it passed off safely for the goldfish. Then Abbott bowed and cleared out; and, thanks to Fortescue, who is fond of Abbott, and said "Bravo!" and tried to work up some applause, there was no absolute blank when he had done. But Montgomery and Vernon, who had to clear up the debris afterwards, got one of the best laughs of the night, because they became fearfully entangled in the yellow ribbon, and thoughtless people were a good deal amused to see it.

Then came Rice and Bassett in shorts, with a new pair of boxing gloves. A chair was put in each corner of the stage, and the seconds stood by the chairs. It was all pure science, but only a few chaps at the back appreciated them, and when, as bad luck would have it, Rice tapped Bassett's ruby in the first round, the women part of the audience gurgled, and gave little yelps and screams. It was nothing, but evidently appeared strange and dreadful to them; so the Doctor stopped the exhibition, and that item can be put down as an utter failure. Perhaps it was a silly thing to have arranged for a mixed audience; but we had to think of Rice's feelings, and we also knew that scores of countesses and duchesses go to see Carpentier and Wells, and such like in real fights, so we little dreamed anybody would squirm at a harmless exhibition bout that wouldn't have shaken a flea. But it was so, and consequently the glee singers were a great relief, and while they warbled their simple lays, the female part of the audience recovered. Of course, we Thespians did not see any of these things, as we were all making up for the great Trial Scene.

Forrester got fair applause for Fortescue's fine poem, but nothing special. As a matter of fact, he forgot the third verse, which was the best, and doubtless Fortescue felt very sick about it; but he was powerless to do anything, though he never much liked Forrester after.

Then came the grand item, and it was good in every way, and went very smoothly till just the end. Of course, I can't say anything about my rendition of Shylock--in fact, I didn't feel I had gripped the audience in the least--but chaps told me you might have heard a pin drop, and nobody recognized me who knew me, and many of the people in the audience thought it was one of the masters, and not a boy at all. Pegram rather overacted the Duke, which is a part that merely wants stateliness, and no acting; but he would act, and so forgot his words and hung us up once or twice. In fact, Pegram was not good; but Antonio, by Saunders, was a very thoughtful performance, and so was Bassanio, by Preston. Percy minor certainly came off as Gratiano, and unfortunately he acted so jolly well that, in one of his fearful scores off me, I forgot the dignified pathos of Shylock, and laughed. It was a new reading, in a way, but I didn't mean to laugh, and it did a lot of harm, because after that the audience wouldn't take me seriously, though before, I believe, most of them had. It spoiled the illusion of the scene. Portia, in the hands of Williams, was most beautiful to see, but, from the art point of view, awful. He got out his words, however, and just at the end, before my exit, Minnie Dunston, who had plotted it with him in secret, threw him a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and the fool picked it up and said out loud: "Thank you, Minnie!" Of course, after that, my exit went for nothing, and when it was over, I punched his head behind the scenes, while in front people were laughing themselves silly. We got two calls, and it shows what a force the drama really is, because in the second half of the programme nobody cared a button about such excellent things as Percy minor's comic song; and though Towler and Cornwallis were mildly applauded, it was only because they happened to be still alive and not dead; and the lightning calculations of Nicholas didn't even tempt many men to come away from the refreshments. I dare say many of them were very poor, and had to make so many lightning calculations themselves, owing to the War, that they weren't specially interested in what Nicholas could do. But for Tracey's play they all came, and such applause was never heard within the walls of Merivale; which shows that the drama still holds its own. The idea of "The White Feather" was certainly very original, and the dialogue very satirical. As the girl with the white feathers, Williams appeared again--in a dress lent him by Minnie Dunston. This was too small in some places and too big in others; but thanks to a huge female hat and a wig of golden hair, Williams made a very fair flapper, though inches too tall for such a creature. He gave a feather to Captain Maltravers, V.C., from Gallipoli, who was in mufti; and Tracey, with an eyeglass--which he manages fairly well--and a moustache, was frightfully satirical at the flapper's expense, and every point he made went with a roar. Then the flapper stuck a white feather into the frock-coat of General Sir Champernowne--also in mufti--and he was not satirical, but got into a frightful rage, and gave up the flapper to a policeman. She cried and begged for pardon; and then the V.C. returned, and saved her from the General and the policeman, and promised to marry her after the War.

The house was fairly convulsed, and it was really jolly true to nature--so much so that the pianist almost forgot "God Save the King" when all was over. For though a professional, and well used to entertainments, he laughed as much as anybody.

Then the people "came like shadows and so departed," in the words of the immortal Bard; and not until next day did the final stupendous thing happen with old Black. He looked over the playground wall just before dinner, as he often did, to make a beast of himself about something, and, seeing me and Weston and another chap or two kicking about a football, he said to me: "Are you the boy Thwaites?" And I said I was.

Then he said: "Come in, Thwaites; I want to speak to you."

My first thought was--what had I done? But as I hadn't had any row with old Black for two terms, my "withers were unwrung," and I went; and he took me into his study, and handed me a bit of pink paper with writing on it.

"What's this, sir?" I asked.